BECAUSE OF NEW federal regulations for seniors, I now have to play pickleball. I just turned 75, and it’s the law.
But it wasn’t just the law that compelled me when my former boss of some 30 years called for a game. It’s because he’s the boss, and those old office dynamics quickly kicked back in. (Other habits kicked in as well, so I told him I’d have to leave early to pick up the kids from school and will probably come in late tomorrow because I have a doctor’s appointment. But I should be back in time for my lunch break.)
I had been avoiding the sport, despite its growing popularity among older people, because I resist following the crowd and don’t give in to the latest fads and trends. Mine is a solo trek in life. I take my own path, the road less traveled, unless I need a bathroom. Then I merge back onto the highway and look for a Wawa.
Plus, I have seen a pickleball game — with older people — and it’s not pretty. I watched these ancient ones with their rediscovered athleticism, running to and fro, back and — with some frequency — forth. They tempted fate with every overhead swing, every lunge at a ball whizzing just out of reach. (Although, since they seem to miss the ball as often as hit it, maybe that’s how the game is played. You swing, and then you curse.)
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