Pickleball, Pickleball, Everything Pickleball

Remember when CrossFit exploded and suddenly everyone had that one friend who wouldn’t shut up about it? Like they were training for the Olympics in lunges and burpees? Annoying, right? Or maybe… You were that annoying person.

Well, Pickleball is my mom’s CrossFit.

She talks about it constantly. And honestly, I’m thrilled she’s found something active to dive into during her golden years—70-something and still swinging. She’s got all the gear: visor, paddle, wristbands, and her prized possession—pickleball socks.

The 5 A.M. Pickleball Club

One day, she called me, sounding absolutely wiped out.

“Why are you so tired?” I asked.

Her reply: “I was on the court around 5 a.m. this morning.”

“Wait, what? Why on earth were you playing pickleball at 5 a.m.?”

“Well, my girlfriend has to work, and that was the only time she could play,” she said, clearly annoyed that her friend had a job.

“Can’t you find someone else? Maybe join a pickup game?”

“There are others, but it doesn’t matter. I’m not doing that crap again. I’m retired. I’m not going to be that crazy lady who wakes up at 4 a.m. to play pickleball.”

Fast forward a few months… and guess who’s still playing pickleball at 5 a.m.?

Pickleball Camp and Garage Training

Pickleball Momma is fully immersed. She recently told me she’s gearing up for a week-long pickleball clinic—yes, a camp, like summer camp, but with paddles and sore knees.

“That’s a lot of pickleball,” I said. “Are there going to be counselors and campfire songs too?”

“I don’t know all the details,” she replied. “Just that it’s non-stop pickleball. So, Dave set me up a practice board in the garage.”

“Wait—Dave turned your garage into a pickleball court?”

“Sort of. It’s just a board to help me aim my shots. When the ball bounces back, I try not to miss.”

“Sounds like Dave’s a genius.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He found a way to get you out of the house and out of his hair.”

She laughed. “That may be, and it’s working. The only thing is, he said, not to put another hole in the wall.”

“Hold up—another hole?”

“No, not really. It was more of a scratch. And I’m pretty sure it was already there.”

This is the same woman who once put a hole in the wall with her car. So yeah… I’m not convinced.

Grandma Drama and Happy Hour Parenting

“What’s the plan for the rest of the day?” I asked.

“Your son is coming down, and does he want to stay with Grandma? No. He wants to stay with Toni and James. I swear, it’s like pulling teeth to get him over here.”

“Didn’t he pick you up a few weeks ago, take you shopping, run your errands, and have lunch with you?”

“He did. He’s such a good grandson. You raised a good one.”

“His mom and Nanna raised a good one. I raised the little asshole hiding just beneath the surface,” I said, laughing—knowing full well I was a Disneyland dad thanks to the Navy.

“That’s true. But those moments you spent with him mattered. Maybe shouldn’t have taken him to happy hour so much after school.”

“Hey, he did his homework, got a snack, and got to hang out with all his uncles.”

The Athlete and the Bread Critic

“What were we talking about before?”

“Gage, your grandson?”

“No… before that?”

“Pickleball camp?”

“Oh yes, pickleball. So anyway, I try to spend about 15 to 20 minutes a few times a day in the garage practicing my aim. I think I’m getting much better, and it’s helping.”

“That’s great. Isn’t it hot out there? It’s like 100 degrees in San Antonio right now.”

“Yes, that’s why I only spend short periods. But an athlete must train.”

I laughed. “So you’re an athlete now?”

Mom scoffed. “Is pickleball a sport? Yes, it is. So, I’m an athlete.”

I couldn’t argue with that logic. “True. Get that work in, Momma.”

Then, like a ball bouncing from one side of the court to the next, she changed the subject.

“Have you talked to your sister? She said she was going to make me better sourdough last night for my sandwiches.”

“No, I haven’t. Better sourdough?”

“Yes, better. The one she made before had holes in it, and it wasn’t shaped like sandwich bread.”

“Mom, sourdough has holes in it. And it can be cut like sandwich bread.”

“I know, but there were too many holes and the slices were too big. I want regular-size bread.”

“Oh, okay. But the taste was good?”

“Yes, it tasted like sourdough. It was great.”

“Did you think about just cutting a slice in half to make it smaller?”

“That’s not how I like it. I want it like regular bread.”

Realizing I wasn’t going to win the battle of sourdough vs. sandwich bread, I gave up. But I chuckled inside, knowing this would make great material to write about.

I hope you’ve enjoyed Conversations with My Mother. I’m sure many of you have had those moments with your own moms—equal parts hilarious and heartwarming. Cherish them. And keep following along as I share more of these gems.