Page 34 of Perfect Mess

“Aw, so close.”

Jack pushed aside his cup and leaned over the table. “Okay, you stumped me. What, Mary Burns, is your special skill?”

I twirled my spoon in my latte. “You really want to know?”

“Very much so.”

“Pickleball.”

“Pickle-what?”

“Pickleball.”

“What exactly is pickleball?”

“You’ve never played pickleball?”

“Does it involve shots of vodka and suggestively eating a pickle?”

“Wait, what?”

“If not, then never mind.”

“Pickleball is one of the fastest growing sports in the country.” I pointed to the old couple next to us. “Especially for retirees.” The old woman gave me a dirty look.

“Sounds … injury ridden.”

“Oh, it most certainly is. Very easy to break a hip.”

“And how do you play this intriguingly dangerous sport?”

“Well, it’s like a mishmash of ping-pong, badminton, and tennis.”

“So all the racket sports had an orgy?”

“Pretty much.”

“And this is something you play.”

“I don’t just play, I coach. The Casselberry Senior Center. I volunteer.”

“You’re a volunteer coach?”

“I give lessons every Tuesday.” I got an idea. “Want to learn?”

“Tuesday? That’s tomorrow.”

“So it is.”

Jack leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming on the tabletop. “Would I need to bring any safety gear? A helmet maybe. Hip pads?”

I looked Jack dead in the eye. “I’ve got everything you need.”

* * *

I pacedthe line of picklers like a drill sergeant inspecting new recruits. Dick and Mabel, the couple Janet and I played before, lined up closest to the net.

Beside them were Lewis and Lucille, whose children had stuck them in a retirement home, so this was their only chance to get out. Next was Dorothy, a retired math teacher who always kept score incorrectly.

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