Pint-Sized Pickleball Coach

After my first pickleball lesson, I quickly realized my tennis skills weren't all that helpful. But young Coach R had her own set of rules that Papa and I were expected to follow. The rules came faster than the wiffle balls we were hitting at each other.

Coach R determined that I should be on the same side as she was. Together, we would take on Papa. She whispered conspiratorially, "Don't you want your husband to get in shape? Hit the ball to opposite sides and make him run."

I'm pretty sure Coach R invented some of the nonconformist ways we served the ball. She also created a system of secret paddle signals so we could coordinate our strategy and thwart Papa.

But the hardest part was the push-ups. Break a rule or miss the ball, and you had to drop down and do five push-ups. After my first twenty-five, Coach R showed mercy and reduced the penalty to two for each infraction.

Our first lesson lasted a full hour. The next day, Papa rubbed his ribs and wondered why he was sore. Then he remembered all the push-ups.

There's nothing quite like being coached by a youngster who's been sitting at a school desk for the last nine months. They're eager to set their own rules, boss someone else around, and if you make a mistake, order you to drop down and do push-ups.

So consider yourself warned before signing up for one of these classes. The tuition may be free, but you'll pay for it later.