Get Cozy

“You’ve got to try it!”

“It’s a pretty simple game, easy to learn, easy to play.”

“Everybody is doing it!”

So it came to be that I finally caved to the pressure and walked onto a pickleball court for the first time last weekend. As a 59-year old “former athlete” who likes to stick to what he knows, I can’t say I was particularly excited about the opportunity. However, it was a birthday event organized by friends who I wanted to see, and “everyone was doing it.” Sigh.

Cutting to the chase – thirty minutes into the matches I lunged to return a drop shot, and felt that horrific twinge in my right calf muscle. It’s a familiar sensation for me, as I have injured that calf multiple times on the basketball court, and in fact had surgery to repair my Achilles Tendon on that side nine years ago. I knew as soon as it happened, my day was done. All that remained was, “how bad was it?”

My very first thought was, “Shit, is it the tendon?” My second thought was, “Shit, I’m off to Cabo in five days for my annual golf trip with seven of the best friends a guy could have.” And finally, “Shit, you stupid asshole.”

Negative self-talk is a speciality of mine, and I’m fully aware that it’s not healthy or helpful. I’m going to say in this case, I was pretty easy on myself. Seriously, what idiot thinks he can jump into a racquet sport after several years of avoiding them, with minimal stretching, and thinking he has any right at all to winning a point much less a match against more experienced players? This guy, apparently.

The last full stretching routine I completed was before my final squash game in 1987. Since then, warm ups for golf and light workouts have mostly consisted of shaking my legs, slow jogging, and maybe bending at the waist to get my fingers nowhere close to the floor in front of me. I’m like the Tin Man from Oz, without the oilcan. If rigor mortis could exist within a live body, that would be me.

What is obvious is that I still have muscle memory from when I was MUCH younger, playing intense squash games against equally matched competition. One buddy and I were especially determined to win – with neither player ever winning twice in a row, no match going less than five games, and the margin of victory hardly ever beyond two points. No point was conceded without at least one player diving on the hardwood. We never played for money, or beer. It was only for bragging rights for that fleeting moment.

Fast-forward to about thirty-eight years later, there I was, reaching for a mis-hit drop shot that I thought was critical. It HAD to be returned. We were down 8-1 at the time, which I should have mentioned earlier.

A visit to the emergency room confirmed the tendon was intact, which I suppose was the best news I could have received. The calf muscle, however, was shot. Two to three weeks of rest, followed up with light stretching and recovery was the diagnosis. Since then, my mind has been overwhelmed with the logistics of getting my golf clubs through an airport while on crutches. How can I play golf with this injury? How can I keep up with my buddies around Cabo without appearing to be someone’s invalid grandfather?

There is no option for me but to some way, somehow, make this trip work. My hopes are dim, but at least my misery will play out beside a pool, with endless beverages and refreshments brought to my chaise lounger. That time will be well spent, no doubt daydreaming about future success on the pickleball court, and that amazing shot return, against all odds. Glory awaits, you dummy.