The Marvelous Mar铆a Beatriz has found pickleball.
Which means that I have
to, in some way, find
pickleball as well,
which I do not want to
find. (Luckily, I am
recovering from a left
groin pull suffered
while going for a shot
I had no business going
for, so I am absolved of the search for the moment.)
It's not a bad game, a
scaled-down version of
tennis and racquetball
(or a scaled-up version
of table tennis),
perfectly sized and
geared for an aging
boomer generation. It
certainly draws people
out of their chairs and
funks to flex rickety
joints and charge
undercharged hearts and
lungs – all to
the good.
The MMB also loves the
camaraderie of the
court, the community
that gathers, if only
briefly, to share and
laugh, the occasional
real friendships that
bloom out of chance
encounters with
strangers.
But something about it
just doesn't draw me
in. Perhaps it's a
leftover resistance
from a childhood in the
sixties to a movement
that, politically, has
caused many problems
for many communities.
Or perhaps it is a
touch of Groucho Marx
(not wanting to be part
of club that would have
me as a member) or a
touch of Thoreau
(beware of enterprises
that require new
clothes – and
shoes and a proper
racquet and so on).
But really, I think I
don't want to accept
the "out" from aging
that pickleball offers.
Here is a game that
won't tax you too much
either physically or
mentally, offers your
senior self a
simulacrum of your
mobile younger self to
soothe your fear of
death, and buys into
the growing market for
healthy aging that
demands that 80 be the
new 60 and you better
get on board with
getting younger as you
get older.
I really don't mind
aging. Yeah, the aches
and gripes are not a
barrel of monkeys, but
I find something
grounding in dealing
with them, and the way
I have to adjust tempos
to fit what the body
can and cannot do is
the gift of a deeper
self-awareness and,
more importantly, a
more loving
self-acceptance: this
is it, buddy, until you
reach the end zone, so
make it work.
Perhaps pickleball can
be a part of that, but
not the pickleball of
the courts. The MMB
recently purchased half
a pickleball net (one
half the width of the
standard 20-foot width
of a regular court). We
can set this up in the
driveway and practice
short shots, dinks and
lobs, and backhands. I
love doing that with
her because it's just
for fun with no tinct
of competition, and we
can lob and whack chip
and drive without any
fear of consequence or
judgment. Sharing that
with her is sharing
life with her, and I am
all on board with that.
So far, the injury is
still keeping me off
the court though it
doesn't slow me down
when we're in the
driveway – funny
thing about that, how
the body opts for
gentle sharing over the
test of a game, with a
gin and tonic on the
side for refreshment
and the last lob
perfectly placed as the
sun goes down on the
house and life we've
made for ourselves.
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