Who would steal my pickleballs

I’m talking to you sports fans.

Now who would steal somebody’s pickleballs.

That my friends is something I’m seething about at this very moment. Just last year, I had 3 pickleballs stolen while I was engaged in stiff competition on the notoriously wicked Florida circuit. I haven’t mentioned this to anybody, until now.

The typical pickleball opponent you’re most likely to encounter in Florida will likely be on the far side of 75 years. Odds are he/she will have had multiple joints made of titanium inserted into their bodies; which gives them a huge advantage over mortals like me who come only equipped with standard tissue. Even though ethical issues may be compromised; I suspect that most of the knee, hip, and elbow replacement surgeries being performed in Florida right now are being done for the sole purpose to give so called patients a leg up (no pun) on the pickleball cut throat competition.

Just because they are 75 and above doesn’t mean they’re not competitive. What those old gnarled grannies lack in speed and agility they make up for with obscure rule definitions. Many superior athletes such as I have lost to 82 year old Evelyn Goldsmith because they didn’t know how to properly announce the score. One time my partner Maury and I had a clear cut victory over Evelyn and her partner Pohuta Nguyn. However, after the final set’s completion, we failed to offer paddle bumps over the net. Evelyn had us declared bad sports and snatched our victory away. She then had us banished from the court and she and Pohuta won the right to play the next team of men. Evelyn is one of the most ruthless court sages in the entire country.

Question: What is a court sage?
Answer : The senior most member on a court. He/she is the final authority on all unwritten rules.

If you are considering taking up the sport, read the official rules, but more importantly know the unwritten rules. Failure to do so will be hell. The sage rules all, keep saying that to yourself, the sage rules.

Although I was not present to witness this, my partner Maury saw it all. He reported that Betsy Lester actually won a complete set, without one serve being made; a senior sage by the name of Mabel Canttrump awarded Betsy 12 points based on her finger nails, her good sportsmanship, and recognition of her grandchildren being present. It was pointed out to Mabel by Harlan Gould, that it only takes 11 points to win a set. With that Mabel gave Betsy permission to carry the excess point into the next set. As for Harlan; he was given a six month ban from the courts for being disrespectful to a sage.

It is a common practice in the pickleball community to mark one’s balls; most players use their initials, some use strange symbols, every marked ball is unique. I am way ahead of the community in this regard; since they all mark their balls, I leave mine totally un-marked. A good way to look at what I’m doing is to take the NBA and try to describe a player without using his name, or team. Can’t do it can you? How about if you said “the guy I’m talking about is un-marked, no tattoos;” brilliant, don’t you agree? You zeroed in on one person. (As of this writing I know of no un-tattooed NBA player)

It is an un-written rule that all unused balls are to be left laying on the ground, in a designated corner of the court on which ball owners are playing.


The Theft

At the start of play, all the balls lying in the corners of all the courts were marked; except mine. To clarify what I just said, it should be known that unused balls are to be left lying on the ground in a corner of the court the ball owners are playing on. It is important to know this rule; failure to do so has doomed untold numbers of Evelyn opposition. She knows this unwritten rule and is not afraid to enforce it!

Everybody marks their balls, I don’t as you know, and everybody leaves their balls in the designated corner when they are playing, including me; unless of course if someone asks to play with mine, I’ll usually oblige. The only way you can have your balls on the court is if you are playing with them. We were in fact playing with Maury’s; Evelyn and Pohuta didn’t even bring any.

When Maury and I lost, I went to the corner where my balls were deposited; there were no balls at all. They were nice balls, with a polished sheen, hardly ever used; and they were gone, stolen. It couldn’t be that the culprit came from the trio of Evelyn, Pohuta, or Maury. It was an outsider for sure.

You may be thinking, was it possible that Maury pulled some kind of a switch on you Jonas?

No, no, Maury came with two clearly marked and scuffed up balls, and left with the same. Maury would stand right out if his balls had any kind of shine on them. It had to be somebody from the crowd of onlookers.

