The Most Dreaded Words on the Pickleball Court: “Let's Have a Girls' Game!”

There are certain phrases in life that strike fear into the hearts of grown men.

“We need to talk.”

“Your warranty has expired.”

“Your colonoscopy prep starts tonight.”

But nothing—and I mean nothing—strikes terror into the heart of an aging male pickleball player quite like these five words:

“Let's have a girls' game!”

Another Beautiful Morning in Paradise

Picture the scene.

I arrive at the pickleball courts, eager to compete, socialize, and perhaps demonstrate some of the extraordinary athletic abilities that have somehow eluded me for the past decade.

The courts are buzzing with activity. And there, occupying some of the prime real estate, are groups of fit, stylish, attractive, remarkably youthful-looking women.

Of course, at my age, practically every woman looks young. Some of these ladies may actually be grandmothers, but from my perspective, they all look like they just graduated from college.

They are dressed impeccably. Coordinated outfits. Designer visors. Matching shoes. Sunglasses that probably cost more than my first automobile.

And then there's me.

I'm wearing a shirt that may or may not be the same one I slept in last night. My favorite Amazon Basics shorts have reached the point where, when I take them off, they can stand upright in the corner without assistance.

My shoes have seen better days. So have my knees. And, come to think of it, so has the rest of me.

But I have my paddle, my enthusiasm, and an entirely unjustified belief that today might be the day my game finally improves.

The Invitation to Paradise

Occasionally, through some administrative oversight or momentary lapse in judgment, I am invited to join one of these women's games.

And what a wonderful experience it is!

The ladies are generally kind, gracious, and sympathetic to my plight.

They encourage me.

“Nice shot!”

“Good try!”

“Almost had that one!”

And occasionally offer constructive advice.

“Maybe you should move your feet a little.”

An interesting suggestion, considering that my Fitbit recently recorded four steps during a two-hour pickleball session, three of which occurred while retrieving my water bottle.

My philosophy has always been that excessive movement is highly overrated. Why chase a ball when there's a perfectly good chance it might come back to you?

Besides, I've spent years perfecting my ability to stand in one spot and watch the action unfold around me.

Some call it poor footwork.

I prefer to call it energy conservation.

And Then It Happens

We're having a wonderful time. I'm beginning to feel accepted. Perhaps even appreciated.

Then one of the ladies casually announces:

“Hey, let's have a girls' game!”

The words hang in the air.

My heart sinks.

My paddle suddenly feels heavier.

The hair on the back of my neck stands up—or at least it would if there were any left.

I haven't experienced this degree of rejection since junior high school, when I asked a girl to dance and she informed me that she was saving the next twelve dances for someone else.

Suddenly, I find myself longing for my childhood blankie and perhaps a sympathetic therapist.

Of course, nobody has actually been unkind. The ladies simply want to play together.

Perfectly reasonable.

But reason has very little to do with the fragile ego of an aging male pickleball player.

The Loneliest Name on the Board

So I retreat to the paddle board and put my name up.

There it sits.

Alone.

A solitary monument to male rejection.

Other names appear. Groups of four materialize. Paddles are rearranged. Games begin.

Somehow, everyone seems to find three partners without ever noticing that my name has been sitting there long enough to qualify for Social Security.

I begin to suspect that the paddle board has developed a sophisticated artificial intelligence system specifically designed to avoid matching anyone with me.

Perhaps it's my reputation.

Perhaps it's my footwork.

Perhaps it's the shorts.

Eventually, I wander toward the courts occupied by the lesser beings—my people.

Here, the shirts don't always match, the knees creak, and nobody is particularly surprised when a ball sails into the next county.

We laugh, compete, argue about the score, and generally have a wonderful time.

But occasionally, I glance back toward those golden courts, occupied by those golden ladies.

And wonder what might have been.

The Uncomfortable Truth: The Women Are Getting Better

Now here's something I've noticed over the years.

The women actually seem interested in improving their pickleball games.

Imagine that!

There's a group of eight women who regularly get together on certain days of the week.

They practice.

They drill.

They work on positioning, strategy, shot selection, and communication.

They take lessons. They listen to instruction. They actually attempt to correct their mistakes.

And, most annoyingly, they get better.

Every single year.

Meanwhile, I continue to rely on the same techniques, the same footwork, the same questionable strategy, and occasionally the same bad attitude that I brought to the courts ten years ago.

My game hasn't so much evolved as become a historical landmark.

The ladies are improving their third-shot drops.

I'm still trying to determine whether the third shot is really necessary.

They're developing sophisticated court positioning.

I'm developing increasingly sophisticated excuses for why I wasn't in position.

They're learning patience and discipline.

I'm still convinced that hitting the ball harder will eventually solve all my problems.

And my footwork?

Well, let's just say that the cement shoes I've worn for the past decade are finally broken in.

A Few Other Minor Character Flaws

There are, of course, other possible reasons why I occasionally find myself excluded from the more desirable games.

My left-handed play, for example, can create confusion.

Sometimes even for me.

Then there's my somewhat creative interpretation of line calls.

I've occasionally been accused of calling balls out that were clearly in.

This is entirely unfair.

At my age, depth perception isn't what it used to be, and I firmly believe that a ball landing within an inch of the line deserves further investigation.

Preferably by a committee of my choosing.

Some people call this gamesmanship.

I call it aggressive visual interpretation.

And my attitude?

Well, I admit there may have been occasions when I offered unsolicited advice, questioned a line call, or expressed mild disappointment with a partner's shot.

But surely none of that would justify banishment from the golden courts.

Would it?

Perhaps the Ladies Have Figured Something Out

The more I watch these women, the more I realize that they understand something many of us aging male players have forgotten.

Improvement requires effort.

It requires practice, humility, and a willingness to admit that what you've been doing for the past ten years might not be working.

It also requires accepting instruction without immediately explaining why the instructor is wrong.

This last point has always been particularly difficult for me.

The women practice together, encourage each other, and seem genuinely pleased when someone improves.

Many of us men, meanwhile, are still relying on the athletic reputation we established sometime during the Nixon administration.

And when our game deteriorates, we blame the paddle, the wind, the sun, our partner, or the suspiciously soft pickleballs.

Rarely ourselves.