How many free introduction classes to Pickleball can one person take?

And why would we worry about that anyway?

The second time I registered for “Introduction to Pickleball” at the gym I joined, I felt sneaky. Were we even allowed to take it twice?

Don’t ask, I told myself. Just do.

I worried the coach would recognize me from two days before, and my first time through. He didn’t seem to.

Then, because I had heard that soon the gym I joined was going to charge for these introduction classes, I registered for a third time. At this third session, it was a new coach and I learned new things, which included the fact that no one was going to get in trouble for taking the introduction class more than once.

This time when the new-to-me guy asked if anyone had ever played pickle ball before, I confessed. “I have, kindof,” I said, raising my racket and giving it a little wave. “I’ve done this class before.” (Even though I didn’t say ‘twice before’ my soul still felt lighter).

Of course, he didn’t care. What kind of a worry wart have I become?

At the first session there was a taller, sturdier woman who instantly intimidated me. I’m guessing there are kinds of men who intimidate other kinds of men, and there are kinds of women who do that too. For me, it’s usually the ladies who seem like bosses who know how to do a lot of things very well and behave properly in a wide variety of situations, sometimes a bit sternly. They don’t seem to need to clown around. They also don’t have to look up what side of the plate the fork goes on, just as a little reminder, and also they lead companies, and all the situations they find themselves in.

Of course, we were assigned to the same practice team so I got to say, “Sorry! Oh. Sorry! Oops. Sorry again! Gosh!” about a hundred times, because she definitely seemed to know what she was doing.

So, now you know I wasn’t the first kid chosen for teams in gym class way back when. And definitely, this was starting to have gym class vibes.

As the two hours (two hours!!) of playing and learning went on, I could see I was getting better before I began to get worse again, which is the natural arc of running around when you don’t normally run around. I understood what the kitchen was and to try to stay out of it. Most of my serves landed and I was mindful of the double bounce. We all consciously tried to work on our dink shot, which was a preoccupation of this particular coach.

At the end, one of my fellow trainees added our numbers to a what’s app list so we could plan a game sometime in the future with other players at the same level (at this gym you book one square of the four available in a pickleball court at a specific time, hopefully with friends, or you prepare to apologize again and again to the strangers saddled with you).

I bravely jumped at the first opportunity for a game with my fellow beginners because I had seen all the pickleball fun potential, and even though I have very little to back this up, I do have grandiose dreams of being good at sports.

Because this was all on what’s app, I didn’t know exactly who else would be at the game, and, you guessed it, the tall lady was there, waiting.

“Are you here for the game?” I asked her, when I saw her sitting in a chair outside of the pickleball auditorium (because that’s what it is at this very grand gym). Recalling the forbearance she had shown me during training, I fought back the urge to say a preemptive “I’m sorry.”

Instead I gave myself a little internal pep talk: We’re all beginners. I’m brave to show up. Practice will help. Stop it!

We talked about the intro class we had been in together, and she casually mentioned that this coach had been different from the other coaches, and that she had taken the free introduction class eight times. Apparently, around the seventh class a coach told her it was probably time for her to move on and upward into the novice league and try out what she was learning. She felt nervous though and was glad to play with other beginners.

So, off we went when our two other new friends arrived. We laughed and cheered each other on. We hit wide and wild and straight and strict. We had a blast. We were extremely self-congratulatory. We improved as time went on and didn’t really get worse.

At the end, my new pickleball pal commented on what a good team we had made and that it was so good to play with people at the same level and with the same spirit. I agreed.

And, because I am away for a couple of weeks writing with not a pickleball in sight, I do worry I’m going to lose my precarious, nascent skills (back to gym class memories!). But I do know the secret is to show up. And that’s what I’m going to do.

(Thanks to Aleksander Saks for this great image from unsplash.com. I was too busy thrashing around to take a picture).