I’ve seen upwards to six people watching these events; it’s pretty popular in Florida 55+ communities. I was determined to get my balls back so I started looking closely at suspicious people, the crowd size was not going to be a deterrent, I was not going to give up. It didn’t take me long to spot him either.

He had a Cornell University hat on. I confronted him and took a chance at flat out leveling an accusation upon him as being in possession of illegal balls.

He stamped his feet and shrieked a denial; he then suggested I strip search him; in order to keep his good reputation in tact.

I called his bluff. I’ve been duped by the Corns before and I wanted my balls back. As it turned out his balls were indeed clearly marked; I did note they were undersized and asked him about that. He said they were for indoor use only. I let him up and he told me his name was Pat and offered me his phone number. Pat asked if I would drop in some night with my deliciously cute, pink paddle. I sensed he was a good sport wanting to learn more about the game; so I accepted. I’ll fill you in on that shocking surprise later.

I caught the real thief hanging around the next court; he was clearly in the act of scoping out his next job when I stepped up to confront him.

He stood right out, short, handle-bar mustache, cane, and impressions of balls were showing through his cargo shorts; My gut told me I had him, and my gut has not failed me, ever. He might as well have hung a sign around his neck proclaiming “I’m a Pickleball Thief!”

I learned my lesson from Pat, and so with him I demanded to see his balls and pointed at them. He feigned surprise and took a bright shiny pickleball out of his shorts; sure enough it was unmarked…..I snatched it from his stubby fingers and put it in my pocket. I then pointed to the other pocket and demanded to see that one. He now got obstinate and refused to do so. I put my hand into my empty pocket and tried to make it look like I had a gun; and said “We can do this the easy way, or we can do it the hard way punk…..it’s your choice. So what’s it going to be punk?”

The arrogant little militant mouse just walked away, which proves he is a hardened “been there, done that” type of criminal. “At least I got one of my balls back. He’ll think it over long and hard before he touches my balls again” I whispered. I watched him walking away and couldn’t help but to think of the Monopoly Tycoon guy, shook my head and told myself “stop, the Tycoon had integrity, don’t you dare burnish that image with the likes of this dreg.”

When Tycoon Man got to Evelyn who was sitting in her Hover-Round chair he stopped and they began talking; his body language was screaming “I’m mad as hell!” Both he and Evelyn turned in my direction and continued talking; I saw Evelyn point a gnarled, diamond studded hand in my direction as she summoned some 6 more Hover-Rounds to her side, now they were all looking directly at me, no smiles there. I’m pretty street smart from all the police shows I’ve watched over the years; I knew the window was closing and I better get out of this burning house, and fast.

My wife was in the shower when I broke into the bathroom. “Get dressed fast, we’re blowing this joint!”

“Oh shut up, and get out of here, God can’t I ever have any privacy? I want that door fixed before you go to poker.”

I ripped the shower door open and put my face right into Millie’s; I only needed to say “It’s Evelyn!”

OH MY GOD…..what did you do Jonas?”

“I’ll explain it on the road honey right now we gotta git!”

Five minutes later we opened our garage door and began backing out, two Hover-Rounds ducked into the hedges just a few feet from Millie. I saw her legs stiffen straight out, Millie’s a warrior, and she just stared straight ahead. I got the SUV onto the street just as three more of the HRs came around the corner intersection to the South, I wheeled the SUV over the neighbor’s yard and floored it North toward the gate.

As we approached the gate Millie began pressing the remote opener, no results, we came closer and the gate stayed down.

“Jonas!”

“They disabled the damn thing Honey, hold on we’re going through!”

The gate was no match for the SUV. As we hit the highway I caught a glimpse of the chaos left behind; a splintered gate, broken head lights, and about 30 Hover-Rounds filling the street around the guard house.

We never went back there; we donated our house to the Daughter’s of the Revolution, and wrote our personal belongings off to a lost cause. The only thing I salvaged was my pickleball paddle, and one shiny ball.

Evelyn may think she’s vanquished another undesirable, and as far as her turf goes she is right to think so.

I still am owed two pickleballs.

Jonas Toms