Mom and Dad: It’s Time We Talk About Your Addiction To Pickleball
Dear Mom and Dad,
Please, have a seat. Leave your paddles by the door.
I’m sure you’re wondering why your grown children are gathered here unannounced in your living room. It’s because we care. We need to talk about something serious: your pickleball habit has become a full-blown addiction.
Ever since your first hit at the country club courts, you’ve changed. Pickleball has upended your lives and drained you emotionally, financially, even physically.
Please don’t feel guilty, and know you’re not alone. Pickleball is sweeping across America, taking hold of retirement communities and devastating inner suburbs. It was only a matter of time before this societal scourge reached you. We were foolish to pretend your HOA could keep you safe.
Truthfully, none of us thought anything of it when your neighbor Carrie asked you to “just try it out and see how it feels.” In our naiveté, we were happy for you. We thought pickleball was just tennis for old people. How destructive could a sport played with a wiffle ball be, really? Now we know better. Clad in her mini skirt, visor, and compression socks, Carrie opened Pandora’s box.
At first we ignored the warning signs, because you both seemed so excited. “This is a great way to stay active at our age,” you assured us. “We even made some new friends!” Little did we know these “friends” would soon become your worst enabl—
Ahem, are you even paying attention, Mom? Stop looking at pickleball highlight reels on your phone!
I wish we hadn’t sat idly by as you fell deeper and deeper into your pickle hole. I really should have said something when I was visiting in September and noticed your casual bimonthly pick-up matches had morphed into hours-long smack sessions with Carrie, who was quickly becoming the neighborhood pickleball fiend. You’d come back delirious and drenched in sweat, babbling about drop shots and foot faults in the kitchen. I could tell you’d been dinking all day.
Yet somehow, not one of us thought to question how much money you were spending. No one looked up the retail price of your fancy new shoes. Or the floodlights and portable net you bought for the driveway so you could rally all night. Don’t even get me started on the paddles you seemed to replace daily with newer models.
Mom, you yelled “I need something stronger than this!” before hurling a perfectly fine wooden paddle into the dumpster behind Dick’s Sporting Goods. I still remember the desperate look in your eyes as you emptied your wallet to get three new ones at the checkout counter, assuring me that “nothing feels better than pure carbon fiber.” I’ll always remember.
But you know what’s even worse? As your savings shrunk, your injuries grew.
First it was you, Dad, when you tripped going for an overhead and sprained your elbow. You tried to hide the bruising on your arm at our holiday party by wearing a Santa costume. You’re Jewish, remember?
Then you tore your meniscus, Mom. Then the other one. Then the first one again. I couldn’t believe that just a few weeks after your expensive double repair surgery, you were already back at the court, your pickleball-pushing friends cheering you on as you limped to the baselin—
Dad! Are you seriously regripping your backup paddle right now? Give that to me right now! Have some goddamn self respect.
Where was I? Oh yeah. When you missed your own grandson’s birth for that seniors only pickleball tournament in Hilton Head, that was the last straw. You didn’t even medal! Was it worth it? His name is Payton, by the way, and he wants to meet his Gam Gam and Pop Pop.
Now, if you’re willing to put your trust in us, your loving children, we have a proposal.
There’s an inpatient program outside of Phoenix. They specialize in weaning people off pickleball using less addictive racquet sports like ping pong. Carrie’s daughter recommended it to us. Apparently it really helped—she said Carrie hasn’t even thought about slamming volleys in weeks.
Please, will you give it a chance, Mom and Dad, for us?
