Play ball!

An outgoing and persuasive girlfriend asked me to join her for pickleball one evening last month. I’ve been invited to sleepovers and themed parties as an adult that have pushed me right out of my comfort zone, but never to this extent. Everyone I know knows me better.

But I agreed. Because I’d actually played an impromptu game with our older neighbors one evening. And because I’ve wanted to take up tennis again. And because I/we need hobbies. And friends. And because I want to be the kind of person who says yes to invitations whenever possible. But I honestly had no context for what it would be like, moms getting together in an athletic setting? What would it feel like, how would this work, how bad would I be, how awkward would this all end up?

I realized I had no idea what people wear to activities like this. Back in the day it would’ve been short tennis shorts or sweats pushed up to our knees. I ended up with a painting shirt, leggings, and old beat-up running shoes, a far cry from a tennis skirt and cute polo and tennis shoes. But I was saying yes, I was showing up, I was venturing out of my comfort zone. I know that sounds dramatic, but this really was completely new territory for me, playing like this with other women.

I couldn’t get jr. high p.e. out of my head. I hated our uniforms. And how pale I was. We were always sharing lotion in the locker room, the least I could do for my scaly white skin, but it was still bad. Just like my skill level in every single sport we had to try. The idea was to expose us to all sorts of sports: softball, soccer, basketball, running. I have a girl’s words etched in my memory as I was assigned to her basketball team, “Why do you have to be on our team?” Every p.e. period was honestly a nightmare, and it was even worse when we combined with the boys. The only thing I was good at was running the fire lane back to the locker room and getting a check mark for having walked through the showers.

High school was no better. More of the same, except we added swimming in the outdoor pools to the mix. Refusing to dive and swim across the pool, I was relegated to the small shallow pool with a blond cheerleader/swimmer as my personal trainer. I thought jr. high was bad, but this really was the worst. As a sophomore I finally had a choice; and even now, I count the decision to do racquet sports as one of the best of my life. I abandoned any hope of hanging out with the cool kids at the gym and followed my own inclination. I didn’t know any other kids in the class, but I loved learning racquetball, badminton, and tennis and even played with friends on the weekends and in the evenings both in high school and college. I never became any good, but I’m still so glad I did it.

Fast forward to finding myself with a racquet in hand after all those years. Some of the moms were like me, but some had played before and some are just naturally athletic. I tried to focus on the rules as she explained them and took a deep breath. I couldn’t back out, there wasn’t a big enough group, they needed all of us.

And I was bad. Of course I was bad. I wonder if being teased when I was younger and telling myself I’m not athletic played into it.

But the watercolored summer evening was enchanting. I felt at home on the court and with these women. Sure, we’d socialized and served together for years, but this was different. And so refreshing, moms taking some time away from our usual duties to do something just for ourselves, with our only goal being to have some fun.

Surprising my family, I ordered my own pickleball racquets after that. When the package came, I had an almost reverent feeling undoing the tape; this was something of my very own. Clean yellow whiffle balls. Brand new racquets wrapped in plastic. The perfect black zippered bag to hold everything, reminding me of my ballet box from elementary school. I took it to my room, but I had no context for it. Our garage sale badminton and tennis racquets live in the shop, but this was special. New. Just mine. I didn’t want it to get dusty and full of cobwebs. So it just sat against the bedroom wall all week, waiting for a place. As I left the next week (this time in cut-off sweats), I grabbed it as if I’ve always had an athletic bag, feeling slightly like a fraud. I’m not an athlete by any definition. But I liked carrying it. My very own, brand new hobby equipment. Because it symbolized something for me. Independence. Being proactive. Courage even. I’m proud of myself for saying yes. And saying yes again. For sticking with it even though I’ve got no natural inclination for sports whatsoever. I’m grateful for friends who will laugh with me and who accept me and who, despite my being a weak link, continue to include me.

We all know that play is one of the best connectors. Which is why businesses have retreats and Escape Room parties and rope courses. I remember cross country skiing a couple years back as a family and how awkward it was at first but how it was a fertile ground for creating closeness. Same thing when we’ve played Spike Ball, croquet, or badminton as a family. Games around the table are common for us, but the ones outside where we’re using our bodies and moving and jumping and laughing together feel even better. As much as I love conversation, even I will admit there is nothing better to make connections than play.

So as I’ve spent these evenings on the courts, I’ve realized how much I enjoy being outside moving in a way I haven’t really since I was just a kid myself. It’s still a little uncomfortable, I don’t like being watched or letting my team down. But I didn’t know I could be this kind of person. I thought I’d lost that part of my personality, that I was destined to be a serious church mom, dusty, structured, and boring. But it’s awakened a latent side of me, challenging me to deepen friendships, to try something new, and to be more than what I’ve always told myself I am.