When Polly Met Pickleball

By Myanne Shelley

Polly Jenkins is a pickleball enthusiast whose devotion to the game exceeds her abilities, and whose fantasy life fills in the gaps. She plays at a park once known as a dumping ground for local crime. When she hears hints about possible buried loot, she swings into action, recruiting her ex and a friend to help uncover the mystery. Turns out, present day puzzles may be even more interesting.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Myanne Shelley
• Release date: Mar 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005987534

Myanne Shelley

Recently retired San Francisco nonprofit worker, SFSPCA cat volunteer, pickleball player, boxer, writer.

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When Polly Met Pickleball

by

Myanne Shelley

SMASHWORDS EDITION

PUBLISHED BY:

Myanne Shelley at Smashwords

When Polly Met Pickleball

Copyright © 2022 by Anne Shelley

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Chapter 1

Polly Jenkins heard the loud pock, pock of the pickleballs as she approached the courts in McLaren Park. She was running late for no good reason at all, and had to park way down the entryway. The thought crossed her mind, as it still occasionally did entering the park alone – in the 1980s, McLaren was a dangerous place. Where they buried the bodies.

But now it was a lively, popular park, filled with hikers, dog walkers, families with little kids, and down here, picklers. Lots of cars meant lots of people, and that made her pleased and nervous both. Friends to see, a variety of players, but also too many people for the available spots.

It was a pretty spring morning. A light breeze blew, and the gentle cloud cover was just lifting. Tall trees shaded half the courts. Polly picked up her pace, hustling along and waving at the round robin organizer. She was pretty sure she was on the list, but you were still expected to show up on time.

Unclasping the tall fence’s gate, she took in the action. Most of her fellow players were already warming up, solidly holding the three far courts. A quad of serious looking players were pounding the ball, mid-game on the first court. An older couple just batting wildly back and forth on court 5. Billy Island giving lessons to two perky older ladies on court 6. They tittered even as he shouted for them to move up. He offered a smiling, almost flirtatious hello as Polly sidled past. He’s like that with everybody, she reminded herself. Billy made her feel awkward and large. He seemed like one of those sinewy men who could actually look good dancing.

Polly spotted her new friend Dana, and hurried over, pulling out her paddle to warm up with her. Dana was new to the sport, but a natural athlete, already playing at the top level of this group, who tended, frankly, to be on the older and retired side. Enthusiastic, but not as mobile as they once were. Still in her 50s, Polly enjoyed being one of the younger players here. Dana was even younger, probably early 40s, and additionally appeared to be without an ounce of fat.

They stood at their respective no volley zones, aka the kitchen lines, lightly dinking. Polly contemplated her own excesses. She struggled with ten or fifteen pounds, battling them off and then bemoaning herself when they crept back on. She recalled a flyer she had once seen in the neighborhood, back pre-internet when there were often flyers posted about weight loss schemes and supplements. It said: Found! Ten Pounds. To claim call 415 – anyway, it still made her laugh. She imagined her own hard lost poundage hovering out there, waiting for her to reclaim it.

What’s so funny? Dana asked. I like that you’re always smiling.

The round robin was getting underway, just as well, hard to explain her random thoughts, Polly knew. She kept smiling. Some young man had complimented her on her smile back a million years ago, and all she had heard was – that’s the best I can come up with, your eyes are boring, nose too wide, hair a tangled mess that’s neither brown nor blonde, body too bulky and so on. Now, Polly did her best to accept herself, shortcomings and all. What choice did she have. It was nice being among sports types here, because they all tied back their hair under caps and unselfconsciously wore workout gear. What counted was playing and having fun, not how you looked doing it.

It was only seven games, with random pairings of partners, but each round you might end up playing twice while waiting for everyone to finish. Some of the charitably less skilled players lost points quickly. Other groups had long fast rallies, the ball flying back and forth, people exclaiming and cheering.

Polly was relieved to see her first partner was one of the harder hitting guys. Nice, a bit too serious for her taste, but she would not be expected to lunge awkwardly after shots a more feeble partner might miss. She might win the game. She glanced at him as they got started. Too intense, too serious, no worries she would start envisioning him naked in bed either.

Another glance over at Billy, who was now coaching his trainees up close and personal, guiding their serving arms. Really, he was too smarmy. His gal pal Valerie was sitting nearby on a folding chair, shouting encouragement. Polly liked her enthusiasm. They used to play regularly, but she had surpassed Polly and the round robin players. She still sent over newbies, though. She had steered Dana into the group.

Her game got underway, and Polly had to focus. Bad enough to miss difficult returns, but embarrassing to be caught just spacing out, missing easy shots. Quickly the morning speeded up, game after game. That was the greatest thing about the sport, she thought. Fun and exercise combined, and the way time raced ahead. She dashed after the ball, served well, even made a couple hard angled slams that flew by her opponents.

