I can pretty much divide my life into B.P. and A.P.: Before Pickleball and After Pickleball. 

I was certainly happy and content B.P., but now I can’t imagine my existence without the slightly oddball sport of hitting an orange-sized, hole-riddled ball back and forth over a net on a small court with a playing partner and two opponents. In an average week, I play pickleball for at least six hours; in a good week, it’s more like eight or nine hours. 

There’s a widely circulated meme featuring Chris Pratt that sums up why the sport is so addictive and all-consuming. Its underlying message: Pickleball is fun each and every time you play, and as soon as you’re done playing, you can’t wait to hit the courts again. Truly. 

Sure, there are days I feel that way about running: I can cover, say, six miles with three at tempo pace as the rising sun casts long shadows on the Portland city streets. Then, by mid-afternoon, I’ll spot a pony-tailed gal trotting along in a sweat-soaked sports bra and capris, and it makes me want to get right back out there. But this longing isn’t as acute as it is with pickleball. Sunday evenings always find me texting my PB pals to set up games for the following weekend. (Thankfully, I have two weekday sessions inked on my calendar on Tuesday and Thursday mornings. Non-negotiables!) 

Sarah, back right, with her Tuesday morning league

If you haven’t played pickleball (yet!), you’re probably wondering why my devotion runs so deep. It’s a variety of factors, from the thrill of competition to the joy of being outside, yet the biggie for me is the social aspect. I play pickleball at a variety of courts in and around Portland (some even in neighboring Washington State) with an incredibly wide and diverse array of players. Folks in their 20s up to age 80; all genders; a plethora of races; varying socioeconomic backgrounds; retired, working in an office, self-employed, and in college; some parents, some childfree. With rare exceptions, we all find common ground to laugh and make quips about between points. 

If you’ve ever hung with a group of runners, I suspect you can relate. Pickleballers all seem to have a similar sense of humor. I have laughed myself silly to the point of tears countless times on a pickleball court. Often with people I had never before crossed paths with. There’s just a certain shared sensibility that permeates the courts as noticeably as the loud “whack!”s and “pop!”s of plastic balls being hit. 

I’m part of a pickleball cadre I immediately dubbed the “Badass PB Foursome” in a subsequent text thread. Three other women who have at least 11 years on me—and they are all eminently more skilled, more strategic players than I am. Sure, I run more miles a week than any of them do, but they’ve got unmatched hustle on the court. We got randomly assigned to a court during a round-robin playing session, and we instantly clicked—and when our game was over, we all immediately wanted a rematch. I tend to be exuberant and chatty at the courts, and those tendencies got turned to 11 with those gals. Halfway through that first game, I blurted out what I was thinking, “I’m having THE BEST time playing with you!” 

Pickleball tournaments bring new friends

Now, just a few months later, I play with them at least once a week, and I can’t remember what it was like before I played with them. They are like all my pickleball pals, adding so much to the fabric of my life; I shudder at the thought of my life without them. They are firmly in the A.P. realm, a place filled with joy, laughter, camaraderie, and one game after another. 

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