Pickleballers

Chapter Five

Five

Daylight spooled out before Meg like a sixteen-hour-long punishment. It seemed a fitting coincidence that the worst day of Meg’s year would also be the longest. Today, on June 20, Meg’s divorce became final. Bracing herself for this eventuality, last night Meg had hit a new low that involved canned spritzers and an ill-conceived painting project that she’d mentally titled Too Much Brown .

“Forget about Vance,” Annie had insisted last night when she’d called smack-dab in the middle of Meg’s self-pity party. “You have me. What more do you need? And don’t forget: you still have pickleball!”

“Ugh. And I screwed that up, too,” Meg moaned. Jeannie and the other players had laid into her when she returned to deliver the news about their doomed courts: Why hadn’t she spoken out for the pickleball community? She was supposed to persuade them to build a state-of-the-art replacement, not let them destroy their only playing space. Was she going to let “those people” walk all over her?

“Don’t worry about Lakeview,” Annie said. “Something will work out.”

Meg’s chest tightened with the weight of her secret. She hadn’t told anyone, not even Annie, about how she had been mortified into muteness by the very same Ethan Fine who found innovative uses for a rearview mirror.

“You should get in touch with that project manager,” Annie urged. “Talk to him. Negotiate. You’re good at that kind of thing. Well. At least, you’re better than the alternative. Did you hear about what Jeannie did?”

Meg had not.

“Oh, this is good. Jeannie marched into the school district office and demanded that the taxpayers’ objections be heard. And after that, she showed up on the courts going on and on about it—until Dress Shirt Dave pointed out that the taxpayers were the ones who voted for the wetland restoration. Not to mention that Jeannie lives, like, ten miles south of our district.” Annie prodded, “Come on. I need you back on the courts.”

“I don’t know.” It had been three days since Meg had fled the construction meeting, too stricken by his presence to say a single word to Ethan Fine. After announcing the court closure to the disappointed players, Meg didn’t have the guts to face the whole crew again.

“Nobody is mad at you. They’re mad at the situation. You better be back on the courts. I don’t have to go in tomorrow till the afternoon, so I can play in the morning. Meet me there. I mean it. Don’t stand me up.”

It was Annie’s conviction that the pickleball paddle was the ideal weapon against life’s bad bounces. Meg hoped she was right.

·····

So too early that morning, after a coffee injection, Meg forced herself off the couch and into her workout clothes—bike shorts and a retro, disco-era T-shirt from the Seattle Folklife Festival. Some fresh air and exercise would do her good, she told herself as she grabbed her paddle and slipped behind the wheel. Pickleball was a spirit lifter. And truly, she missed hitting the ball around until her wrist ached.

“That’s how you know you’re making progress,” Annie had assured her. “By the amount of swelling. If you don’t need an ice pack and four ibuprofens, then you haven’t worked hard enough.”

Meg gave a cursory glance around the parking area and was relieved to find that neither Ethan nor his crew were on-site yet. She did not want to face him after absconding in embarrassment.

The gate clanged shut with her arrival, and she felt further reassured when the Lakeview crew greeted her warmly. Even Jeannie approached her, smiling. “Well, look who’s back. Our official pickleball representative.” The welcome was delivered with such a Cheshire cat grin that Meg wondered what Jeannie could be up to.

She was scoping out the courts, searching for Annie, when her phone dinged. Sorry. Got called in for a couple hours. Will be there ASAP.

Meg slogged past the players, carabinered her backpack to the chain link, and laid her paddle in line on the pavement with a thunk. She had been counting on Annie’s no-nonsense support to get her through her marriage’s final curtain on this excruciatingly long day.

“How goes it, kiddo?” Rooster flagged her over to where he squatted alongside the court in the shade by the school building’s brick wall. How great to see a genuinely friendly soul. Rooster reminded Meg of her dad, the way she liked to remember him, before those painful final months. It wasn’t that he looked like Meg’s father—but he was patient in the way that he listened more than he talked.

Meg tried to smile, but she was nowhere near being able to pull it off. Between the dissolution of her marriage and the dissolution of the courts, she felt hopeless. Her shoulders slumped. “I don’t know why you partner with me, Rooster. Everything sucks. I suck at life. I suck at this game. I’m never gonna get any better.”

