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By
On learning a new sport in my 77th year.
Judith G. Zalesne ecstatic response to his minimal optimism revealed how desperate I was to play again.
But my initial therapy, my arthroscopic surgery, and three months of post-op rehabilitation were all erased one day when I put my hand in my pocket to reach for keys, and something in my shoulder snapped. A new rotator cuff tear. I knew then my fate was sealed: my court days were behind me. The good news was that, unlike the original tear, the new one caused only minor pain. The bad news: I could no longer even take a milk carton from the upper shelf of the refrigerator, much less raise a tennis racquet.
So my daughter’ s insistence on dragging me to a pickleball court that day puzzled me. But I went. From the sidelines, I watched her send a whiffle ball over the net and position herself and her paddle( slightly larger than a ping-pong paddle) for its quick return. Yes, it was like playing ping-pong standing on the table! Groundstrokes were the rule, with overhead shots occasional exceptions. Twenty minutes after watching from the sidelines, I sensed my body instinctively yearning to move in sync with hers.
“ Want to try it?” she called. Ancient body, meet sports-addicted head. My adrenalin surged. Decades of tennis, tennis, and more tennis had so thoroughly hard-wired my brain neurons that two years of shoulder pain were no match for the endorphins that pushed me on. I had something like an out-of-body sensation as my legs propelled me onto the court.
For the next half-hour, my daughter and I lightly batted the whiffle ball up and back, up and back. Unlike a tennis racquet, the light-weight paddle did not affect my shoulder, even on the rare reach to return a high volley. And the badminton-sized court— smaller than a tennis court— gave me a reasonable chance to get to the ball. So when her very kind pickleball friends invited this gray-haired novice to play in a doubles game, I accepted— and performed like a true beginner: poorly.
Yet playing wasn’ t difficult. It would mainly be a matter of adjusting to the speed of the shots, which would require practice and concentration. And I had to admonish myself for volleying from the“ kitchen,” a seven-foot, mandatory-bounce area adjacent to the net. For me, another hitch was my natural impulse to hit my best tennis stroke: a cross-court shot to the alley. The problem? Pickleball courts have no alleys!
That day pickleball ignited— no, exploded— my dormant tennis addiction. The inner urge that used to send me sprinting onto the tennis court had flipped back into the On position, overriding my fear of further shoulder injury. Incredulous, I winked at my daughter.“ Just because I can’ t raise a tennis racquet,” I told her,“ doesn’ t mean I can’ t handle a pickleball paddle.”
My elderly shoulder was damaged, but my playing genes were not. Good exercise, game discipline, great camaraderie, and just plain fun— pickleball offered it all. It’ s just a game, but it gave me one of life’ s rare second chances: an opportunity to replace a lost love. It’ s just a game— but it gave me, once more, a vigorous start to my morning, launching an upbeat mood for the rest of the day. And I’ m old enough to know that a game can be much more than a game. One more bonus: it’ s so easy to learn that I can play it with my kids and teenage grandkids.
My daughter went back to Savannah. I continued playing in that neighborhood game two or three times a week. That was three years ago. I am still playing.
Will this aged player ever be a great pickleballer? Absolutely not. But is she grateful to be back on a court? Absolutely. Someday I suppose I’ ll again have to say my racquet days are over. But I’ ve already“ been there, done that” once. So until then, this octogenarian intends to just keep swinging. •
“ My Rookie Season” appeared in the Nov / Dec issue of The Pennsylvania Gazette.
SEPTEMBER / OCTOBER 2018 | MAGAZINE 41