It’s hard to play the right amount of pickleball.
I think it’s the addict in me who seeks the previous high. And yesterday was a high! Even the first two games today were exciting and nurturing. I played well; I enjoyed the hits. But then my body just crumbled. I couldn’t control my muscles; my shoulder hurt; I cared less about winning and more about being done.
But I played two more games.[1]
Who was I playing these for? Not for myself, for I would prefer a bath and a foot rub and an early bedtime. Not for my partners, for I’m not contributing my best to our team. Nor to my opponents, for my vibe isn’t ideal.
I have a rule in New York City: when you need to use the toilet and a toilet is available, use it. Too many times have I wanted a toilet but not had one present that I established a rule. (NYC, unlike Seoul, is shoddy on public toilets.)
I should establish a further rule about pickleball: If your muscles are no longer supporting high-quality shots and you’re not in a tournament, go home.
Once, during warm-up for the last game, I thought, “This is not going to be a fun one. I could bail now, set them up with a different player instead.” But today I had friends willing to play with me. I didn’t grow up with many of those. I overvalue them now.
“Something… something… therapy…”
[P.S. I also set a personal record today for the incline bench press. Come on, Julian! Be intelligent, not just bull-headed!]
[1] Is it even fair to call these “played”? Nay: I suffered through two more games. I slogged. I trudged.
Julian Wise 