Never mind Elvis Presley. Pickleball is king around here, to the
extent that finding somewhere to play sometimes sends us off searching like Ponce de Leon looking for that darn fountain. The courts here are jammed with peppy seniors, and you need to be cautious about pick-up games at the public courts, assuming you’re even invited. It can get pretty competitive amid some of those tanned and sinewy golden agers who play like they’re in the tryouts for the Olympics.
Fortunately, the group I play with is pretty slap-happy and just grateful to be outside and still ambulatory. We’re also fortunate that we’ve been able to sponge of a couple of new acquaintances who, unlike us, have courts at their complexes.
Yesterday the sun was blazing hot, incredibly humid, and there wasn’t a drop of shade to be had, so I was happy to sit out a game due to uneven numbers. I took a break from stamping on the fire ants that were pooling around my feet to check my phone, where I found a text and a picture of our house from our neighbor Carol back in Massachusetts.
“Are you sure you want to come home?”