Chooch will vehemently disagree with me on this because why would we ever share an opinion, but I have found that the courts at Settlers Cabin are my favorite and have officially declared them my “home court.” Never mind the fact that there are courts within one mile of my house in either direction. The 20-minute drive is worth it to me because there are four courts, plus a double-sided wall for solo-hitting, and it’s secluded in a wooded area of the park. Plus, the bathrooms are CLEAN AND SPACIOUS and even include a little locker room-ish area with seats. And, because I am just getting back into the game, I have been pretty self-conscious and don’t want to be playing on a court next to a playground or a busy road next to a traffic light. I AM NOT READY TO BE SEEN, OK?
Several times, we have encountered the same people there so that was cool, like we’re regulars now, you know? I always wanted to be a “regular” somewhere.
Last week, I want to say it was Wednesday evening, we arrived at the same time as a couple, presumably in their mid-30s. We were still in the parking lot getting our stuff out of the car when I already knew that the FEMALE portion of the couple was going to be a problem. It hadn’t even been 30 seconds and she was already getting on my nerves, bigly. And then we saw that they had PICKLEBALL equipment, so that ramped up the annoyance level.
They walked behind us to the courts and I fucking swear to god, this woman’s loud-ass voice, I couldn’t even. Right out of the gate, it was a work drama bitch-fest, mostly just on her end, with the guy murmuring “Yeah” and “Wow” here and there. It was like she was setting up camp inside my skull, opening up the crinkliest package of graham crackers for her bitch-s’mores, lighting up the fire inside of me to do the roasting.
Immediately, they chose the court behind us and I said loudly to Chooch, “Move down to the next court, I can’t deal with this.” Initially, Chooch said I was being dramatic, but they (she) began to wear on him pretty soon after this. Especially when it became apparent that these two WERE HAVING AN OFFICE AFFAIR!! OMG, I kept seeing them meet at the net to embrace and make out. It was all so much, that paired with her “I need everyone to be aware of me and the important things I’m mouth-farting into the already CORRUPT air” boombox voice had me so agitated. I DON’T CARE ABOUT STACEY’S PTO or whatever else she was bitching about! Who cares why Stacey is taking time off?! Maybe Stacey is getting skin tags removed!!! IT IS HER PTO TO USE, JUST PLAY YOUR FUCKING PICKLEBALL AND STFU, MELISSA, JESUS CHRIST.
*(I know her name is Melissa because she verbally flagellated herself by name when she hit her stupid NOT-TENNIS BALL into the net. “Oh, come on, Melissa!” *giggles and skips to the net for kissy time*)
“Ugh, she’s so fucking annoying!” I yelled.
“She can hear you! She is only RIGHT OVER THERE!” Henry hissed, and you know what, Henry? Like Stacey and her PTO, I gave no fucks. Let the bitch hear me. My son and I were busy training for the DELULU WIMBELDON HOSTED EXCLUSIVELY INSIDE OUR MINDS, so COULD THE CROWD QUIET DOWN PLEASE.
(Great, now I have “Quiet Down” in my head.)
Meanwhile, some middle-aged doucher rolled up with his broad-trophy. And by “rolled up” I mean that the parking lot was not close enough for this asshole, so he drove past the lot and INTO THE FUCKING GRASS in front of the courts. Here, let me show you an illustration:
Makes sense though, seeing as though it looked like he was traveling to an international PICKLEBALL TOURNY, what with the amount of baggage he brought with him. Yes, of course he and his picklebabe were there for there for some sweet ass wiffle ball thwopping action. Specifically, he was there to INSTRUCT her by double-paddling balls against the wall. (I don’t know why I made the wall red in my DIAGRAM when my BeReal up there clearly shows that it’s green?)
These two were dressed in crisp, freshly-pressed yuppie athletic wear. She was wearing a prissy little visor and khaki shorts and he was dressed like he was going to take the yacht out for a spin after. Even though he was RIGHT THERE on the other side of the fence from me, I kept imagining that it was actually Ben Stiller reprising his role in a Dodgeball reboot, but make it Pickleball. And she, bless her heart, went through the whole rigamarole of stretching, squatting, side-bending, just for him to mansplain the “sport” to her and then tell her “NO, DO IT LIKE THIS. OK, MOVE DOWN THERE NOW” after she was cramping his wallspace.
She eventually gave up and sat at the picnic table, doom-scrolling on her phone.
Then, and this normally would have PISSED ME OFF, they lugged out a huge Bluetooth stereo. It almost looked like a karaoke machine, like this was no little portable speaker. It was a whole-ass UNIT. So, they fire this bad boy up and suddenly, Chooch and I are hitting balls to the soundtrack of KISS FM.
Now, the reason this didn’t anger me was because it served as a distraction against MELISSA’S incessant jawing. If they had put on a country station, or like, some jam band, then perhaps there’d have been an issue. Then they changed it to Khalid, and turns out, I like Khalid. (I had to ask Chooch at one point, “Who sings this” and he said, “Khalid?! EVERY SONG HAS BEEN KHALID.” Sorry for being a stupid old lady who only knows Korean hits, son.)
Henry still maintains that he thought this was incredibly rude and uncouth of them and he’s probably right because they were playing it pretty loudly and you know, how presumptuous to assume that everyone there wanted to listen to your music.
Chooch said at one point, they were slow-dancing. Sad I missed it.
Meanwhile, MELISSA and whoever were packing it up and I was so relieved. “They must have MOTEL RESERVATIONS,” I said loudly, and Henry was like, “OK, stop.” Chooch laughed though and that is all that matters.
Then their court was quickly replaced by a grizzled coach and his teenaged protege (j/k, she was not very good) named JULIE. The coach was giving big Richard Dawson vibes, IYKYK. Like, to the point where after Captain and Tenille packed up their DJ equipment and peeled their car out of the grass, I was nervous to leave the girl alone with him. Luckily, we saw that her mom was sitting in a parked car, waiting for her, so that made me feel better.
“He looks like he just the bar and came straight here,” Henry chuckled as we walked past their court on our way out. Leave it to Henry to chuckle at what could have been A GROOMING IN PROGRESS.
They were there again last night, and I told Chooch he should ask the dude if he could join the lesson.
“Nah, I’m good,” Chooch said. And then there were two college-aged-ish guys on the court behind us and one of them kept roaring FUCCCCCCKKKKKKKK!!!!! every time he missed a shot, which was a lot. They actually had arrived at the same time we did but Chooch goes, “No, they’re leaving. You can tell because that one guy is so sweaty.” Nope, just arriving! The sweaty guy was also the FUCCCCCCKKKKKKKK!!!!! guy.
Bonus court content: Two weekends ago, a grandma brought her two young grandsons to hit against the wall while she sat at the picnic table with her dog. At one point, the youngest one had to go to the bathroom so she let him go off alone. After a few minutes, she started to get alarmed and asked the older one, “Does Ollie always take this long?”
“Is he pooping?” the kid asked.
The grandma said, “I’m not sure, I think so?”
“Oh, well if he’s POOPING, then yes.” I don’t know why, but this just cracked me up so bad. Ollie and the Slow Bowel Movements.
Jesus Christ, I’m having a lot of fun immersing myself back into the tennis world.
