A coach named Jack
I’ve wandered my way into the firestorm called pickleball starting about a year ago. Every Tuesday night, I play for about 3 hours with a group of 12–20 guys. We gather outdoors whether it’s 25 or 85 degrees. My introduction was on tennis courts so it’s not really REAL pickleball. It’s been our version. The courts are way wider and nets higher. But we joke, scramble around and berate each other as best we can.
I broke my teeth there for the first 8 months but then the love of this new game made me start looking for games outside of Tuesday night. Winston sadly doesn’t have any permanent courts so the pickleball community is left to bring their own nets and connect via apps to get games. It’s fun and feels tribal just like every new movement.
The problem is that talent levels vary greatly. Since there’s no real organization, you can be left playing with people who may not be matched well against your level. Pickelball is called the most egalitarian/democratic sport as you can enjoy competitive playing with anyone from 16–80 if they know how to play. Sure there can be mobility differences but it can be a lot of fun no matter.
But if you know me at all, you know that whether I’m playing basketball, ultimate frisbee, volleyball or pickleball, I’m competitive. Maybe too much as my wife often points out. I don’t care to stay stagnant in my ability or set myself up for any amount of regular beatings. I play to win. I practice to get better. . . . and then I have fun.
During one of my drop-ins, I saw an older black gentleman that looked like he could still whoop those 20 years his junior. He stood about my height but moved about the court with impressive flexibility and deceptive speed. So smooth. His framed still looked strong and capable. There was a sage presence about him. I made a note that I’d watch him this time but most definitely would introduce myself the next.
About two weeks passed and he popped up at my local YMCA. There were only a handful of people there so I quickly walked over to his court and asked if I could play with him. Pickleball sometimes feels a lot like asking a girl to dance in middle school . . . it may turn out great or the wheels fall off quickly. My partner was a younger guy but looked fairly athletic. After volleying the ball a couple times, I eagerly asked if we could start a game. Jack quickly said, “No. No score. We’re here to practice and run drills.”
Interesting. I had yet to meet someone that just practiced when games were being played. Out of respect and due to my eagerness to play with him, I fell in line and took his direction. During a break in the action I asked Jack how old he was. I’m always interested because I project my future self into these situations. He answered, “I’m 73.” I about choked and told him that I hoped I’d be just like him at that age. He smirked and we continued to play.
I felt like a kid trying to impress his new coach even though no agreement was in place but I had made up my mind that he was mine. Sweat was pouring down my forehead. Each drive, drop and dink felt like I was on the chopping block. At the end of our session I asked Jack where he played and if I could join him again. I shared that I was struggling to get better because skill levels were all over and I just ended up in games that were not great, not actual practice. He said he understood and often didn’t play due to that very reason during open play.
I asked him for his number and he kindly obliged.
I felt like I didn’t give him much of an option but didn’t care. Anything good that’s happened in my life has usually come from me being a little bit pushy (with the best of intentions.) Just like you do after a date with a girl, I waited a couple hours to shoot him a text. I truly was thankful for his time and knowledge and said as much. I told him that I looked forward to the next time.
Two days later a call popped up on my phone . . . Jack Johnson! I was mid workout but answered immediately. My heavy breathing must’ve sounded suspect but I held the phone away from my mouth trying to catch my breath. “Hey Sean, it’s Jack. We’re drilling tomorrow at 8 am. You want to join?” Before he could finish I said I’d be there. He hung up. No small talk. The message was delivered. I was ecstatic that I made the cut. I showed up a couple minutes early. The first question he asked, “So what do you want out of this?” I loved that it was his first. Cut right to the chase my man! Let’s not waste any time.
Fast forward a month later and Jack and I have become quick friends; the mentor and the student. He leads me in practice about twice a week now. He probably doesn’t even know he’s my coach as I don’t pay him nor is there a contract but he is. He has an incredible ability to push, advise, challenge and affirm me at just the right time. I’m sure my face (or self loathing outbursts) make me an easier read but lets just chalk it up to his Yoda-esque qualities. I call him that, my pickleball Yoda. He always grins. I can see the gratification it brings. He reminds me that it’s about incremental change and the result that produces. He lets out laughs and smiles wide after good shots that make him look 25 again. Youth has no age and I love seeing it shine bright in his face.
I ask him if he plays in tournaments anymore (he has a background of semi-pro basketball and competitive racquetball)? I’d love to see him whoop other guys his age of younger. “Ah Sean, I’ve competed a lot in my days. This season in different. I want to help guys like you now that are eager to learn. It’s not about me winning anymore.” I ask him more life-centric questions trying to gain pieces of wisdom from his powerfully calm demeanor. In that moment, I realize that it’s been a LONG time since I’ve had a mentor. A coach. I don’t have to provide the answers in this relationship. I don’t have to hide weaknesses. I don’t have to do anything but show up, listen and learn.
As practice ended today, he said, “You’re progressing quickly Sean. I love to see it. Keep going! You’re going to surprise these guys.” I grinned and patted him on the chest while I thanked him for his time again.
I’m thankful for Jack. I’m thankful that sport brought him into my life. I’m thankful he cares. You’re never too old or smart for a mentor. I hope you have a Jack in your life.
