"We beat boys": Dolls vs guys on the pickleball court

Winning

For a whopping ten weeks, I lived in Colorado Springs. This is a city in the state of Colorado, but I bet you guessed that.

Important disclaimer: To the IRS and all other interested parties, for those two years of traveling, my legal domicile was still Utah because it made no sense to change it when I had no idea how long I’d be anywhere. Thank you for your understanding.

In Colorado Springs as well as other U.S. cities where I “lived” (my legal domicile was still Utah as you’ll recall), I went to church, I found ways to volunteer, I got to know neighbors, I found and frequented my favorite local donut shop. And I played pickleball with strangers who became friends.

For something like $30, I joined an organization called the P.P.P.P.P.P.A., or the Pike’s Peak Pickleball Association. This non-profit group of volunteers organized round-robin games by level, and my level played at 1:00 in the afternoon on Wednesdays. Most people my age have respectable jobs occupying daytime hours but since I was and remain a self-employed, Utah-based writer, I could go play with the coolest group of mostly retired people.

Marv was usually the boss on the ground, and once I realized the only thing I had to fear from his was his wicked curve ball, I adored him. He would bring coolers full of waters packed in ice. On particularly hot days, he would bring frozen towels for people to use to keep from getting things like heat stroke. In the words of a former coworker, Lynda, “What a guy!”

Marv would’ve previously randomly assigned us to six games with different partners and opponents, and on one hot summer afternoon, Dottie and I were assigned to play two middle-age men. That might make it sound like I am not close to middle-age even though I am that, but they were a few years older than me so they officially earn the label. Dottie was decades years older than me, and one of the coolest cats on the court. She dressed stylishly, was super easy going but played well, called everyone “Babe,” was encouraging without ever being annoying, and brought out the best in everyone.

She and I agreed that, no matter what the guys offered, we wanted to take them on, she and I. Not because either of us is remotely anti-dude. I usually preferred working with men in tech and had zero problem being a minority in male-dominated tech companies in the state of Utah where I have my residence. We just didn’t want any pandering from these two gents, and didn’t want them suggesting that they split the fairer sex up to eliminate an assumed disadvantage. Yes, guys can definitely hit harder, but there’s more to pickleball than brute force. Dottie and I wanted to take them on, fair and square.

The subtle red arrow points to the exact court where it all went down.

IT WAS EPIC. The guys got up by a couple points, then Dottie and I tied them and got up by a point or so. We see-sawed back and forth like this for the entire game. At times, she and I looked sunk. But you just can’t keep two good women down. Dottie and I were using all kinds of positive psychology on each other, and when one of us would make a mistake or do something really good we would help the other shake it off or paddle tap and give subtle fist bumps of triumph. We talked to each other between points like we were college athletes in the championship game, instead of two regular women with four bad knees playing two middle-age men in a rec game no one would remember.

Did I say no one would remember? HERE WE ARE, REMEMBERING as I type this in Utah, the state where I live, to be read by you wherever you live.

Pickleball games go to eleven, win by two. Our game went to 15, or was it 17? Either way, it was a real nail-biter and CLOSE. And tough. And really fun. And super hot. The rest of the games had wrapped up for a break and most everyone was appreciating Marv’s ice water and frozen towels from the shade, chatting and watching as the four of us battled long beyond the other teams.

At long last, Dottie and I finally pulled off a hard-won WIN. As is typical in pickleball, the four of us met at the net for “good game” paddle taps, all four of us more earnest than usual about this truly being a GOOD GAME. And as Dottie and I walked away toward the shade, ten steps or so ahead of the guys, Dottie said three words to me I’ll never forget: “We. Beat. Boys.”

I might’ve felt in that moment a little bit like we were schoolgirls at recess, and I might not have minded at all. Dottie, if you ever find yourself in Utah—the state where I live—let’s find a couple guys to play and see if we can beat some more boys.

Isn’t life cool, and aren’t people interesting?? See you in the next one…