Image from AI

In July 2021, I was wrapping up a pickleball meetup at River Road and getting ready to head home. It had been a warm, humid evening, and I was looking forward to sitting down, relaxing, and enjoying a couple of cold drinks.

Just as I was about to leave, Reuven Cohen asked if I wanted to play one more game.

Our opponents would be Rodman and Tony—both younger, faster, and far more athletic than Reuven and me. I figured it would be a quick game before heading home, so I agreed.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

The game stretched on for at about an hour. Reuven and I jumped out to a surprising 7-0 lead, but Rodman and Tony quickly fought their way back. From that point on, neither team could gain much separation. Every point felt important, and every rally seemed to last forever.

By the time the score reached the teens, I was running on fumes. My legs were heavy, my shirt was soaked, and I was wondering why I hadn’t simply gone home when I had the chance. Reuven, however, wasn’t about to quit. He kept encouraging me to hang in there.

Against all odds, we pulled out all kinds of crazy winning shots to a 22-20 victory. Keep in mind, this was not rally scoring…

Two older guys had managed to outlast and outplay two younger athletes.

Several players had stayed to watch the match, and judging from the looks on their faces, they were almost as surprised as I was.

The celebration, however, was short-lived.

When I got home, my body staged a full-scale rebellion. My calves cramped. My feet cramped. My thighs cramped. Even my arms cramped. I could barely move without pain. For a while, I seriously considered a trip to the emergency room, except for one problem—I wasn’t sure I could get there.

It took hours, plenty of fluids, and a great deal of care from my wife before I finally recovered.

We’ve all heard the phrase, “the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat.”

That night, I learned about something else entirely:

The agony of victory.

(This is the first in what I hope are articles, opinions, posts and essays from the perspective of an older pickleball player.)