Page 21 of Pick Me

I ’ d picked the least fancy public pickleball court of all the options for my debut. I wanted to play with friendly folks who

enjoyed the game, not serious athletes like the assassins from the Chelsea Pickleball Academy. The court I’d selected was

in the shadows of apartment buildings on repurposed tennis courts. There were weeds along the chain-link fence and the view

was nonexistent, but the low-key vibe felt perfect for me.

Owen had texted me five minutes before our meeting time to let me know he was running late. He told me to get a feel for the

place while I waited since there were spoken and unspoken rules at open play courts. I’d expected to find a crowd of eager players when I arrived, but then again, it was

eight in the morning on a sunny Thursday, so it made sense that there was only one foursome on the court. I watched from outside

the fence, like a kid hoping to be invited in to join.

The group was made up of a deeply tanned guy who looked to be in his late fifties and an equally braised woman who seemed

to be his wife, a very focused blonde in what I recognized was an Athleta tennis dress, and a tall, skinny senior in a non-ironic

trucker cap. Despite the fact that the couple looked fit and had top-of-the-line gear, they seemed to be losing to the mismatched

pair.

Lessons with Owen had allowed me to master the fundamentals and get out of my head, but actual gameplay was still pretty overwhelming. And it moved fast . I guessed that the foursome had a history based on how intuitive they seemed with one another.

“That’s game,” I heard the senior say as the ball bounced in the farthest corner of the court.

He and his partner touched paddles; then they met their opponents to do the same across the net.

“I need to run to class, Howard,” the blonde said apologetically. “Next week?”

“Yes, indeedy.” He flexed his arm to make a muscle. “See you then.”

She turned around and spotted me. “Oh, look, you guys can keep going. You’re here to play, right?”

I checked behind me to make sure she was talking to me. “Uh, yeah, but I’m waiting for my partner—”

“No need to wait,” the older man said. “Come play with us.”

“Oh, I’m just a beginner. You guys are really good.”

The tan woman made a frustrated noise since they’d lost.

“We were all beginners at one point,” he replied. “The only way to get better is to get better, and that won’t happen with you out there,

fence hugging. C’mon in.”

I swallowed hard. “Are you sure? I’m a total novice. This would be my first real game.”

The tan team groaned in unison.

“Maybe we should wait?” Tan Man said. “I don’t have the energy to educate her. Sorry.”

I bristled a little. I didn’t want his education; I’d had plenty with Owen, as well as the dozens of YouTube tutorials I watched

when I couldn’t manufacture any cowboy words.

What I wanted was my lucky charm. Where the hell was Owen? I checked my phone but there were no new messages.

“Definitely a beginner—look at her paddle.” The woman laughed.

Okay, point taken. But still, she didn’t have to be so damn judgy. At least my outfit was cute. I’d found a black set on clearance—ruffled

skort and sleeveless tank—that made me look like I knew what I was doing. Owen always talked about the sense of community

in the game, but I sure wasn’t getting it at the Jimmie McDaniel formerly-tennis-but-now-pickleball courts.

But I wasn’t about to let them know they were rattling me.

“You know what? I’ll play,” I said in an overloud voice to make sure they all heard me.

“Atta girl,” the older man said. “Get in here.”

The blonde winked at me as she passed me on the way out. “Howard’s a doll. You’re going to do great—don’t worry.”

I glanced toward the street, looking for a familiar, loping form, but Owen was nowhere in sight.

“Hi, everyone, I’m Brooke,” I said with a wave as I walked in.

“Howard.” My new partner did a half bow. He reached out his paddle to tap mine, and when I got close to him, I saw that his

navy hat said “Professor Pickleball” in embroidered lettering. “The whiny fellow over there is Mark, and that’s his wife,

Theresa.”

They both grumbled in my general direction.

“They’re angry because this old man keeps them on their toes,” Howard said. He pointed to his leg and I spotted a knee brace.

“I might not be the fastest one out here, but I do okay.”

“Let’s get this going,” Theresa said. “What’s your rating, by the way?”

She glared at me from under the brim of her pink Joola visor.

“Uh, I’m not sure, but my coach should be here any minute and he’ll know. Maybe, like, I don’t know, a two?”

Mark stalked closer to the net. “You have a coach ? Yeah, you’re better than a two. Let’s go; switch sides.”

