Was it really invented by a U.S. Congressman? During the war? On an island? And then named after the family dog? Yes. No. Yes. And, no.

Not too long ago, one of our neighbors was being pulled along by her two stout bulldogs. One of the dogs is named Winston, although I could not tell you exactly which one. But I can tell you that I am especially enamored with the great statesman this fine little chap is named after. Both man and beast possess similar gaits and, of course, temperaments, although only one is known for an acerbic wit that devastated opponents who underestimated him, to their everlasting chagrin.

After a friendly chat, the owner of these fine mastiffs proceeded to invite us out to “the courts” to play a friendly little game of—pickleball. PICKLE-What??

I was not entirely sure who or what was getting “pickled,” but one simply does not say no to a Churchill namesake, regardless of its pedigree. 

I must say that one of the things I like most about our town is the rich blend of its residents. The breadth and depth of our backgrounds and experiences covers an extremely wide spectrum. And, perhaps, nowhere is this spectrum more pronounced or out on display than on the local pickleball courts.

For my first match, I found myself paired off opposite an older, rather petite woman. This did not seem entirely correct to me. She was much shorter than me. And very quiet. Demure, even (we laugh about that… now!). So, I gave her a nice easy lob. It was like a little butterfly gently floating across the net. Very friendly like. Neighborly.

image provided by Bozeman Parks & Rec

With a loud crack, she returned that ball with steel-laced resolve and fiercely determined grit like a shoulder-launched rocket! She fired it hard, fast—and straight at my head. I ducked! Holy Cow!! This woman was a tornado!! Only later did I learn that she grew up in the heart of Spanish Harlem in NYC. No kidding!! People like this little dynamo should come with a warning label. But they don’t. And that is what I have grown to love—really love—about this sport. Everyone has “Game,” and you underestimate any player at your own risk, or perhaps to your own everlasting chagrin. Welcome to pickleball.

Over the next few months, my wife and I slowly built up our game “IQ.” We learned about the fine art of “dinking” (mildly hypnotic), and how to stay out of the “kitchen” up at the line (harder than it sounds). We soon learned that finely honed finesse is more desirable than raw, brute strength (sometimes a soft touch is simply better).

But there is something about this sport that transcends the mere physical aspects of honing one’s latent skills and getting some exercise. Various ages, skill levels and backgrounds are all melded together to create a wonderful mix that fosters sport, certainly, but, more importantly, community.

Win or lose, the friendliness is palpable. And out of that friendliness flow the deep, rich stories that both neighbors and sojourners bring with them. One woman grew up on small farm in eastern Tennessee. Her father grew tobacco on 108 acres. There were nine children in a four-bedroom house with no indoor plumbing (none)! She studied math and went off to work in our nation’s capital, where she met her husband. They would travel the world and raise a family. She is alone now, but her smile never fades as she recalls those years. It is infectious and it is radiant.

There is a guy who was born in northern Wisconsin. He was up at 4:30 every morning, before school, to help with the farm chores. A bone-chilling wind slicing straight out of the polar vortex would cut him to the core during those deep, dark winters at the edge of a forest. You betcha! When he left home to join the military, he was immediately shipped overseas. This was during the 60’s. Those are the type of experiences that will shape a man’s soul, and maybe his destiny. He came home to marry his girl and to build an insurance business from the ground up. Years later, he learned how to fly a plane. He flew hunters all over central Canada and Montana in his spare time. Lately, he has taken up painting watercolors. They are pretty good, too. He is quite the over-achiever and still has a wicked serve. And a generous spirit.

There is a couple who met in the 1st grade. In that faded black and white class photo, he is already caught up in the gravitational pull of her bright smile, but he doesn’t know it yet. They grew up in the shadow of the Teddy Roosevelt estate out near Oyster Bay, Long Island. Their wedding photos were taken on Teddy Roosevelt’s front porch!

We met an energetic family trio: Grandmother/Mother/Son. All play well. They should, because they originally come from the depths of Maine, where hard work and discipline are mandatory. Sometimes I see the young lad jogging through our quiet neighborhood with his mother, or while his grandmother paces him on her bicycle. It is a beautiful sight if you are lucky enough to see it.

Then there is a guy who lived in Italy as a kid. Today, he does business with prestigious accounts all over the U.S., including many international firms. He can greet you in probably 15 different languages but, mostly, he just wants to rip a slicing serve to your inside corner. And if you think he’s smart, you ought to meet his wife, an accomplished artist (but she will never tell you that).

You never know where life is going to take you....

One cool evening, last autumn, everyone paused as a huge harvest moon came climbing out of the east. There we stood, slightly mesmerized, and fully silhouetted against the backdrop of our courts, and our lives, as that copper moon began its slow ascent through the hard, blue sky. No words were needed. We inhaled the silent beauty of cascading moonlight, until a phalanx of birds cut through her golden orb, breaking the spell.

Everyone likes a good story, and this is just part of ours. We are young and old, tall and short, fast and not. We come from the largest of cities to the deepest folds of farmland. We twist and turn and chase our dreams out on the courts where, for some of us, we remember the pristine days of youth.

So, push aside those hiking boots, slap on your sneakers, grab a paddle and come join us. It is not only fun, it’s cheaper than therapy.