Almost anyone who loves pickleball and religiously follows the sport has had one of those jaw-dropping, eye-popping moments watching Ben Johns dumbfound opponents to the point of puking with his “knuckleball” serve (clocked at a record speed last year of 53 km/hour), or experiencing Anna Waters-induced-vertigo from the impossibly backspun RPMs she puts on the ball. I, however, have not. I ventured to the US Pickleball Championships in Naples, Florida, for a different reason: to track down a few former professional tennis players now funding their lavish retirements with seemingly little effort: prize money from pickleball. In fact, I knew nearly nothing of the grace and tenacity of these athletes. But I quickly learned I wasn’t the only one seeking a slice of the pie.
Journalistically speaking, there is no hot news from the pickleball scene. It’s one of those rare phenomena that continue to build momentum while viewership stagnates, a concern shared by Jimmy Barr, CEO of Bowflex and founder of ‘The Championships’: “Just wait till this thing kicks off,” he tells me with a chuckle. “We’re using a small percentage of each ticket sale to launch a brand-new, professional pickleball gambling app that automatically downloads to the fan’s phone.” I think I’m picking up what he’s putting down.
Beauty isn’t the goal of professional sports, and pickleball is no different. Anyone who has attended the US Open will remember being greeted at the gates by Flushing Meadows locals hawking bottles of water and “cheap” beer for $10 a pop. But here in Naples, the hustle is characterized by retirees seemingly dissipating into their beach chairs, colorful spreads of grey-market pharmaceuticals such as insulin and ibuprofen (discounted at nauseating enormity) arranged on folding tables before them. First-aid supplies, portable blood pressure cuffs, and tanning lotions decorate the most appropriately named aspect of The Championships’ campus: “The Yellow Brick Road” (in fact a bike path converted to pickleball courts* which now lead to “Oz”, the fans’ affectionate nickname for Pritchard-Bell Arena, named after two of the three inventors of the game). Let’s just say being fed up with Rite Aid prices is as good a reason as any to become a Pickleball fan.
To my mild surprise, my Portland Tennis Courterly press pass was denied at entry. I attempted to reason with security, pleading naively under the impression that perhaps someone there had heard of the esteemed publication that I represented, and had mistook me for a satirist when in fact I’d come to sincerely cover the action. But my attempts proved futile and I was told that any and all tennis press were expressly forbidden on campus, especially in “Oz.” As I dejectedly gazed through the chain-link fencing, imagining what feats of athletic wonder could be taking place inside the emerald stadium, I heard the sound of snapping bubblegum and the pop-hiss of an aluminum can cracking open behind me: “What’s up, man? Portland Tennis Courterly, what’s that?” I stood in awe for a moment, face to face with Jack Sock and Andre Agassi. I managed to spit out a question: Could they just tell me about their forays into pickleball? Jack: “Yeah, it’s been great except there’s no beer here. I’ve been living off Werther’s Originals for three days,” he lamented, referring to the title sponsor of The Championships. I should tell him about the discount insulin. Agassi: “Dunno if you read my book but I hate it more than I hated tennis. And my bald wig keeps falling off.”
*I interviewed one of the three cyclists currently living in Naples. He’d staged a four-day demonstration against the repurposing construction. “I’ll take the riot police any day,” he said. “The sound of that fucking wiffle ball hitting the mallet is torture—worse than tear gas. We weren’t prepared at all.” They lasted three hours.