“That’s horseshit and you know it. You’re getting better all the time.”

“Great. The Good Try award.”

“Mm-hm. Why don’t ya take a load off?” He patted the pavement beside him. “I’m wondering if you’ve met my friend Meg Bloomberg. You might know her. Blonde. Artsy. Lots of energy. She’s the one with the positive outlook.”

Meg felt tears prick her eyes. “She’s not here today.”

“I know you’re going through a rough patch.” Meg had spent more than one pickle practice bemoaning Vance and his abrupt departure. She wasn’t surprised Rooster remembered that today her divorce became official. “You wanna talk?”

Meg shook her head. “Nah. I think I’m just gonna power through. Thanks, though.”

“Yeah. Way to bottle up the misery.” He thrust his hand at her and wiggled his fingers. “Hand over your phone.”

She regarded him skeptically but dug her cell from her back pocket. “Call whoever you want. It’s not gonna make me feel any better.”

“Listen.” He dropped his voice. “Try something for me. Whatever this situation is that you’re in, I want you to think about the absolute worst-case scenario. I mean, really, the worst thing it could lead to. Think about how you’re feeling now and just expand the hell out of it.”

Meg glanced at him sidelong. She wasn’t crazy about this kind of touchy-feely stuff, but she didn’t want to hurt Rooster’s feelings. Rolling her eyes, she conceded.

Staring into the white sky beyond the chain-link fence, Meg pictured the worst-case scenario: Alone forever, lonely and without direction. Beleaguered by guilt over passively allowing the court’s destruction. A loser at pickleball and a failure of a painter. Yeah. That would be about as bad as it could get. Meg felt the frown form on her lips.

Click. Rooster snapped a shot and beamed at her from behind her phone.

“Hey! What?”

“Now, don’t get mad,” he said when she snatched the phone from him. “And don’t you dare delete that, darlin’. You keep that there, and when you want to see your worst self, and I don’t mean that in any unkind way, but when you want to see yourself at your lowest, you take a peek at that photo. It won’t be fun, but then you’ll remember: this, too, shall pass.”

“You mean it’ll remind me about how sucky I can feel.”

“Nope. This picture is evidence. When you see it, you’ll remember the pain—as sharp and defeating as it feels today. But you know that feeling won’t last. Once you recognize how you beat those challenges in here…” He pointed at his chest. “You can start to grow here,” he said, tapping a finger to his temple.

Groaning, she acquiesced and shoved her phone deep into her back pocket. “How does Laverne put up with you? And where is Laverne? And anyway, why aren’t you playing?”

“Laverne is on her way. And I am taking a fiver.”

The chance of Rooster taking a break without ample reason was slimmer than the possibility of the Seahawks living down the game-losing final play of the 2015 Super Bowl. Impossible. “Come on. Really. Why are you sitting out?”

Rooster lifted his baseball cap. A welt the size of an organically farmed egg rose from his bald head.

“What happened?”

“Hit myself. With my own paddle. Damn near knocked me out. I thought I had this idea on how to execute the Golden Pickledrop!”

“Rooster,” she scoffed. “The Golden Pickledrop? Really?”

One evening, after a sweaty, three-hour practice, Annie had reverently described the fabled swing. Rumor had it that the secret could be discovered on Bainbridge Island, where pickleball originated. There, according to legend, expert pickleballers practiced a stroke that would send the ball spinning toward the net—where it would pause midair before making contact. The ball would slide horizontally, dancing along the tape, and then, magically, drop straight down.

She gave Rooster the side-eye. “You don’t really think it exists, do you?”

“The Golden Pickledrop? It’s a real thing. I’m telling you. If we could manage a stroke like that on purpose, we’d have a win every time.” He waved her away. “Go put our paddles in, kiddo. I’m just waiting here for Laverne and then I’ll hit with you. You can do some stretches before go time. Showtime. Go-with-the-flow time.” He flashed a smile. “I’m thinking of a new career in rap music.”

“I think retirement suits you better.”