She and Dana had a bye together, and Polly was relieved that all the courts were full. It was gracious to offer to drill with other byes, but she would just as soon rest and chat. Dana had a natural sort of quiet about her that Polly admired, along with that easy athleticism. As a result, Polly usually talked more when they chatted. (Isn’t that true of you and anybody, came her ex’s voice teasing in her head.) But Dana seemed to like her. She asked questions, leaned in for answers, seemed too shy to say much about herself.

A younger couple who generally kept to themselves showed up, and planted themselves next to Billy Island’s court. And some more serious players had arrived to challenge the experts on court one.

I hope they don’t challenge us, Polly said. Really, Billy shouldn’t keep the court with just two people practicing. Weekdays were not usually crowded, but there was sometimes tension about her group, mediocre players at best, holding half the space.

How often does he come here, anyway? Dana asked. Her green gray eyes, half shaded by her cap, flicked up toward Billy.

She had expressed some interest in him before. Polly hoped her friend was interested in a lesson, and not a torrid affair. She explained what she knew – that Billy generally had teaching time in the morning. He worked security most afternoons, although had been rumored to have sneaked away from shifts to get in a game or two. He was a solid level four player. He played at the level of his trainees when giving lessons, but in fact was highly skilled. Used to be a ranked tennis player.

And Valerie? His girlfriend, I guess?

Polly shook her head. Valerie had made that clear awhile ago. They’re just friends, they knew each other growing up, I think. Billy’s married, but his wife isn’t, you know, sporty. She lowered her voice. Billy kind of implies that he has this exotic background, the quote island of his name, but I’m pretty sure he grew up in Daly City. He might have had some ties to all kinds of people though, back a long time ago, he’s kind of hinted.

Dana’s expression didn’t shift at all. Polly told herself to stop being a gossip. Instead, she pointed out drop shot techniques in the game in front of them. Polly might not be able to place the ball that well, but she knew what worked.

Dana nodded, and watched the game closely. Polly liked her company, but if she was being honest, she also liked being taken seriously. It seems like anyone who had known her for awhile liked her, sure, but saw her as kind of dopey. Fun, yes, funny, cheerful, but also a beat away from missing the point, or misunderstanding a phrase, or forgetting the start of her story before it ended.

It was like pickleball players, she thought. Good to have new people around, because everybody else knew her weak spots, knew she backed into no man’s land and missed anything hit right at her feet. Dana accepted her advice without prejudice. She seemed to enjoy Polly’s take on the other players.

The patty cake couple had left, and a quad of harder banging young guys had their spot. Polly appreciated the genuine diversity of the people she saw here. Even for politically correct San Francisco, the range of races and ages and preferences was impressive. It maybe skewed a bit toward older, toward white and Asian. The round robin had more women, and a fair portion of them were lesbians. But a real rainbow of people had taken to the sport, and played freely together. You could hardly say that of any other activity.

By the time they cycled through the games, then she stayed for one more and one more with some of her friends, it was high time for lunch. Polly lived just a few minutes drive away, in a forgettable little neighborhood that had once been unfashionable but semi-affordable. Now it was getting gentrified, and new people worried about car break ins while longer term residents calculated the timing of when to sell and cash out. Her house was small, only one bathroom, destined to be a tear down at some future point. It suited her well enough for now though.

Polly indulged herself a bit with a gourmet grilled sandwich and homemade cookies, having exercised all morning. Next, she stretched out with a podcast and some knitting, relaxing after her delicious meal and all the exercise. (Oh, sure, tease away about old lady stereotypes, she told Bruce in her head. Like your obsession with fantasy sports isn’t worse.)

Unlike the mostly retirees from this morning, Polly still had to work. And if it was not a terribly difficult job, she still had to log in, be available, use her expertise. That’s right, Polly Jenkins had some expertise. We can’t all be doctors or lawyers or immunologists, you know. Polly was a Culinary Hotline Expert Technician. Employed by One Green Planet Organics, one of a worldwide team of such experts available 24/7 for anyone experiencing an organic food preparation emergency. The sort of immediate crisis where even the whole of google could not solve the problem. Preferably an issue rising from the use of OGPO food products, but no call was turned away.

Oh, the teasing and eye rolls even a serious sounding description of her job engendered. On the other hand, stories of the weirder calls could carry her through cocktail parties or first dates or long airplane trips. Even the so called normal calls – questions about substitutions, best used by dates, refereeing a dispute between passive aggressive family members cooking together – were entertaining to people with normal jobs.

As far as Polly was concerned, it was a miracle in itself that one could still call an 800 number on the back of a 100 percent compostable food package, and reach a live person after just two discrete pushes towards the company website. The key to her job, she