Bitten by the Pickleball Bug

Illustration: Hailey Akau

I’m not big on sports. I watch the Olympics every two years and try to stay active, but I’d rather spend time on creative endeavors than organized team sports. That changed in 2024, when I watched the Vancouver Canucks in action at Rogers Arena, then found myself screaming for Shohei Ohtani at Dodger Stadium. There’s nothing like singing along with Neil Diamond impersonator Nearly Neil between hockey periods, or high-fiving strangers between fistfuls of overpriced garlic fries served in a plastic LA baseball cap, to understand the appeal of sports.

What really tipped the scales, though, was the day I tried pickleball.

The city Department of Parks and Recreation offers tons of free activities every fall. “Free” was all I needed to hear. Friends have been talking up the sport for years (pre-pandemic, even), and with our parent company producing a large-scale tournament this month, I figured I’d give it a shot, especially since I was looking for a new hobby. There was nothing to lose.

SEE ALSO: It’s Everywhere: The Pickleball Craze

I learn best through gentle encouragement, but when I found a very intense retiree yelling at me, “GO IN, GO IN!” I quickly picked up the rules, out of fear of disappointing Coach Danny more than anything.

Outside of class, which took place Tuesday evenings in a gymnasium in my neighborhood, I read everything I could on usapickleball.org and watched YouTube videos of games. I volleyed in the backyard with my brother-in-law, who took the class with me, and showed up early to practice against the wall. I wrote down the five golden rules: serve deep, stay behind the line, return high and deep, go up to the nonvolley line, don’t hit to your opponent.

I soon realized that Coach wasn’t angry, he was yelling at everyone, probably because the gym is so loud with all the thwacking. You can’t hear the score unless you yell. Before long, I learned to shout it proudly (but only after confirming what it was with my teammate each time the serve transferred to me).

Coach says: “Don’t act like you’re going to live 100 more years. Each hit should be as if it were your last one.” It’s hard to tell when he’s joking when every word out of his mouth sounds like a reprimand. I already knew as soon as I made a mistake that he would be on his way over to correct my form. But shame turned to motivation, and by week six or seven, I felt the exhilaration of not only winning a point, but the match.

I have my own paddle now and try to head to a nearby court a couple of times a week. I’ve watched tournaments on TV. I may not be the best player or a total sports convert, but I understand why so many people love the game. It’s a social sport, and I’ve been invited to play with total strangers who gather weekly. I love that about it.

The final newbie class ended unceremoniously. We were all proud of what we’d accomplished and we exchanged phone numbers, promising to get together and play. Then we gathered around Coach, waiting for an encouraging send-off. After a brief pause, in his usual deadpan, he said, “Stop hitting to your opponent.”