David Cohen illustration
For two years, I had been walking on the indoor track at my Marion, North Carolina, YMCA. From the track I could look down onto the gym floor, where pickleball games are held. I would pause on my walk and peer over the metal railing to watch the players. They ran with their paddles, hitting the ball back and forth over the net, intent on their game. Others watched from the bench, waiting to play, and cheered when a good move was made. It looked like they were having fun.
One day, a pickleball player I had noticed came up to the walking track, introduced himself as Walter, and said, “Why don’t you come down and play pickleball?” He must have seen me watching.
“I don’t know how to play pickleball.”
“You’re a fast walker,” he said. “Have you ever played tennis?”
I had played tennis in the past, but that was decades ago. I thanked him for his invitation, but declined.
A few weeks later as I walked on the track, I noticed Walter and two other men hitting a pickleball back and forth over the net. Walter waved at me and motioned for me. “Come on down. We’ll show you what to do,” he yelled.
Reluctantly, I went down to the gym. The trio greeted me and invited me to use one of the paddles kept in a cart. I took one and nervously went to join them. We paired up on either side of the net.
We started by gently hitting the pickleball back and forth—what they called “dinking”—as they explained some basic points of the game. We played a couple of games, during which they encouraged me and made me feel welcome. After the second game ended, I thanked them for indulging me and went back upstairs to finish walking my laps.
I was hooked.
I arranged to start coming to the gym on Wednesday mornings at 8 a.m. for pickleball instruction. I bought an inexpensive paddle, and on July 9, 2025, I began my lessons.
The basics were covered: how to hold the paddle, how to serve the ball diagonally across the court, what the “kitchen” zone was and the rules regarding it, and how to keep score. This all intimidated me, and for a while I doubted I could succeed.
At home, I practiced my serve, hitting a pickleball across the yard to my husband. I watched hours of YouTube pickleball videos, and I kept taking lessons on Wednesday mornings. In time, I began to play with the regular, skilled players, several of whom offered helpful advice along the way. I upgraded my paddle and bought a pair of pickleball shoes. And though for a while I remained nervous and “as stiff as a scarecrow,” as someone observed, I had finally learned the rules. We generally play until one team reached nine points, the winning team required to be two points ahead. Every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday morning I arrive at the gym early, eager to play. One day my instructor noted, “You’re improving with every game. You have confidence now.” This observation and compliments given by other players boosted my morale, but I knew some days were better than others. Especially with my serve I had moments of relapse. So, I continued to work on my game, wanting to be a viable team member and the best player I can be.
I have a competitive spirit and admit I love to win. But I also appreciate the health benefits this competition offers: improvement in hand-eye coordination and balance, a full-body workout and reduction of stress, to name a few. I’m not surprised pickleball has been proclaimed America’s fasting-growing sport.
My daughter has remarked of my newfound pickleball enthusiasm, “I never dreamed you would do something like this.”
Neither did I. But I look forward to playing pickleball at the Y, with Walter and my other new friends, for as long as I can.