Patrice Waverly-Fontaine
Palm Beach, FL · Sep 15
Love-Love? Darling, I Have Never Been More Fabulous On Or Off The Court
Well, where do I even begin with this week. I am practically still breathless from everything that happened, and I have not even gotten to the truly scandalous part yet. Monday started the way all good weeks should - with Carlos putting me through my absolute paces at seven in the morning before Geoffrey had even opened one eye. My footwork has been the subject of much discussion lately, and not entirely the flattering kind, so Carlos has me doing these lateral shuffles that would make a twenty-year-old weep. By the time I arrived at Phipps Ocean Park for my nine o'clock game with Bunny, I felt absolutely wrung out in the most luxurious way possible.
Now, Bunny showed up - bless her heart, I adore her completely - wearing essentially the same tired outfit she has had since last season, which prompted me to tell her about my new Coastal Serve Tank from Pickleball Florida USA paired with my vintage Hermès belt bag, because why should the court be any less considered than Worth Avenue on a Tuesday afternoon. She nearly fell over. The combination was, if I do say so myself, utterly perfect against the morning light coming off the water. Geoffrey noticed when I sent him a photo and responded with a single thumbs up, which from a man who communicates primarily in quarterly earnings reports, is basically a sonnet.
Nicolette Hargrove
Naples, FL · Sep 14
Dinks, Drinks, and Derek's Backhand (Bless His Heart)
Honestly, this week felt like Naples handed me exactly what I needed on a silver platter, and I cannot stop thinking about how good life is when the courts are freshly swept, the sky is that particular shade of Gulf turquoise that photographers try to capture and never quite do, and the air still has that soft October edge to it before the real snowbird rush arrives. I played four mornings this week, two at Naples Grande and two at Pelican Bay, and I cannot tell you which I love more. Naples Grande has that electric energy, all those competitive souls showing up with serious faces that melt into laughter by the second game. Pelican Bay has the canopy of trees and that gentle hush that makes you feel like you snuck into paradise before anyone else noticed the gate was open.
Thomas, my coach, absolutely dismantled my third-shot drop on Tuesday and I am grateful and humbled and honestly a little bruised in the ego. He has this calm way of saying Nicolette, your elbow is doing something concerning that makes me want to both improve immediately and also defend my elbow personally. We drilled for forty-five minutes before open play and by the end I could feel the difference, that satisfying soft landing in the kitchen that sounds like a little whisper instead of a thud. He also told me my footwork approaching the net looks like I am trying to avoid stepping on something. He is not wrong. I cannot seem to stop doing that mysterious side shuffle that belongs in a different sport entirely.
Vivian Kowalski-Reed
The Villages, FL · Sep 13
Kenny Tried to Erne Me and I Almost Drove My Golf Cart Into a Fountain
Honey, let me tell you about this week because it was something else from start to finish and I need to process it with people who understand what it is like to live inside a pickleball obsession wrapped in a retirement community wrapped in Florida humidity.
Listen, Monday started perfectly fine. Frank was out at Knudson at 7am sharp like he always is, like the man has a internal clock surgically installed, and I rolled up around 8:30 with Dottie in the passenger seat of the golf cart doing her stretches before we even parked. Dottie does not miss a warm-up. Dottie does not miss anything. She is from New Jersey and she will make sure you know it through her body language alone before she ever opens her mouth.
Stella Marchetti
Sarasota, FL · Sep 12
I Came for the Sun, I Stayed for the Dinking, and Now I Cannot Be Stopped
Here is the thing about pickleball in Sarasota in July: it is basically playing inside a hair dryer that has opinions about you. I showed up to Pompano Park Tuesday morning at 7:45 thinking I had beaten the heat, and the heat looked at me like I was adorable. The Tuesday crew was already assembled, eight of us sweating through the small talk before the first serve, everyone pretending the humidity was not actively trying to end us. I love these people. I genuinely do. But we are all slightly unhinged for being out there.
I am not going to lie, this week humbled me. My backhand has been a disaster lately, and Diane, my doubles partner and a retired teacher who has the patience of a saint and the consistency of a metronome, kept giving me that look. You know the look. The one that says I am not going to say anything but I am absolutely saying something. We still won two out of three, because Diane is a machine and I am occasionally useful, but I spent the drive home deeply reconsidering my life choices.
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