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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