Page 27 of The Pickleball Girl Finds Her Match

“Andrews. Endy Andrews, from the racquet club pro shop.”

“Ah yes,” replied Barbara Tennyson. “The pickleball girl.”

Endy reddened and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, I’m notjustthe—”

Another boisterous roar erupted from the pickleball courts, the players screaming and laughing.

Barbara’s lips pursed. “No, no … you are,” she said softly over her shoulder as she turned her back to Endy and, pulling at the dog’s leash, stepped away.

17

Moths dipped and dodged in the glaring overhead LED lights. All twenty of the pickleball courts were full, and loud cheers blended with thethwackof hard paddles on plastic wiffle balls. Taylor Swift blasted from the speaker on one of the picnic tables under the awning littered with plastic water bottles and empty beer and hard seltzer cans.

“Thanks for putting on this event.” Dr. Markowitz sat in a folding chair, his leg elevated on a red Igloo cooler. “I’ve missed this crazy group.”

“They’ve all missed you too,” Endy spoke loudly, over the din. “How are you healing up?”

“Too slowly, if you ask me. But that is typical for Achilles tendon tears on us old folks.”

Endy put her hand on Steven’s shoulder and squeezed.

“Rumor has it that some of the club members are trying to get pickleball shut down,” Steven said, sipping from an insulated pint glass, the ice cubes clinking inside.

“Yeah, it seems that with pickleball, people either love it or hate it. But what I don’t understand is why the haters hate it so much that they want to get rid of it.” On the courts in front of them, players stepped in and out, taking their turns at play.

Steven answered loudly. “It’s the tennis purists. All those original homeowners who bought property here because Whisper Hills was the premier tennis club in the desert.” He sipped his drink. “They all rubbed shoulders with the likes of Jimmy Connors and Boris Becker when they’d come over here and practice. And then afterward, the homeowners would host the pros at these swanky poolside parties in their homes. Everyone had a crystal champagne glass in their hand and a Dunlop tennis bag in their hall closet.”

Endy sighed. Tennis purists—it made sense. And it was worrisome. What about her job? Endy had put in a ton of work over the past couple of years, building the pickleball community inside the club. Although her title was assistant director of racquet sports, Endy didn’t really have much experience on the tennis side of things. She managed and oversaw programs in pickleball and, yes, tennis, but really, Joel was the tennis pro and did all the instruction. If the pickleball program was scrubbed at Whisper Hills, would her position even be necessary any longer? Would she be let go?

Steven swirled the ice cubes in his cup and then gestured in the vicinity of a large Spanish-style house across the street. Endy looked beyond to a heavy, ornate wrought iron gate flanked by bright white stucco walls and a roof topped by terra-cotta tiles. A manicured desert garden of succulents and agaves surrounded a bubbling two-tiered fountain under a line of sky-high palm trees. A four-car garage wrapped around the side, with one of the doors smaller, in miniature, for housing a golf cart.

“Speaking of tennis purists, that was the very first property built here,” Steven continued. “The Tennysons’.”

“Like, as in Barbara Tennyson?” Endy’s eyes opened wide.

Hollers filled the air across the pickleball court for another player to come fill an empty position as Paul Rothman limped toward them.

“Dehydrated,” was the reply to the unasked question. Paul lifted Steven’s leg from the cooler and pulled out a dripping Gatorade, cracked the lid off, and guzzled.

“Did I hear you two talking about the Tennysons?” Paul asked, as he dug a towel out from his bag, then mopped at his forehead and face.

Endy nodded as she handed Paul a banana. “You need potassium.”

“Yeah, Barbara and her husband, Clive, were among the original Whisper Hills Country Club members,” Paul continued. “Clive was a top 25 player in his day—professional from England. Barbara traveled to all his tournaments with him for years, but then he retired and they moved here to raise their kids.”

Steven nodded. “None of their kids got the tennis bug, but Clive was out here playing every day and—”

“—and Barbara would sit on that bench over there and watch.” Paul pointed with the banana to a carved wood bench overlooking the far pickleball courts, closest to the pro shop building. Endy saw a small bronze plaque affixed to the bench back, winking in the overhead lights. “Every match. She watched every single match.”

“But you said none of their kids played tennis?” asked Endy.

“No, the Tennyson daughter got married and really wasn’t around much,” Steven answered with a shrug. “But I guess one of the grandkids picked it up and was supposedly pretty good.”

“Huh,” replied Endy. “I wonder what ever happened to them.”

“Probably living a life of leisure, while we’ve been working our fingers to the bone,” Steven said, pretending to wipe his tears away.

“You were a plastic surgeon.” Paul jostled Steven’s chair. “And you retired at age forty-nine with plenty of meat on your fingers.”

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