IT’S NEVER TOO LATE TO BE YOUNG AGAIN

By Audrey B Levitin

PROMPT — Joy is ...

The transformative power of Pickleball

I jump, racket raised and hear the magical crack of connection. The ball moves through the air, over the net, landing just inside the line. I heed my coach's warning, “Always expect the ball to come back.” It does. One of my opponents, a nerdy guy with glasses, puts a spin on the ball. I think, Don’t underestimate people. I return the spinning ball. Point! My twenty-something partner says, “Wow you’re good.” I smile with a deep sense of satisfaction. My love for competitive sports has been awakened after a long deep sleep.

I discovered pickleball as a senior citizen. For years, I left home at 8:00 a.m. to catch the train to Manhattan and returned at 7:00 p.m, in time to spend the evening with my husband and children. With my kids now grown, and a consuming job over, I was left with a chasm of time. I took writing classes and found freelance work. Missing was the high octane energy of Manhattan and the office. In a complete surprise, I found in pickleball a new adventure.

I learned to love sports from my dad. He was among the best players in the paddleball leagues organized through the northern New Jersey swim club circuit popular in the 1960s. Every summer I sat on the grass, watching him play. The men were hunched over, paddles in hand, swaying waiting for the serve. The ball was released and then wild energy consumed the court. My dad often smashed the ball against the bottom of the wall, unable to be returned. Mostly, he won. He taught me the game. I was quite good.

When I was nine, I also played baseball outside my family’s apartment in Irvington, a working class New Jersey town. On hot summer days, I stood on our narrow street with my friends Martin and Alan. Our neighbors watched from brick stoops or lawn chairs. Being the only girl was a point of pride.

We played with hard balls. Alan pitched, Martin was at bat. As the catcher, I crouched, my leather glove too big for my hand. Alan threw a hard, fast ball, landing in my glove with a thump. My hand burned. I felt excited and afraid at the same time. The ball hurt but I didn’t care. I was proud of myself. I felt lifted-up, a hit of joy. I surprised myself. A swing and a miss made me angry but I learned determination and effort. Eventually, my parents told me to find a sport for girls.

I tried volleyball. I killed the serve. But I was petite and the tall girls ruled. Same with basketball. I hated it. I wondered, how am I supposed to make a shot with everyone surrounding me? Title IX was not the law of the land and there was no soccer or softball for girls. The gym teachers offered me the balance beam. No thanks. I wasn’t any good and didn’t care to be.

I settled on cheer leading. I easily cartwheeled into a split. I wore a maroon skirt, and grey sweater emblazoned with a large H for our town’s colors and name: Hillside. I wore bobby socks and saddle shoes. I shook my pom poms as the boys ran down the court.

Time went on and jogging was all the rage. I tried, but with no points, and no winning or losing, jogging never stuck. I found working out at gyms tedious. I settled on walking to satisfy the completely practical need to keep my weight down and get in some cardio. I counted steps, and fit in twenty minute fast-walks, from Penn Station to the 14th Street subway. I watched football to satisfy my passion for competitive sports.

Years passed, I left full-time work and was invited to play pickleball. I felt empowered standing on the court with a paddle in my hand. I have a solid, long deep serve. I remember my volleyball serve and naively think, See, I can do this. I’m a natural athlete.

Not so fast. While I have good hand-eye coordination, I lacked experience and often hit the ball outside the lines. I kept up with other beginners, but barely. Then I signed up for a game with players in the intermediate level. I was destroyed, the other players annoyed. I choked, missing easy shots. My partner had to keep telling me where to stand and when to serve. I compulsively apologized. I imagined them thinking, How did this woman get into this game? I left the court, humiliated. I promised myself, never again. I signed up for clinics. I knew I could be good. I remembered my long-ago self, playing in street, catching a hard fast ball.

I set about learning the myriad skills needed to play well. I took a private class with a lovely millennial who threw balls over the net as I scooted across the court hitting the ball out of the air. I felt ready for open play, a crap shoot in terms of who winds up on the court; not for the faint of heart. The games are intergenerational, competitive and aggressive. I stopped losing and started winning.

On one occasion my partner, a young man, about half my age, was surprised when I returned a hard drive, lobbing it in the back of the court. Then I jumped, taking the ball in the air – my favorite shot.

He said, “Wow you’re good. How long have you been playing?” I smiled. When I’m playing, the oppressive internal dialogue about getting old disappears. In my senior years, I have reclaimed the athleticism of the young girl who was told to stop competing and to start cheering for the boys. She never really left, but was waiting to be found. I reclaimed her, unexpectedly through a great sport with a funny name, so many years later.

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Audrey Levitin is a Senior Consultant at CauseWired, a development and communications firm. For 15 years, she was the Chief Development Officer at the Innocence Project. Ms. Levitin is an essayist and her work has been featured in Across the Margin, Cape Cod Life, the Innocence Project’s publishing platform,and NJ.com. She is passionate about pickleball. She and her husband, photographer Nick Levitin live in West Orange, New Jersey.