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“Aw, so close.”
Jack pushed aside his cup and leaned over the table. “Okay, you stumped me. What, Mary Burns, is your special skill?”
I twirled my spoon in my latte. “You really want to know?”
“Very much so.”
“Pickleball.”
“Pickle-what?”
“Pickleball.”
“What exactly is pickleball?”
“You’ve never played pickleball?”
“Does it involve shots of vodka and suggestively eating a pickle?”
“Wait, what?”
“If not, then never mind.”
“Pickleball is one of the fastest growing sports in the country.” I pointed to the old couple next to us. “Especially for retirees.” The old woman gave me a dirty look.
“Sounds … injury ridden.”
“Oh, it most certainly is. Very easy to break a hip.”
“And how do you play this intriguingly dangerous sport?”
“Well, it’s like a mishmash of ping-pong, badminton, and tennis.”
“So all the racket sports had an orgy?”
“Pretty much.”
“And this is something you play.”
“I don’t just play, I coach. The Casselberry Senior Center. I volunteer.”
“You’re a volunteer coach?”
“I give lessons every Tuesday.” I got an idea. “Want to learn?”
“Tuesday? That’s tomorrow.”
“So it is.”
Jack leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming on the tabletop. “Would I need to bring any safety gear? A helmet maybe. Hip pads?”
I looked Jack dead in the eye. “I’ve got everything you need.”
* * *
I pacedthe line of picklers like a drill sergeant inspecting new recruits. Dick and Mabel, the couple Janet and I played before, lined up closest to the net.
Beside them were Lewis and Lucille, whose children had stuck them in a retirement home, so this was their only chance to get out. Next was Dorothy, a retired math teacher who always kept score incorrectly.
