My Pickleball Memories: Are the Good Ol’ Days Gone Forever?

Former world #1, Kyle Yates (Picture Kerry Pittenger)

When my wife and I first started playing pickleball, we had a fun, dependable group of people who showed up ready and enthusiastic.  We followed the rules, had intense games, and respected one another, the competition loose and fun. As it should be.  Any smack-talking was goofy and laughed off. We would laugh a lot, believe it or not, often very hard and during long points, always keeping the energy up and the mood light, carrying on for hours. No one criticized others—only themselves. No one talked about paddle brands, the rating scale, ball brands, court clothes, DUPR, etc. Everybody played their own way, having developed their own style. Although we were just a bunch of locals reaping the benefits of pickleball, on court we felt like lifelong friends or family.  As I played more and more with the group, my passion for the sport grew stronger and stronger and I began writing about it every chance I got.  I never expected that to happen—a big change considering the journey I’d had as a writer.

Our fellow players from those early days are off and running with other priorities and obligations; it’s sad to think we may never play with them again.  Memories of our matches will always be there for us to reflect on. We still talk about those days, appreciating more than ever what we had. What joy those recreational games brought us!  Oh, the chemistry we had, how addicted to playing we were, how often we tried new things and learned and got better on our own and encouraged one another; the way we played, with our countless imperfections, was enough to build and hold steady our momentum. On busy courts we let anyone become part of our rotation, and they too got drawn into our way of doing things without feeling pressured.  At least some did. The court became a place where the day’s hardships melted away under the heat of nonstop action. Like this!

My wife and I will always be thankful to have played in the perfect group. Or as close to perfect as one could imagine.  

Before long the recreational game, as I had envisioned it, started to change. More serious, less fun, more tension-filled, less casual.  I saw it happening day after day.  With a demanding full-time job leaving me limited playtime, I wanted pickleball to be something I could count on to lift me up and correct my course. But no. Some players became arrogant and formed cliques, avoiding or disrespecting those they deemed inferior. It was grammar-school stuff, really, egos requiring constant feeding.  Everybody else, having paid to be a part of the meetup, had to put up with it and find the fun. That went on for months, becoming worse when kind, friendly, considerate people came and went and the groove evaporated. But that’s the reality of rec. ball—players coming and going, relationships forming and crumbling.  

Most of what I’ve seen and heard nowadays has kept me away from the court. My wife and I do have plans to join an indoor winter group but my expectations are low as far as personalities and court behavior are concerned.  I’m not being negative, just honest and realistic, though at the same time open-minded, willing to try again, maybe find a balance that will restore my original vision. Optimism hasn’t abandoned me. Not yet.  I remember last winter, though: eye-rolling, huffing and puffing, headshaking, endless chirping and whispering and moaning and ordering around; some players complaining when we hit balls into the net while they themselves made the same mistake over and over again; complaining about line calls and the level of play—all from players who were nowhere near perfect; in fact, compared to professionals, they were beginners.  Funny how those whose own games are lacking from top to bottom have the gall to tell others how to play. Being around such behavior would make it harder for anyone to perform their best.  And as much as I’ve enjoyed watching and playing the sport—it is just pickleball! Not my livelihood. We avoided conflict when we could and powered through it. This was on a recreational court, mind you, with nothing at stake, no trophies to be won, no status to be gained, no money to be made. The “fun” tap had run dry numerous times and my wife and I got by on the occasional drips,  drips that—somehow—sated us.   All I could do was make the best of those months, smiling through the difficult times, not letting anyone or anything warp my attitude.  Some couldn’t tolerate the shenanigans, quit the group and never returned.  Too bad that happens more than it should. Though I never expected pickleball playing to be a fantasyland or a fairytale, I never thought a game could bring out the monster in people, turning on each other and snobbery spreading.  Who wouldn’t prefer more decency and kindness?

Following the MLP-PPA tour has heightened my interest in and my appreciation for the sport. Everything I wish recreational pickleball could be I have found in pro matches and among pro players (AL’s remark at 1:14).

Though I can’t be on that pro court, I can visualize whatever I want.  Imagination is a marvelous gift. Mine is overactive, reliable, a well overflowing.

Even if I never play pickleball again, watching the MLP-PPA tour has given me immeasurable pleasure and inspiration, an education too. For that I’m grateful. Because she loves pickleball, my wife, who doesn’t follow the pro tour but sometimes hears about it from me, continues to play for exercise and enjoyment, looking for fun people along the way. Our discussions after her matches have made me laugh and think. 

Pickleballers, thanks for listening. May you enjoy many years of happiness and good times and good laughs on court with people who play for the love of the game and for camaraderie and who cherish the unsung rewards of pickleball.