The Ballad of Pickleball Pete
I should’ve known things were about to go sideways when I pulled my hamstring during my warm-up stretches—reaching for my coffee. But you don’t become a local legend by letting a little thing like a muscle tear or dignity stop you. I’m Pete Sanderson, age 72, retired high school gym teacher, and reigning champion of the Twin Oaks Senior Center Pickleball League. We’re talking a 31-match winning streak, not counting the time Ed Hastings forfeited because of a prune juice incident.
I dominated the court so thoroughly they started calling me The Pickle King. It wasn’t long before the delusions set in. “Pete,” I told myself one morning, “you’ve got what it takes to go to the Olympics.” Never mind that pickleball isn’t officially in the Olympics yet. I figured if I showed up with enough raw talent, they’d create a special event on the spot—maybe call it “Pete-a-thon” in my honor.
So I registered for the U.S. Pickleball Trials, conveniently held at some fancy athletic complex in Florida where all the palm trees look like they have personal trainers. I showed up in my finest pickleball attire: knee-high tube socks with racing stripes, neon green headband, and my favorite T-shirt that read Dill With It. I thought I was ready to make history.
Spoiler alert: I wasn’t.
The moment I stepped onto the court for my first match, I noticed two things. One, the guy across from me had calves that looked like they were forged in a pickle jar of raw steroids. Two, the crowd was not impressed by my underhand serve that hit the net like a soggy paper towel. The opponent was some kid named Kyle who couldn’t have been older than 23. His pre-game stretching routine lasted longer than my last marriage.
The referee yelled, “Play!” and the next thing I knew, Kyle had unleashed a serve so fast that I think I heard the ball whistle “Good luck, old man” as it whizzed past my ear. I swung my paddle like I was trying to swat a fly in slow motion, missing by at least three zip codes.
“Zero-one,” Kyle announced, smirking.
“Lucky shot,” I muttered.
He wasn’t lucky. He was terrifying. Kyle moved like a caffeinated hummingbird, while I lumbered around like a lawn ornament coming to life. The kid hit me with something called a “pickle smash.” If you’ve never experienced one, it’s like a volleyball spike but with extra humiliation. I swear I saw my own soul leave my body and sit in the stands next to some guy eating nachos.
By the time the scoreboard read 11-0, I was starting to rethink my entire athletic career. I tried to distract Kyle with trash talk.
“Hey, ever hear of disco? I used to be the king of the dance floor.”
Nothing. Not even a courtesy laugh.
I had one last desperate trick: the Sanderson Shuffle. It’s a signature move where I fake left, twist my ankle, and fall dramatically. I executed it flawlessly. Unfortunately, instead of sympathy, Kyle called a medical timeout. A trainer came over to check my vitals.
“Are you dizzy, sir?” he asked.
“Only from the crushing weight of my own expectations,” I replied.
After my humbling, I limped to the snack tent, where I consoled myself with a pickle spear and a fistful of pretzels. Some of the other players wandered over, probably to pay their respects to my shattered ego.
“Hey,” Kyle said, offering me a Gatorade, “you’ve got a pretty solid backhand for… you know, your generation.”
“For my generation?” I glared. “Kid, I invented back pain before you were even a thought in your parents’ Match.com messages.”
He laughed, and strangely, so did I. It turns out humility doesn’t taste so bad when washed down with electrolytes and a bit of self-awareness.
By the end of the day, I realized I’d learned something. No, not that I’ll ever beat Kyle or make the Olympics. That dream is buried next to my tennis elbow. But I learned that pickleball—like life—isn’t always about winning. Sometimes it’s about showing up, taking a beating with grace, and living to play another round at the Twin Oaks Senior Center, where Ed Hastings and his prune juice are waiting.
As for the Olympics, well, maybe they’ll need a mascot. I’d make a hell of a dancing pickle.
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Go here for the Hay Bale Balladeers’ song about Pickleball Pete!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e72w02H-cTM
