What Happened to the Immature Jerks You Went to High School With?

They're alive and well at your local pickleball court.

Photo Courtesy of Canva

Hey there, friend! I’m a jangle of nerves this week and need a break from writing about political sign wars (yes, it was stolen again since last week’s newsletter.) I’m moving on to an unrelated topic and reprinting a piece I wrote for Medium in the summer of 2023. If you enjoyed reading it, please drop a heart. Please and thank you!

You’ll hear from me again on November 13th. Stay strong, and see you on the other side!

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Although I have played for over a year, I am still learning the nuances of my new favorite game, pickleball. I’ve been winging it along with the other beginners at our local recreation center.

None of us knew the game’s intricacies when we started, but we taught ourselves the basics. We learned to keep the score but needed reminders about hitting air balls from the kitchen or when the ball is considered out.

We are all in our 60s and happy to move our bodies and participate in fun competitions.

Out of our group, I am the weakest player.

Everyone is chill about my bad shots, and because they’re either related to or sleeping with me, the games are light-hearted. We are all still learning.

I want to be a better player, though. I want my partner to look forward to having me on their team and not see me as a liability. It’s an out-of-reach goal, so I was excited when the chance to take group lessons came up recently.

The teacher was an old hippy who sported a baseball cap with a curly white-haired ponytail poking out underneath. Mike was an encouraging and patient man.

He was also kind.

Mike had initiated the installation of new pickleball courts at a local park after he’d witnessed some unsportsmanlike behavior in his neighborhood.

He relayed how one day, he’d noticed a woman talking to a few pickleballers on the court and then turned to walk away. When Mike caught up with her on the way back to her car, she cried and said they had told her she wasn’t good enough to play on their courts.

Mike saw red.

Because of her, Mike created a new pickleball community and spearheaded the installation of twelve new courts. The courts are now packed with boomers playing their hearts out.

I love Mike’s tender heart and desire to quash the elitism he’d witnessed that day. He envisioned a space where everyone could come to play.

I’d been at Mike’s courts once with a friend who had been playing for years and, at age 75, was a great player. She warned that some players might refuse to play with me as a beginner. I played with some of her friends and enjoyed the camaraderie they shared.

After taking my lessons with Mike, I planned to join a few beginners to practice my new skills. The group planned to meet at 9 a.m. at Mike’s courts the next day.

Beach traffic slowed me down, and I arrived a few minutes late to find they had already started playing. Hoping to connect with other newer players, I asked where to find them. They shrugged their shoulders and said there were no other beginners.

I’d have to mix in with the other players waiting to play. Under the hot July sun, I waited with three other women for a court to open.

“I’m a beginner,” I said, hoping they’d say they were, too.

“Oh,” said Boomer Lady. “Have you heard of Hubbard Park?”

“No,” I said, starting to deflate.

“You should go there,” she said.

Wait, what? Did she mean now? Didn’t she want to play with me?

Three ladies strolled onto the open court. I followed them. I didn’t want to play with Boomer Lady, but now she would be my partner.

She barely spoke to me except to bark, “Move up! You’ll never win back there.”

Despite her exasperated tone, this was helpful information, as she filled a gap in my pickleball knowledge. We were up by six then, but she missed some shots, and I missed a few more.

We lost the match.

After the game, I thanked Boomer Lady and her friend for playing with me, but neither glanced up.

I had had enough heat and humiliation for the day. On the way back to my car, a man who’d seen me arrive just a short while ago asked why I was leaving so soon. I explained that the beginners were already paired up.

“No one here is a Prima Donna,” he said. “Everyone plays together.”

“Thanks, but it’s too hot for me,” I said, wishing he’d mind his business.

“You’re a quitter,” he said matter-of-factly. “See you in November.”

I reflected while blasting my car’s air conditioning. Regardless of the man's words, I loved the game and had no plans of quitting.

I wouldn’t allow today’s game to generate more stories in myself that I wasn’t good enough. I had long ago decided not to pay attention to negative self-talk.

I’m not a great player, but I am improving.

Later that afternoon, I played with a few other beginners in the rec center. We laughed and clowned around. I even won a few games.

When Mike initiated his Nirvana pickleball community, his heart longed for inclusivity. In an open court scenario, matching people by skill level is optimal, but sometimes, it doesn’t work out.

A player’s misguided elitism can manifest as exclusion or demeaning behavior towards beginners. After experiencing decades of life’s hardest lessons, we’re not the immature jerks we once were in gym class. We’ve all felt the sting of exclusion. We know better.

Flexibility, patience, and compassion go a long way.

Thanks for reading! Remember to be kind to each other on the court and everywhere else.

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I read

Linda Castronovo

’s newsletter this week, and I loved her guest essayist who writes about “Aging Gratefully.” Gratitude keeps the vibe high so check it out!

Grateful for Getting Older

Did you know that traveling slows down the aging process? I was surprised, too! Read this HuffPost article. Which reminds me, I’ve planned a trip to Greece next year. Check it out below:

⏰[Top Priority] Be the Architect of Your Own Life