Lo-Fidelity: Confessions of a 57-year-old pickleball virgin

Everywhere I go, I hear about pickleball. It seems like there’s a pickleball epidemic here in Aspen. As far as I can tell, pickleball is the new tennis in Aspen.

Racquet sports were never my thing. I’m way too uncoordinated. I’m more of a Trac Ball kind of guy. Remember that game? It was kind of similar to playing catch with lacrosse sticks. I remember the first time I saw a lacrosse stick at boarding school in Maine. I thought it was some clever type of contraption to scoop fish out of a creek with.

When we were kids, my mom enrolled us in tennis lessons down at the Aspen Meadows. We lived right up the street at Eighth and North, just a quick bike or skateboard ride down to the courts. All I remember is getting a giant blister on the inside of my thumb. Later, I took tennis lessons at the Aspen Club, where in 1984, I saw a Jimmy Buffett concert on the tennis courts. The Aspen Club was a major tennis mecca hosting all kinds of pros, instructors, and tournaments. There even used to be a giant tennis bubble across from Buttermilk where the Maroon Creek Club is now.

Sometimes, I feel like I’m the only person in Aspen who hasn’t played pickleball, like I’m the 57-year-old pickleball virgin. Still, it feels like psychologically, something’s been preventing me from trying pickleball. Maybe it’s the time I went to play paddle tennis up at the Stranahan’s Flying Dog Ranch, when my son and I were driving a go-cart and almost ended up getting run-over and killed by Hunter Thompson behind the wheel of the menacing red “shark.”

To assuage my deep-seated fears and misconceptions, I did what any self-respecting, sensitive, new-aged mountain man in the throes of man-o-pause (that’s code for midlife crisis) would do: I put my demons in a full nelson and signed up for a pickleball lesson. This past Tuesday, I took a clinic down at the Aspen Meadows courts — and boy, I’m glad I did. My brother-in-law Dan is a pickleball expert, and since we’re going to play with him, I figured it would be best to show up at the very least, semi-versed.

I dressed in my best pickle whites: a bootleg Grateful Dead shirt made by the legendary Kea Hause; my white Aspen Skiers “Champion” brand basketball shorts gifted to me by Jason Pfeifer, grandson of Friedl Pfeifer; and my knee-high, red-and-white-striped tube socks.

I woke early, ate some Wheaties, put on my outfit, saddled my e-bike, and off to pickleball camp I went. The first thing I noticed upon arrival was that I was the only male among the other seven students — and by far the least skilled. I could tell right away that the scoring was going to be a big problem for me, as I’m bad with numbers, following directions, remembering people’s names, personal hygiene, and money, just to name a few personal flaws. What I lack in intellect I can usually make up for with sheer physicality and utter wit, so that people eventually feel sorry for me and treat me like a rescue animal. Regardless, my female partners seriously schooled me.

The pros at the Aspen Meadows, Kurt Polkey and Nico Almeida, were kind, patient, fun, and knowledgeable. Their enthusiastic leader, Alex Rebeiz, was a gracious and welcoming host. At 40 bucks for 90 minutes, the lesson struck me as a bargain at twice the price. Not to mention I learned some cool lingo, like “dinking” and “the kitchen.” The opportunity is ripe for more pickle-centric terminology, like “Relish that point,” “Get your cornichon-on,” “Goin’ in for the dill,” and “Gherkin’ it.”

I like the fact that pickleball is a hand-eye-centric sport, similar to and complimentary of my two religions: skiing and mountain biking. Pickleball strikes me as a bit of a rebellious, contrarian court-sport, kind of like what snowboarding is to skiing. You can sense how tennis players haughtily look down their noses at pickleball players, like they’re not “real” athletes. It’s refreshing to be on the disobedient side of the coin again, where I belong.

After pickling, I pondered quietly at the Bayer-centric Meadows Cafe and let all the pickle juice sink in. I could almost see a vision forming in the cappuccino foam — my new summertime anti-hero alter ego, a Pit Viper-wearing character named “Pickleball Paul.” Kind of like a sun-damaged, crêpey-skinned, warm-weather version of “Hotdog Hans” with his jammy-pack playing RATT turned up to 11. Next time you’re lying out on the grass at the Music Tent trying to relax and absorb some culture and you hear a loud, obnoxious voice scream, “THAT WAS OUT!!!,” you’ll think, “What’s that hellish racket??”

Now it’s time to tape-up those fresh blisters on my big toes and get ready for my first big pickleball game on Saturday. We’ll see you out on the pickleball courts around Aspen this summer. Pickle, anyone? I’m a virgin cucumber no more.

Contact Lorenzo via suityourself@sopris.net.