Dear Tennis, I love you. But I'm leaving you for pickleball.
There’s never been love in tennis, but I seemed to have found it in pickleball
Dear Tennis,
I love you. I always have. But the time has come for me to toe the [base]line and serve you an unpleasant truth: I'm leaving you for a younger, much stupider sport - and his name is pickleball.
Ours is a long and illustrious love affair. Our puppy love was first sparked in childhood when my dad handed me a racket and a tennis ball and told me to whack the ball against our garage door. The shingles on our house didn't survive, but my interest in you did.
Our love only grew stronger over the years. I have blossomed into what my friends so graciously dubbed a certifiable, bona-fide "tennis weenie" - a moniker I wear with pride and passion. And passion for you I did have. When you cried, I cried. No, literally. I watch Andre Agassi's retirement speech at the 2006 U.S. Open if I need a good cry.
I wasn't just emotionally invested in you; I was financially invested in you. Do you know how much sunscreen a ginger needs to last for two hours of tennis practice in the blazing sun, day in and day out? I don't know the answer, but I would guess you need the Pythagorean theorem to figure that out, and I barely passed math. My investment wasn't just limited to sunscreen. When Roger Federer reintroduced his iconic "RF" hats with Uniqlo, I lost my mind for half a second and quickly scooped up five. Oh, you think I'm exaggerating? I come with ~ literal ~ receipts.
They say tennis is the sport of a lifetime, and I thought we would make it until my last set. We smiled through all the good times; anytime I hit anyone with a ball, the fun of my high school tennis career, and when Nick Kyrgios resurrected the lost art of prime sh*t talking. We gritted our teeth and muddled through the bad times; my losing high school tennis career, my losing college tennis career, that time I lost in a college doubles match against a pregnant girl (Obviously unfair, as it was a 3 vs. 2 scenario) and anytime I have the great misfortune of having to hear or see Novak Djokovic.
Other racket sports have come and gone—squash, badminton, racquetball, table tennis—but I seem to have only had eyes for you—until pickleball came about.
I initially didn't see the pickleball appeal. What appeared to be a bizarre amalgam of table tennis, paddle, and tennis played with a wiffle ball stolen from a little league team seemed, for lack of a better term, f*cking lame. Pickleball's terminology doesn't help its appeal, either. You want me to dink in the kitchen? What sort of crowd-sourced-from-a-second-grade-class-on-a-sugar-high sentence is that? I always saw pickleball as that corny guy at the party who can't possibly be smart enough to make his own jokes but just clumsily regurgitates whatever other funny quip someone else previously said.
But once you don't expect much from him and meet him where he's at, you realize he's not so bad after all. After some time, you find yourself wondering what he's up to when you're not around.
I've enjoyed that pickleball is a fast game to pick up and accessible for all. Tennis ain't so - despite what they might tell you. I've been able to take to the pickleball court with friends who only recently picked up the game and had an enjoyable, reasonably competitive match. Which is just not possible in tennis. The game of tennis requires what feels like decades to get a decent stroke down, understand a grip, and actually rally more than two balls across the net. In the past, I've grimaced when asked by friends who weren't tennis players to hit a tennis ball with me. But with pickleball, I embrace their clunky scoop shot and laugh with them as I gently try to murder them with an overhead. It's silly, it's goofy, and its absurdity is only further emphasized by the ridiculous "pop pop pop" sounds that emanate off the paddle and the court. But mostly, pickleball is a breath of fresh air from the really uptight tennis world.
Tennis, you take yourself much too seriously. Crowds have to be quiet for serves? Suck it up and play the game. Let's be honest - I've never been the only woman in your life - which is not very "gentleman's sport" of you. You are rife with so many suburban housewives who play with the unwarranted aplomb from someone who's never even had to fill out their own W-2. And playing them in league matches has made for some pretty terrible experiences. Stop bitching about the line call and get a job, Margaret. Also, I know the distinct uniforms of "tennis whites" was a dress code imposed by a man. I, for one, would never voluntarily dress like I don't personally fight my own red water rapids once a month.
For what it's worth, tennis, we had a great match. And for the record, you are a much harder sport than pickleball. You are grace and poetry mixed with unparalleled athleticism on the court; a dance of strength and strategy, power and precision. Pickleball is your uncoordinated, oafish, and uncouth cousin who has drunkenly made it onto the dance floor. And while I still appreciate you for everything that you are, I've hit a point in my life where I've been over the pompous and pretentious display, and also just want to drunkenly dance like nobody's watching and have fun.
To remember our time together, I've made you this short video montage. Treasure it with your life.
All my love (which, in tennis, doesn't amount to anything),
“Pickleball is your uncoordinated, oafish, and uncouth cousin who has drunkenly made it onto the dance floor.” I love this!
THE VIDEO, Im crying