A clatter sounded from the construction area. Even though another encounter with Ethan might send her anxiety over the edge, a part of her hoped to turn and find that Fine specimen, looking like a manly action figure. Only actual size. Alas, it was just Laverne, struggling through the gate pulling a loaded red wagon behind her. “Yoo-hoo, the party has arrived!” she called. “Snacks, treats, drinks, and a live DJ: yours truly!”

Laverne pecked Rooster on the lips and snapped into action, directing traffic as players on the sidelines rushed to help unload the bounty. A gigantic speaker was lifted to a spot near the gate. “If you all are going to be competitive, we need to pump up the volume. I brought the party. You bring the pickleball.”

Laverne set up a card table and topped it with bowls of chips and kettle corn, and then she set about programing her playlist with ’80s hits, disco-pop, and hip-hop. Rooster winked at her, and the couple’s positive energy felt contagious. Meg set her paddle in the line.

Just then, the gate clanged, and Annie huffed onto the court. Her body was a whirlwind of motion and her squeaky voice raced. “You wouldn’t believe the traffic on I-5…” She did not finish the sentence.

Spotting Meg, she dropped her backpack, her paddle, and her windbreaker onto the pavement like a trail of breadcrumbs. The instant she reached Meg, she opened her arms. “Come here.”

Meg moved into her embrace, oblivious to the stares of the other players. Wordlessly, Annie held her, unmoving, until at last Meg patted her shoulder.

“I’m okay. Gee,” Meg said, breaking away self-consciously.

From the lounge chair, Rooster feigned disinterest in the scene. He gestured at the waiting paddles. “Well, look at that. We’re up next,” he said. “Wanna play, Dave?”

In unison, five guys said, “No thanks.”

Meg bristled at the circular frustration of being a beginner. If people would play with her, she could get more practice. With more play time, she would improve, and she would no longer be a beginner. As she listened to the ticktack of balls against paddles, the nerves on her skin threw Meg back to her schoolyard pick days. Now, waiting players avoided eye contact and rummaged in their backpacks. The cornucopia of stall tactics was broken only when a strangled cry rent the air.

All heads snapped toward the bang of the portable toilet, where Dress Shirt Dave was struggling out the door. From the expression on his face, he might have just swallowed motor oil. He gulped some air. “Good god! That’s disgusting! What happened to our toilet?!”

Jeannie appeared, a smug grin plastered on her face. “I don’t know. What happened to our toilet?” she asked, her voice thick with sarcasm. “Anybody besides me tired of waiting around for Little Miss Ponytail to take a stand? You know what they say. Action speaks more often than words.” Sure, Meg took umbrage at the ponytail reference, but the botched proverb bothered her even more.

“Jeannie…” Dress Shirt Dave glowered. “What did you do?”

A flash of movement caught Meg’s attention, and she turned her head to find none other than Ethan Fine striding across the parking lot. His face was awash with contained fury. Something was up, something that thrilled Jeannie and infuriated Ethan.

If there was one thing Meg hated, it was conflict. Maybe “hate” was too strong a word. Disliked. Hate would cause conflict within herself. As Ethan marched closer, her insides rolled up like a potato bug.

She barely had an instant, but she bolted. Fast as she could, Meg ducked into the nearest hiding spot. Her heart pounded in her ears as she locked herself inside the plastic box and willed herself to avoid looking at the urinal cake.

Although she could no longer see him, his voice reached her clearly. “Excuse me.” He sounded calm, collected. “Hi. I’m with Plan It Earth. The team doing the wetland restoration. Is your court rep around?”

A silence ensued, followed by a spray of comments like “She was right here.” And “That’s her paddle, I think.” Annie added, “I just saw her a minute ago.”

Meg cringed as she listened. And she couldn’t help but glance at the urinal cake. Who in their right mind would give something like that a food name?

“Hello, sir .” It was Jeannie’s voice. Was she doing a Cockney accent? “Jeannie Delaney. You can consider me the community lesion.”

“Liaison?”

The gravel in her voice returned. “That’s what I said.”

