Jessica Savoy, Mitchell Wyninger, Diana Vallette and Britney Rase
I’m going through a pretty significant life change these days, and one of the ways I’ve managed to not completely sink into a hole and wish to die is by surrounding myself with friends who have been through it and are now on the other side. I’m gleaning wisdom and guidance from them.
One of my friends told me she picked up tennis in order to avoid the pit of despair. “You should really consider picking up a hobby,” she said. Tennis was immediately out. I am no athlete. Not even close. I tried tennis once in college and all I did was hit homeruns and annoy my tennis buddy.
When you’re as uncoordinated as this gal, what can you do? I’ll tell you. You pick up pickleball. I coerced my two friends, Jessica and Britney, and we headed out for a pickleball lesson.
Mitchell Wyninger, a tennis and pickleball pro, took one look at us and decided to start at pickleball preschool. “This is how you hold the racquet,” he said, serious as a heart attack. “Watch me. Look at my hands. See?” he said. Did he think I didn’t know how to hold a racquet? I’m not that sports-dumb. I did not need a lesson on racquet holding.
The next lesson was the kitchen. The kitchen is the little rectangle closest to the net. You’re not allowed to step into the kitchen unless the ball first bounces in the kitchen. “This area behind the kitchen is the …” I cut him off and blurted out “living room?!” Mostly because I think I’m funny but also because, apparently, I have no consideration for sports instructors.
“No,” he chuckled. “It’s just part of the court.” We started off standing right outside of the kitchen ‘dinking’ the ball. Dinking is the official pickleball way to say hitting the ball really softly. I kept having a hard time dinking the ball properly, but my buds were dinking like there was no tomorrow.
After a few minutes of unsuccessful dinking, Mitchell told me I was holding the racquet wrong. Wow. I cannot tell you what a blow to the ego that revelation was. He corrected my grasp and, like magic, I was able to dink. After all of the balls were dinked and peppered around the court, Mitchell handed me a long white tube almost as tall as I am and told me to pick up the balls.
Pickleballs are collected by aggressively stabbing them with the pickleball picker-upper. This part was cathartic. My friends and I walked around stabbing up the balls, and then it was time for a game of mini-pickleball.
At this point, it was apparent that he was baby-stepping us into the sport, and even though I started off pretty confident, I could see why after the much-needed racquet holding lesson.
We played the mini-pickleball game standing just outside of the kitchen. It took quite some time for us to have a few volleys back and forth and one of us (no names shall be used to protect the innocent) was getting frustrated that she couldn’t direct the ball where she intended to. Right in the middle of a pretty intense huffing moment, Mitchell said, as seriously as one can, “If it doesn’t feel athletic, you’re probably not doing it right.”
“If it doesn’t feel athletic?” I said. “Can we have lesson on how to feel athletic?” He laughed, but I was serious. Did he not remember spending his precious time teaching me to hold the racquet … twice? “I haven’t felt athletic in one single moment of one single day of my 37 years, Mitchell.”
I do need to give him credit, though. When we voiced frustration, he answered with enthusiasm and encouragement. “Listen, you’re learning a new skill,” he’d say encouragingly. “Remember the first time you learned to drive?”
Funny you should mention that. I remembered it well. It’s etched into my memory because it was also the time I drove my dad’s car into my mom’s car into our kitchen. Three things wrecked in one fell swoop.
Every time a ball got anywhere near Jessica, she broke into an aggressive lunge posture and hit it like she was mad at it. I was in the corner writing down funny quotes and notes so I would be able to write this article. Britney kept reminding us all that she was only there for moral support and, as long as we try our best, all will be well.
Turns out people are exactly who they are when they pickle. The adage ‘How you do anything is how you do everything.’ was alive and well on the pickleball court that day.
After we played mini-pickleball, it was time to work on serving. “Drop the ball down; don’t throw it down,” Mitchell said. “The ball can bounce before you serve it, but don’t bounce it.” I pretended to know what the difference was and watched my friends for clues.
Every once in a while, Mitchell dropped a life lesson on us. It reminded me of the In My Experience I wrote about Pasta Lab and Michael’s one-liners. I think my favorite life lesson Mitchell imparted on us that day was one he said he took from hunting. “Aim small, miss small.”
I wasn’t aiming. It was just as surprising to me as it was to anyone else where the ball went after it met my racquet. My only goal was to stay out of the kitchen, take notes and hit the ball from time to time.
Mid way through our lesson, one of us shared a struggle we were having with a teenager, and the pickleball lesson came to a halt so we could have a quick chat on the importance of teaching our kids to feel their feelings and not repress them. Turns out moms don’t stop moming even if they’re pickling. Mitchell, bless his heart, took that interruption like a champ and let us have our moment.
After the serving lesson and the therapy session, it was time to play an actual game. In pickleball, whoever is serving is tasked with announcing the score. That’s just the way they do it. And for this very reason I can never play pickleball again. This was without a doubt the hardest part of the whole day. Even harder than holding the racquet properly (if you can believe that).
The score has three numbers in it, even though there are only two teams playing. What in the common core math is that, pickleball?
Mitchell tried explaining to us what that third number was. “It’s the server number,” he said. “You are either the first or second server on your side.” As I type it out now, I can see how that might seem straightforward, but I can assure you it is very much not.
We went back and forth volleying for about 20 hits. The pressure was mounting, and we were all getting nice and competitive. Finally, my team’s hit wasn’t returned. Jessica and I jumped up and down cheering. “Yay!! Oh, my goodness,” I yelled. We high-fived. “We actually played pickleball just now. I can’t believe we scored.”
“Well …” Mitchell said. After all that kitchening, dinking, therapying, learning to hold a racquet and mini pickleball, we hadn’t made a single point. You see, in pickleball you only score a point if you make the point on your serve. And this, ladies and gentlemen, is my problem with sports. After all that sweat and effort and time, we had nothing to show for it. Other than this article, of course, which I hope brought you some small sliver of comedic relief.
In all seriousness, pickleball seems like a really fun hobby. Mitchell was patient and kind, and he laughed at my jokes, so he’s ok with me. I even learned a thing or two, which is a testament to his teaching abilities, because he really didn’t have much to work with. Despite all of my pickleball failures, I’m considering trying it again very soon.
In my experience, you should totally try pickleball, but please keep in mind that holding a racquet isn’t as easy as it looks.
Have an idea for Diana’s next experience? Let her know by emailing her at diana.vallette@gmail.com
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