Howard tossed the ball to me as we walked to the far side of the court, which was thankfully shady. I was already sweating

from nerves.

“Your serve.”

I managed to catch it. “Me? Why?”

He pointed to the court numbers on the chain-link fence behind us. “Number side always starts, and you’re on the right side

of the court, so... off you go.”

I’d envisioned some sort of fanfare before my first serve because it was a momentous occasion, but to the rest of the group,

it was just another Thursday. Maybe it was better that the game was unremarkable? Less pressure. And without Owen there, the

only person I had to worry about was Howard.

I could hear Owen’s voice as I got ready. Grip, stance, headspace... I moved into position, drew back my paddle, and—

“ Score ,” Theresa scolded me. “You have to say the score!”

I cringed at my rookie mistake. “Right, sorry!”

“It’s okay,” Howard assured me.

My palms got a little sweatier.

“Uh.” My voice cracked. “Zero, zero, start.”

I took a deep breath and shifted my weight back and forth.

“You only have ten seconds to serve after you call the score,” Mark said. “You should know that.”

“Okay, right. Zero, zero, start,” I repeated.

I dropped the ball and managed a perfectly clean shot across the net and into the right side of the court.

Owen always did a growly “yessss” whenever I performed well and I half expected to hear it after my gorgeous inaugural serve. I started jogging to the kitchen line.

“Hold up,” Howard coached from behind me, still glued to the baseline. “Serve and stay, serve and stay.”

I ran backward—another rookie mistake that Owen would lecture me about if he’d seen it—and got into position beside Howard

at the line.

Mark bombed the ball back and directly to me, which was great strategy since I was the weakest link on the court. I ran to

it and returned my own bomb that cleared the net and promptly flew out-of-bounds.

“That’s okay,” Howard said with a nod. He walked closer to me. “Mark likes to hit the hell outta the ball, but those bangers

really wear him out. Our best bet is to play at the kitchen line. It’s easier for me”—he pointed to his bad knee—“plus he

hates it when I snatch ’em out of the air and drive ’em down the middle.”

“Got it,” I said with a nod.

For the next eighteen minutes, I tried to put every lesson I’d learned into play. I served, returned, dinked, and sweated

alongside Howard and wound up failing him.

“Ten, two, one,” Mark said as he served the shot that put us out of our misery.

Game over, an obliterating defeat.

Both teams walked to the net to touch paddles, and I could’ve sworn Theresa was gloating despite my beginner status.

But I’d done it! We’d lost, but I still felt like a winner for surviving my first real game.

“Anyone have time for another?” I asked, glancing around at them.

Even though I didn’t love the idea of facing Team Tan again, I’d carved out an hour to play and I intended to use every minute of it.

Mark chuckled. “What are you, a glutton for punishment?”

“Oh, stop,” Howard scolded gently. “I saw some really great stuff out there. And I missed a bunch of shots, so it’s not all

Brooke’s fault. Let’s go again.”

Mark and Theresa reluctantly agreed, and when I returned Theresa’s serve so perfectly that they both whiffed it, the vibe

on the court shifted.

Now we were playing.

Howard had a bunch of tricks up his sleeve, including a backspin that Mark missed every time. But I actually managed to hold

my own. I found my rhythm, even though I still had to occasionally chant “just push” to keep from hitting the ball out-of-bounds.

I wasn’t in my head; my focus was on the game and my teammate.

We won game two. And game three.

When we tapped paddles I did a little scrunch-nose smile at Theresa that I hoped telegraphed “sorry you lost; don’t you dare underestimate me” to her.

“I need to call it a day, my friends,” Howard said. “Brooke, phenomenal job. I hope we get to play again soon. I’m here most

mornings at this time.”

I wanted to ask for his number, or since he was clearly over seventy, get his Facebook handle, but I wasn’t sure if it would

be weird.

“Thank you for letting me join you. It was really fun.”

And for the first time since I’d begun my insane journey to learn pickleball to impress the guy to write the words, I realized

that, yeah, I was having a damn good time at it.

And not only that, but I was decent ! Me, the world champion sidelines sitter was good at a sport!

I turned to gather my things and leave and froze when I saw a man and dog sitting in the shade of the lone tree.

“ Owen? How long have you been there?”