Now and then, I sometimes worry that things will go horribly awry. The other day, while out doing errands, I wondered, did I remember to turn off the stove? Close the front door? Unplug the toaster? It got me anxious… which is why, when I finally got home, everything was just fine. See? Worrying works!
You know, they say that worrying is like a rocking chair: it gives you something to do but gets you nowhere. My wife says that I worry too much, that I fret over every little thing that could go wrong, when the reality is, none of those things ever do. But she just doesn’t get it. She doesn’t understand that the act of worrying is actually a highly effective, scientifically backed method of preventing disaster. Sure, she says I’m “obsessive” or “paranoid” or “a nervous nelly,” but I’ve done the math, and I’m convinced I’m right: worrying works!
I’ve started keeping track of some of the things I worry about – big things, small things, catastrophic things – and after careful analysis, I can confirm that more than 95% of these unpleasant scenarios never actually happen. And here’s the key: the reason they never occur is because I worried about them. That’s right, I’m the human equivalent of an emotional insurance policy. My worrying creates a protective bubble preventing the events I fear from materializing.
When my girls were in middle school if I hadn’t spent hours stressing over the possibility that one of them might get teased or tormented at school, they would have certainly at some point been accosted by a gang of sixth grade mean girls intent on humiliating them for a fashion faux pas by pelting them with bottles of hand lotion, lip gloss, or whatever else middle school girls keep in their purse. But since I worried about it, they always came home unscathed – conclusive proof positive that worrying is the best kind of prevention.
Let me explain how my Worrying Works theory is scientifically sound, by sharing a few examples.
A Cat Getting Loose
I know it’s irrational, but every time I open the front door to leave the house, I’m concerned one of our three cats will see their fleeting window of opportunity and make a run for it. I worry about them getting hit by a car, getting devoured by a coyote, or just deciding to leave us for a family of more responsible pet owners. They never actually do make a run for it, preferring instead to park themselves inside whatever newest cardboard box just arrived from Amazon. I can only assume that my intense worrying about this scenario somehow convinces them not to attempt a jail break. Cats are perceptive like that.
Falling Down the Stairs
I’m no longer in my prime, so the issue of falling actually is serious problem for people my age. I’m not exaggerating when I say that every time I descend a staircase, I’m mentally preparing myself for the possibility that I will trip, tumble and fall headfirst into a coma – probably while carrying a helpless kitten or a priceless Ming vase (although I don’t currently own a Ming vase).
The prospect of this horrible accident haunts me so much that I tightly cling to the handrail like it’s my lifeline. Clearly, obsessively worrying that I might fall has worked because I have never once fallen down the stairs. (I have accidentally tripped over our cat Zippy lounging on the landing a couple times, however.)
Running Out of Money
Ever since I found out five days before the start of my second year that my father could no longer afford to pay for my college education (true), I’ve been a bit obsessed with financial security. I have this nagging feeling that eventually our nest egg will run out, and we’ll be forced to sell our house and move into a trailer park where our unit is right next door to a recently released ex-con who did time for arson, plays Metallica at full volume at 2am, and hates cats.
The reality is that our financial planner says we have enough of a cushion comfortably to get us through the next ten years. Yeah, but what about after that? Hopefully, by anxiously checking our bank balance every nine hours, my financial day of reckoning can be postponed.
At every annual physical, I worry this will be the time my doctor tells me I have a brain tumor the size of a grapefruit. So far, that’s never been the case. However, recently he told me I could lose a few lbs. Now I’m worried about my weight.
My House Getting Destroyed
I know it’s a bit extreme, but sometimes when I leave the house, I wonder if I’ve left the stove on, or worse – if the house is going to spontaneously combust. Either that or vanish into a mysterious sinkhole that was lurking for all these years directly under our house. But despite my constant worry, I’ve never come home to a smoking pile of ashes or any other disaster – unless you consider my cable TV going out due to a windstorm a disaster. I’ll never know with 100% certainty, but I’m pretty sure my anxious brain is working overtime to keep our house safe.
Annoyingly, my wife doesn’t appreciate the thousands of dollars my habit of worrying about absolutely everything has saved us. Okay, I’ll admit that I can’t prove that my compulsive worrying has kept the countless worst-case scenarios at bay. But I’m not ready to let down my guard. I know that the moment I do, my car will break down on the way to the airport, and Zippy will escape out the garage door that I forgot to close. And I’ll probably get a cavity.
