Page 7 of The Pickleball Girl Finds Her Match

She entered the room and selected a seat near the door. Whisper Hills’ senior vice president and managing director, Daniel York, stood in front of the rows of folding chairs, which were mostly filled. He dressed in typical desert business casual—a bright-colored luxury golf polo shirt and shorts—with his ash-blond hair parted on the side and combed flat. He wore a wide smile and would occasionally point and wink to club members he was friendly with.

“Hello and welcome, everyone,” Daniel said. He squinted his eyes at Endy and then indicated to her to close the heavy meeting room door. Chairs scraped the floor, and the whir of the air-conditioning started up as the club members made themselves comfortable.

“I see a lot of friends here, but also some new faces. How about we take a couple of minutes and have our new homeowners stand up and introduce themselves?”

Endy saw an older couple stand up and look around the room. They said they had joined the club for both golf and tennis, so Endy made a note to contact them with news about the racquet club. Four other new members stood up and offered introductions.

Once everyone had settled in their seats again, Daniel went down a checklist he held in his hand, talking about upcoming changes in the restaurant and maintenance around the grounds. Then with ten minutes remaining, he asked if anyone had questions or concerns for open discussion.

An elegant woman with her full, white hair smoothed and pulled back with a thick tortoise-shell barrette raised her hand. She wore a salmon-colored linen tunic and linen trousers, pressed neatly without a wrinkle. Endy saw a vintage Rolex watch on her wrist, and on her finger was a huge pear-shaped diamond ring, stacked on either side with even more diamonds.

Before Daniel could call on her, she asked, “What are you doing about pickleball?” Her voice was sure, steady, and smooth-as-butter.

“Mrs. Tennyson, so nice to see you,” said Daniel, giving her a slight bow of his head. “Thanks for asking. Why don’t I let our assistant director of racquet sports answer that—Endy?” He held his hand out to Endy, and heads swiveled around toward her.

Endy stood up, looked around the room, and smiled. “Hi, everyone. Yeah, so, pickleball is going great. Our program is growing every week. The daily drop-in matches tend to fill up. We have opportunities for all levels with—”

“That’s not what I asked,” Barbara Tennyson interrupted. “I asked what are you doing about it.”

“About—”

“Yes, about the disruption it has brought to our lovely club.” Barbara looked hard at Daniel and then at Endy. “The noise of all those dogs barking and the loud music at all hours of the day. Not to mention that horrendous, nerve-racking sound that plastic ball makes when struck.” Endy’s eyes went round, and she glanced at Daniel.

He spoke up. “Mrs. Tennyson, I do understand your frustrations with pickleball. Your complaints have not gone unnoticed by the board and me.”

Barbara Tennyson huffed. “You’ve taken away tennis courts.”

“Yes, but we still have over twenty-five tennis courts, which is enough for the number of players—”

“That is not the point,” she replied with a slow blink. She repeated, “Specifically, you’ve taken away tennis courts and replaced them with pickleball courts.”

“Yes, but—”

“Presidents of the United States would play at Whisper Hills when it was the premier tennis country club in the nation. Why, Jimmy Connors, Martina Navratilova, and so many other tennis professionals called this their home,” she said, crossing her hands over her lap.

“Including you and your husband, Clive,” added Daniel with a deferential nod.

Barbara stilled and narrowed her eyes at the managing director. “And now those courts have been taken over by something calledpickleball?”

“Please, Mrs. Tennyson, you must understand what our club needs to do to remain competitive and up-to-date.”

“No, Mr. York, it seems that you don’t understand. So perhaps I will attend the next board meeting and speak to those who can actually grasp what I’m saying.” She stood, smoothed her linen slacks, and calmly headed to the exit. All eyes were on Barbara, and the air in the room was tense. At the door, Barbara paused then looked down her nose at Endy.

“And the club certainly does not need a full-time employee running that sport, when players may simplydrop in.” She pulled open the heavy oak door and exited, a cloud of Chanel No.4 drifting behind her.

“Barbara is not wrong,” came a reply from the row of seats. Another club member, Marty Brewer, stood up. “All those golf carts parked at the curbs every day, even with the No Parking Anytime signs. The pickleball players disregard the rules.”

Kory Larson raised her hand. “My son is a successful acoustical engineer at Cruz & Cruz Noise Control, and I had him run an analysis on the noise. He said pickleball is louder than my Ninja blender.”

A man wearing a Dri-FIT T-shirt and visor chimed in. “Oh come on. You all are complaining about nothing—loosen up. Pickleball is a fun sport.”

“But it’s louder than a blender,” protested Kory. “And my Ninja is so loud that it scares my cats.” She looked around the room and said softly, “We can’t make margaritas anymore.”

Mini arguments broke out amid the crowd.

Daniel said over the din, “Alright, alright. Let’s all agree that there are issues with pickleball that the club still needs to work out.” He held up his hands, facing the club members. “But, like it or not, pickleball is here to stay. So let’s save that discussion for another time.”

He indicated for Endy to open the door. “Thank you all for coming. See you next month.”

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