In Other Words with Dave

You know how coastal trends usually take a while to arrive in Oklahoma? Like gluten-free bakeries, bike lanes, or those mixed-use neighborhoods where you can live above a juice bar and walk to hot yoga? Yeah—well, they take even longer to reach my household. 

Which brings us to pickleball. Alison and I are finally pickling… paddling… or playing—whatever it’s called. If you’re not familiar, it’s a strange little game with its own vocabulary, tiny paddles, and a wiffle ball that moves just fast enough to hurt your feelings. 

We’re not exactly early adopters. While the rest of America discovered this socially distant sport during the pandemic, I was on the couch recovering from chemo, and Alison was caretaking. By the time I felt human again, pickleball had become a full-blown movement. Our neighborhood tennis courts were repainted with pickleball lines, and “couples of a certain age” were becoming diehard enthusiasts. 

Alison, who admits she’s no “sporty spice,” surprised me by buying a set of paddles and a dozen little “air missiles.” So we gave it a shot. 

At first, the rules were optional. We were just happy to hit the ball over the net. But soon, our early morning play dates turned competitive. Alison’s “let’s just have fun” attitude shifted to exploiting my weak backhand return. Yeah, I’m working on it. 

Somewhere between missed serves and sideline disputes, we’re laughing. We’re moving. We’re doing something new— together. We may be late to the party, but we’ve arrived. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I might try listening to a podcast. I’ve heard those are catching on.