“Listen.” It was Ethan’s voice again. “I don’t want to point fingers, but we do have cameras on our worksite, and it looks like one of your pickleballers ”—he emphasized—“lifted our on-site plans for the project and carried them this way.”

“That’s right.”

“What’s right?”

“It was me. I took ’em,” Jeannie said. “Your plans were crap, so I put them in the crapper.”

“You what?!” Dress Shirt cried.

“I stuffed ’em down the crapper.”

Meg stiffened, deeply regretting her choice of hiding place.

“Look,” Ethan explained, his voice never rising. “First off, do you know how difficult it is to remove garbage from those things?”

“ I do,” said Dress Shirt. “I read that sign six times a day.”

Ethan continued. “You know we’re trying to do something good for the environment. It would be great to have you all on board. We could partner with your community. Maybe help you find a different space where you can build state-of-the-art courts. Somewhere that doesn’t endanger the wildlife.”

“Where are we supposed to find the money for new courts?” Jeannie challenged. “Start a GoFundMe? Weekend warriors need your help. That’ll go over well.”

Meg’s eyes were beginning to water. And what was the soft thing under her shoe?

“I’m gonna let this go,” Ethan allowed, “but if you all want to keep playing, you’re going to have to find a working solution. One more stunt like this and the district is going to lock up the courts.”

A moment passed, then Jeannie shouted, “Are you threatening us?”

“No. I’m just— Look. Let’s agree to disagree. For now, I don’t think we’re going to get anywhere in this conversation.”

Meg closed her eyes, hoping to dull her sense of smell, but now she was even more aware that her tongue tasted like the space smelled. Hopefully, Ethan would leave soon, and Meg could get out of there.

For a moment, there wasn’t a sound. Placing a tentative hand on the door handle, she heard him add, “And if Meg Bloomberg shows up, let her know Ethan Fine would love to talk to her.”

Meg’s breathing halted. She listened at the door as Ethan’s footsteps crunched away on the gravel and heard Jeannie in the distance snarking, “That jerk is doing everything he can to make our lives miserable.”

Meg counted another thirty excruciating seconds, then cracked the door open a sliver. The coast looked clear. Swinging the door ajar, she all but tumbled from the portable toilet.

Cycling some unsullied air through her nose, Meg got her bearings. The picklers had moved off and regrouped on the courts, but she could still make out the continued grumblings. Scanning the area, Meg was considering sneaking to her car before anyone noticed when Annie’s voice jolted her to attention.

“Meg Bloomberg!” her friend exclaimed with sarcastic surprise. “Someone was just looking for you.” Annie measured the air with her hand. “About this tall. Hunky dreamboat. Evil incarnate. Oh! Ethan Fine. That was his name. Perhaps you’ve heard of him.”

Caught, Meg grimaced. “About that…” She took in her friend’s narrowed eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before. It’s just that…it’s complicated.”

“I bet.” Annie shook her head, more amused than mad. “I mean, look on the bright side. Maybe you can buckle him into your hatchback and get him to change his mind about closing down the courts. Offer him a lube and tune or something.”

“Har de har. Not funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

“I’d need a magnifying glass to find the funny.” Then, without warning, Meg found herself tearing up.

“Oh, honey,” Annie cried. “What’s wrong? Come here.” She beckoned Meg into an embrace that lasted all of three seconds. “Nope. Okay. Get off me.” Gently, Annie pushed her away. “You smell like the elephant house at the zoo.”

Meg’s eyes stung, and she shook her head briskly to ward off the waterworks. “I’m so embarrassed. Everything I touch just crumbles. I finally start to enjoy pickleball and then the one guy who seems into me is the same guy shutting down the courts. And I don’t even have the guts to speak up for Lakeview and stand up to him. And even if we could keep our courts, we could never afford to fix them without the school’s funding. And anyway, nobody ever wants to play with me because I’m a beginner.”

“You better stop that crap right now. You know none of that is true.” Annie hesitated. “Except maybe the last part.” She shrugged. “But you won’t always be a beginner.”

