We all have that one friend who has abandoned tennis for the awful whiffle. In my case we lost “expert Bob” to the kid’s game named after fermented cucumbers.
“Expert Bob” cited his back and shoulder. Because like most kids games, the rules limit the power — and in theory that limits the hurt. But lately perfectly good tennis players are getting injured or even dying on that tiny court.
The latest famous person to die? Matthew Perry.
Once a proud tennis player who beat his drug addictions to play in celebrity tournaments, Perry was playing pickleball hours before he drowned in his own hot tub.
His coach said he heard “he looked good on the pickleball court.”
I suspect the shame of having a “pickleball coach”, drove him to duck under the water and stay there for way tooo loonnnggg. I know I would.
Actually I have no idea what may have killed Perry. I’ve never been a fan of Friends and I don’t know anything about him. But I know pickleball sucks, and it remains my number one suspect.
Pickleball has been injuring perfectly good tennis players in Tucson for years. In my bi-monthly returns to the Dirty T, I get the casualty list. No one is getting hurt playing tennis. Their knees, shoulders and ankles are fine. But the injured reserve list is filled with the walking-wounded holding paddles.
Why are these middle-age men not getting hurt playing tennis, but getting injured on a court less than half the size?
Shame.
Inside their little hearts they know it’s wrong for grown men to “compete” with a whiffle. The sub-conscious embarrassment leaks from their brains and their guts into their tendons and bones.
Ankles, knees and shoulders become weak. Necks tighten as they twist and turn to see who may be witnessing their humiliation.
It’s 10-points of doing little or nothing. Standing with your feet stock still at the “kitchen line” and then sudden forceful movements to dig out a dink or slap back a sitter. Snap go the soft tissues of shame. Embarrassment is a powerful inflammatory, as it seeps in and blows up little used ankles and knees.
Then there is the sitting. Play a game to 11. Lose the court to two 70-somethings taking on their grandchildren in a generational grudge match. After 15-minutes of not moving, back on the court with some confused douchebag millennials who heard pickleball was the way to meet women. When that eventually doesn’t work, they take their frustrations out on the old guys on the court.
Dodge a Nasty Nelson just to pull a cold hamstring and be off the tennis court for two months.
Tennis has no injuries of angst. Play is consistent with regular short breaks. Men can proudly hold their racquets knowing it takes time and effort to acquire some skills to play this game. Nobody is taking up valuable court time to compete against small children and calling it a real “match.”
I say Matthew Perry would be alive today if he spent that last day on the tennis court. I’ve got no evidence, no proof, but I’m convinced it’s the pickle that killed him.
I get why tennis players can have a hate for pickleball. I’ve played tennis since I was five and love it above all other sports. Two years ago, when Vermont fall/winter shut down tennis (no indoor courts nearby) I swallowed my pride and went inside to try pickle ball. It’s no match for tennis, but I’ve grown quite fond of it for providing fun recreation. It’s the first sport (game?) I’ve ever played that’s just plain fun. I get to whack that ridiculous whiffle and could care less whether I win. Playing with duffers is as much, maybe more, fun than playing with good players. If I ever get to caring about the outcome, or even if I play well, I’ll quit. I don’t see that happening.
I can respect the athletic apathy toward a whiffle game. “Serious pickleball” is an oxymoron.
If they were knocking real pickles back-and-forth, I think this could be an interesting sport.
They should have to slap the pickles with their hands or feet.
As the Grinch say about the Who’s at Xmas – “the noise, noise, noise, noise, noise, NOISE! The sound of that wiffleball constantly reverberating against the wooden paddle? As for injuries, I’ve heard a number of orthopedic surgeons say pickleball is like opening a wallet. It does seem like something one can play with one’s wife.
Or with your great grandchildren.