Revelations From The Pickleball Court

Pickleball is having its moment. Most people I speak to have either tried it or listened to a friend wax on about why it’s the greatest thing since sliced bread (sound familiar?). I’ve been playing regularly for about a year and love it.

But this isn’t about pickleball. It’s about human nature with pickleball as the backdrop. Mostly my human nature. And how I try to untangle the bowl of spaghetti noodles that are the thoughts in my head.

A bit more backdrop which will become important later on so please remember this: When I was young, I had short hair and was the teacher’s pet. Picture a little boy with an army buzz cut sitting in the front row of class with his hands clasped on his desk. That was Little Michael. Most of the other boys had long hair and weren’t teacher’s pet material. One of these things wasn’t like the others. That would be me. What I had going for me was I was good at sports and that was my ticket into the popular kids’ club.  

Now on to our story.

I went to Florida a few times this winter. There are public pickleball courts ten minutes away by bike. You can go with friends or as a single. I usually went as a single. I’d put my paddle in the rack and get matched up with other singles who I didn’t know. I’d play one game and then put my paddle back in the rack, get matched up with other strangers and wait for my next turn. I got matched up with pleasant seventy five year old beginners, intense twenty five year olds fresh off college tennis scholarships and everything in between.

I don’t know about you, but this wasn’t an ideal situation for me. I’m not comfortable walking into a bar or party knowing no one and starting conversations with strangers. Unplanned small talk makes my cortisol level shoot way up. I felt like that new kid at school who doesn’t know anyone and wants to fit in. There was a pit in my stomach every time I went.

But being an athlete, and based on my experience as a young boy, I figured if I played well the regulars would take notice and want to play with me. That would be my ticket to acceptance. All I had to do was persevere and everything would work out.

So there I was. In a bar surrounded by strangers. Wanting them to like me. Trying to play well so I’d be asked to dance. Feeling anxious about the social setting and nervous about the competition. At one point I thought I was part of a perverse social experiment where I had to face my fears. That would’ve been hard enough, but the cycle repeated itself every fifteen minutes when a new game began.

I was nervous the first few times I went, but I felt confident in my game. It was only a matter of time before the regulars wanted to play with me and my nerves calmed down.

But for some mysterious reason, my serve started getting worse and worse the more I played. I didn’t know what was happening because it had always been the strongest part of my game. Eventually it got so bad I was missing nine out of ten serves.

Almost every game someone said “You’re a really good player, but what’s with your serve?”  I was very concerned my serve was going to derail my plans. I was letting my partners down. I wasn’t giving my opponents a good game. No one was going to want to play with me.

I wasn’t enjoying myself, but I continued going to the courts. I don’t know why. I thought it might be because I loved playing or saw it as a challenge. But in retrospect, I realized it was because something inside me told me it was important for me to do this.

I knew I had to fix my serve if I wanted to feel better. The problem was when I served, it felt like someone was grabbing my arm as it approached the ball and holding it back. Even though serving is as simple as tossing a bean bag, I couldn’t do it no matter how hard I tried.

Then I remembered seeing professional tennis players get the serving yips and professional golfers get the putting yips when they put too much pressure on themselves to perform. It’s a mental thing. And if it could happen to them, it could happen to me. The mind gets nervous and stops the body from doing what comes naturally. My goal became to distract my mind so my body could take over again.

I tried so hard to find a solution. I watched countless YouTube videos. I looked for cues in how other players served. I listened to all kinds of tips from well-meaning players who wanted to help me. I experimented endlessly. For weeks. Without success. But I kept going to the courts. Always with a pit in my stomach.

It finally occurred to me that instead of trying to distract my mind, I should face the real issue head on. Why was it so important to me to be good at sports? It’s never easy to figure something like this out, but I was at my wit’s end and willing to do the hard work. And that’s when my learning began.

I’ve found answers to most questions involving my deep-rooted beliefs in my childhood and that’s where I found the answer to this question. Being good at sports was Little Michael’s ticket to acceptance. (You remember Little Michael? The teacher’s pet with the buzz cut?)

But did the same hold true for Big Michael? No. I haven’t met my friends through sports. I’ve met them other ways. They don’t care if I’m a good athlete or not. I don’t need to be good at sports to be accepted. I could discard that belief. Phew! What a sense of relief. I now felt more at ease going to the courts.

Because I was constantly thinking about my serve, I hadn’t noticed other players had already started asking me to partner up. They must’ve liked me despite my serve, providing me with more proof I didn’t need to be good at sports to be accepted.

But I still sought the validation of the better players. Although logically I now knew I didn’t need to be good at sports to be accepted, the belief still remained, albeit in a weaker form. That wasn’t surprising given it had been in my mind for most of my life. It would take some time to make it disappear completely.

Thankfully, the cavalry appeared. A good player asked me to partner up. Then another good player asked me to partner up. I got the validation I wanted so I was grateful, but by this time I knew I didn’t need it. I chuckled at myself for thinking it was still important.

Something else I realized was most people didn’t care about my serve. Or any of the other little things I think people will notice or care about. They liked playing with me because of who I was and not because of how I played or served. People, including me, are too busy worrying about their own little things to worry about other people’s little things. I now had a new mantra when I felt myself getting nervous about my serve: No one cares.  

There were still times I felt bad vibes from a partner and wondered if they didn’t want to play with me because of my serve. Like the guy who barely spoke and never smiled. Until he approached me between games and quietly told me he’s a sensitive person and is uncomfortable in these situations. Just like me. Yet he felt comfortable enough to share this with me. And he wasn’t thinking about my serve at all. It reminded me how you never know what someone else is thinking.  

I was reminded of this again when I saw a woman with whom I had a bunch of good conversations the year before. I had been looking forward to seeing her again and renewing our friendship. I thought she’d be excited to see me, too. I greeted her by name and gave her a big hello. She looked at me quizzically and said “Remind me of your name?”

I now felt good about the lessons I learned and enjoyed going to the courts, but my serve was still awful. I consoled myself with the thought my self-growth outweighed my serving woes and had faith my serve would return one day.

At about that time, I was partnered with a guy I thought was one of the better players. He suggested I bounce the ball on the ground and then hit it, like a beginner. I had tried that before, but not enough to give it a fair chance. My ego wouldn’t let me. Good athletes don’t serve that way. But I figured he was such a good player I should listen to his advice. Besides, I no longer cared if other people thought I was a good player or a beginner.

And that’s when my serve started coming back.

Cue to today. My serve has returned. It’s as good as it’s ever been and getting better all the time. At least for now.

Not only that. I feel like I took a crash course in life lessons I can use every day. Listen when your body tries to tell you something. Challenge your beliefs. Hard mental work pays off. No one cares. You don’t know what anyone is thinking. Be yourself. People like you for who you are. No ego. Never quit.

I already knew these, but experiencing them firsthand and seeing them in action makes them easier to remember.

They say you can learn a lot about a person by playing sports with them. You can also learn a lot about yourself through sports. Probably my biggest “revelation” is how much I enjoy being part of a community. I’ve met so many nice people playing pickleball. I used to think of myself as the lone wolf type who was there for the competition and the workout, but it’s the people that keep bringing me back again and again.

So is pickleball really as great as your friends make it out to be? Ya, I’d say it is.

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Thanks for reading and for sharing your most precious resource, your time, with me.

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