“I wish I had a magic wand”—Meg tapped at the air—“and I could just ping, and make everything better—”

Just then, a ping chimed from the courts. Another ping echoed from the phone inside somebody’s gym bag. Ping. Buzz-buzz-buzz. Ping. Na-na-hey-hey-hey , a chorus of phones rang out.

Laverne sat upright and pointed at her screen. “Son of a sailor and all the saints! Did y’all just see this post?!” Meg and Annie moved toward the commotion as Laverne rose from her lounger. She held her phone aloft and announced to no one in particular, “Check out the grand prize being offered at the Pacific Northwest Picklesmash Leagues Tournament!”

The words “grand prize” reverberated off the chain-link fence and swooped over the flimsy nets, the portable toilet drama forgotten. With a flurry of activity, thirty adults and two teenagers all jumped on their cells and the news hopscotched from one player to the next. “What?!” “Is this for real?” and “Did you see the prize…?”

Laverne’s voice cut through the commotion.

“Attention. Attention, everyone.” Laverne called on her long career as a stage actress. “Coming this August: For the first time in the Northwest, all levels can compete in the Picklesmash Tournament. And, to sweeten the deal, an anonymous donor has contributed”—Laverne’s voice ticked up a notch—“a cash prize worth fighting for!”

Mumbles of excitement and surprise echoed around the court. This group would have battled it out for a nice trophy. From the parking lot, a car door slammed, and Mustache Steve held his phone toward the crowd. “Hey! Did you guys see this?” he called through the gate.

Jeannie gestured at the group of players, phones in hand. “We’re on it, Mustache. Read the room.” Mustache Steve lifted his palms in surrender and Meg said a silent prayer for the students who were assigned Jeannie as their school counselor.

Laverne returned her attention to the screen. “Twelve doubles teams will represent each Pacific Northwest club. The grand prize will be awarded to a club or league of players that demonstrates not only skill and athleticism, but unity of community and the spirit of positive pickle-energy.” At this, Laverne cast a meaningful glare at Jeannie. “And because this tournament aims to encourage new learners and support beginners, at least one team from each club must be a beginner partnership.”

Beginners? Meg was a beginner.

Around her, brows were raised and eager glances exchanged among the players. Jeannie smirked and poked an elbow into Kiki’s ribs, and Meg could guess what she was plotting. With real money at stake, Lakeview wouldn’t waste their chances on a win by including true beginners. They would choose their strongest players, pose them as beginners, and easily pull in the win.

Meg shrugged to herself, accepting defeat early so it wouldn’t be so painful when it smacked her in the face. It was, after all, the longest day of the year. She was officially divorced, the man she had dry-humped in her hatchback was loathed by her pickleball community, and there was something squishy stuck to her shoe. Did she honestly expect any kind of win today?

In a fair world, this would be a great chance to try out a tournament. But if pickleball players had one thing in common, it was their competitive nature, and she doubted anyone would offer her and Rooster one of the coveted twelve spots if some big money was on the line.

Laverne continued, “Tournament sponsors will strictly monitor beginners’ statuses. Players may only compete as beginners if this is their first pickleball tournament.”

Suddenly aware of the quiet gathering around her, Meg lifted her gaze from the green asphalt. Glance after glance flicked her way. Her pulse skipped. She and Rooster were the only players on the courts who met such requirements. Everybody knew it.

“Worth fighting for? You betcha. The winning club will receive”—Laverne, practiced at the art of the dramatic pause, did just that—“funding from our donor. Ten thousand dollars for the winning league.”

A hush descended over the doomed schoolyard courts as the news sank in. One by one, the crowd absorbed the potential for their courts, for the Lakeview league, for the future of their game. Peering at their faces, Meg observed a palpable shift as the dreamy vision took hold.

“New courts.” Annie’s voice lilted with the possibility. “If we could find a space, we could fund new courts.”

Quick as a blink, the players leapt into action. Hands reached for Meg’s and Rooster’s paddles and one of the Daves hooked Meg by the elbow and dragged her toward the courts. Another Dave pulled Rooster from his lounger.

“Neither of you has ever played in a tournament, right?” Meg shook her head and Buff Dave adjusted his service stance. “All righty.” He knocked the ball twice against his paddle. “Let’s get you two trained up!”