Page 8 of The Pickleball Girl Finds Her Match

When the room emptied, Daniel rubbed his forehead and walked over to Endy. He let out a big sigh.

“‘Big dink energy’?” he asked. “Really?”

Endy’s jaw dropped and she slapped a hand on her forehead. “Oh my god, I forgot I was wearing this T-shirt… . The Grands just gave it to me as a thank-you gift.”

Daniel chuckled. “I was wondering if you’d gotten dressed in the dark this morning.”

“Now the tennis members will think that pickleball players are foolish, or worse. I couldn’t have made a bigger mistake wearing this silly shirt to this meeting,” groaned Endy.

“It’s not about you, or even that T-shirt.” Daniel sighed. “Just what is it exactly with tennis players that makes them hate pickleball so much? I mean, the sports aren’tthatdifferent.”

Endy shrugged, lifting her palms up. “Who knows? Maybe it’s like when snowboarders came along. There was so much big hate from the skiers. Remember when some ski hills didn’t even allow snowboarders?”

“Yeah, I was one of those snowboarders.” Daniel gave a half smile. “Pissed a bunch of people off, for sure.”

“Can you imagine if something similar happens where tennis players won’t allow pickleball?” Endy mused out loud.

“It’s not impossible,” replied Daniel. “The only thing that would soothe the animosity is if there was a crossover between tennis and pickleball. Like, look at Jack Sock … previously a pro tennis player, now a pro pickleball player.”

“Jack Sock?” Endy said with a smile. “One of his social media profiles actually says, ‘Used to hit tennis balls. Now dink wiffle balls.’ And if that isn’t crossover big dink energy, I’m not sure what is.”

4

Endy was still puzzled as she climbed back onto the pro shop’s golf cart. She didn’t know why tennis players loathed pickleball, but she was sure of pickleball’s growing popularity.

Heading back to work, she decided to take the long way and loop past all the courts. It was another glorious day with a searing sun and cloudless sky, and the wind swirled around her in the open-air cart.

At the far end of the racquet property, many of the pickleball courts were filled. On one court, a mother and young son were playing against a father and even younger son. A stroller parked in the shade held an infant who had just started screaming. On the next court over, The Grands played with a fourth player, who cackled loudly with delight when she hit a winning shot between Candi and Nora.

Endy tooted the golf cart’s horn, leaned out, and waved. Candi held up her hand, shading her eyes, then yelled out, “Hiiiii, Ennnnnddddyyyy!”

Endy’s gaze then shifted to the tennis courts across from the pickleball courts. A middle-aged foursome was immersed in their tennis match, their slow, sure steps gliding from side to side and moving deliberately forward to the net. Dressed in white, they seemed like the occasional groups of egrets that glided above the country club’s golf course lakes.

“Well done,” one called out. The only other sound coming from their court was the pop of the felted tennis ball against the strings of their racquets.

As Endy drove past, she couldn’t help but compare the two sports being played next to each other. Daniel had said that they weren’tthatdifferent. But Endy knew that to some people, tennis and pickleball were as different as cats and dogs.

She slowed the golf cart as a bright green plastic ball rolled onto the path. She parked and picked up the ball and walked in the direction of the courts, looking around for its owner.

As she passed in between the pickleball court and the tennis court directly next to it, Endy’s gaze was drawn to two younger tennis players. The one with short black hair was Collin Park, a club member in his late twenties.

But who was the other one? He was lean and muscular with his tousled brown hair pulled back with a headband. Endy couldn’t pull her eyes away. She inhaled sharply as he turned to return a serve, revealing his face—it was the drop-dead gorgeous guy who’d rescued Rusty.

Endy leaned on the fence, her hair flowing over her shoulders. She pushed her sunglasses up on top of her head and watched, riveted, as the tennis battle played out. The ball rocketed back and forth between the immensely skilled players, each hitting it so hard that the boom of the ball off their racquets echoed like fireworks on the Fourth of July.

On the next point, Collin hit a huge, whomping serve. But the handsome stranger returned the ball as if it were nothing more than a feather floating in the air, hitting it so solidly, so deeply, that it landed inches away from the baseline before Collin had any chance of moving.

“Nice shot, Hall,” called Collin, clapping his hand on the strings of his racquet.

Endy leaned back from the fence and applauded. When Rusty’s rescuer glanced up to the railing, she thought she saw him grin.

On the next point, Collin was incapable of handling a returned hard-hit ball, and it popped up, way above his head. He shook his head and muttered, “Crap,” when he realized that his ball would be an easy slam return. The handsome stranger lifted his left arm, pointing to the sky, his right arm cocked behind him.

But from the side of the court, another ball, this one bright green plastic with holes, sailed onto the tennis court just as he swung overhead and slammed the tennis ball … right into the net.

The plastic pickleball rolled onto the court—its thin and reedyclk, clk, clk, clksounding loud in the absolute stillness of the aftermath of the netted overhead slam—and came to rest against his foot.

“Ball on!” shouted an older pickleball player wearing a purple flowered shade hat, her palms on her cheeks. “Sorry!” She ran over from her pickleball court, horrified.

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