You may think I’m crazy. But my system has been working for many years. And my advice to you is this: You really should be worrying way more about stuff than you do. It just might ensure that on your upcoming trip to Florida, the plane doesn’t crash in the Bermuda Triangle. Just trying to look out for you, buddy.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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A Thirteen-Year-Old, a Disabled Retiree, and a Gay Schnauzer Among Those Detained
A vigilant ICE officer quickly broke up an attempt by a Clearwater, Florida teacher to indoctrinate the impressionable young minds of her kindergarten class. She was feeding them nefarious stories of witchcraft and other anti-Christian pagan themes. The ICE official confiscated evil book, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.
Washington, D.C. – April 13, 2025 – In its latest effort to protect America from vaguely defined threats to freedom, the U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) has announced a sweeping series of arrests this week, targeting what President Trump has described as “some of the nastiest hombres” and who ICE officials have identified as “individuals whose behaviors raise substantial flags, not necessarily red, but at least an alarming shade of pink.”
The following is a summary of some of today’s key apprehensions:
Beaumont, Texas – Thirteen-Year-Old Girl Arrested for Religious Inquiry
ICE officials detained 13-year-old Kaitlyn Ramirez, a straight-A student and junior varsity cheerleader, for allegedly googling, “Who is Allah?” while working on a middle school world religions homework assignment. Authorities intercepted the conversation through Kaitlyn’s smart speaker and immediately classified the question as “potentially radicalizing behavior.”
“She should’ve just asked about Zeus,” stated ICE spokesperson Brad Tallwall. “You don’t see kids getting radicalized by Ancient Greece. They just wear togas and yell ‘Opa!'”
Kaitlyn has been placed in a re-education camp where she will learn about more appropriate religious inquiries, such as “Who is the Holy Ghost” and “Who would Jesus deport?”
Boston, Massachusetts – 78-Year-Old Disabled Man Detained for Baseball Curiosity
Clarence Willoughby, 78, was detained Tuesday after asking a Barnes & Noble employee if they carried “a biography about Jackie Robinson.” According to the ICE incident report, Willoughby, who uses a walker and appears to be non-white, “raised suspicions by referring to a known historical activist and someone who once slid aggressively into second base, which was being protected by an unarmed white man just minding his own business.”
Clarence attempted to clarify that he was simply a lifelong baseball fan. ICE remained unmoved, issuing a statement that read, “We’re not saying Mr. Willoughby is un-American, but he did admit to once watching all eight hours of a Ken Burns documentary about Muhammad Ali. How could he not become radicalized after that?”
Mr. Willoughby is currently being held in a minimum-security nostalgia facility, where detainees are required to watch “Hallmark Channel” movies about young white people falling in love on an endless loop until they forget any history that existed before Ronald Reagan was president.
Portland, Oregon – Barista Removed for Using Metric System
ICE agents raided a downtown Portland coffee shop on Thursday morning, apprehending Sierra Moonbeam, 26, after she asked a customer if they wanted a “half-liter cold brew.”
“Using the metric system is a clear sign of sympathizing with non-American forces,” said Deputy ICE Commander Frank Catchem. “We use ounces in this country. Liters are for elite European socialists and enemies of freedom. And besides, she had a hippie peace symbol tattoo on her neck. Sounds like an agitator to me.”
Sierra reportedly tried to explain that her question was prompted by a barista training manual sourced from Canada. ICE dismissed her excuse as “maple-scented propaganda.”
Dayton, Ohio – Father of Two Expelled for Cooking Falafel
ICE arrested Mohammed Patel, a 34-year-old accountant and father of two, after neighbors reported “suspicious smells” coming from his backyard grill. Upon investigation, agents discovered Patel was preparing homemade falafel which he claimed was for a PTA fundraiser.
“We can’t take chances,” said Agent Carl Lahckemup. “That food had spices in it we couldn’t even pronounce. Also, he called his grill a ‘tandoor,’ which might be a code word for something bad.”
Patel has been sent to a Homeland Culinary Adjustment Detention Facility, where he will be retrained in safer American dishes, such as cheeseburgers, baked beans, and Kraft Macaroni & Cheese.
Phoenix, Arizona – Woman Detained for Watching Foreign Cinema
Eliza Grant, 42, a librarian and mother of three, was taken into ICE custody after checking out the 1952 Japanese film Ikiru from her local public library.
“She had subtitles on and everything,” said ICE analyst Tanya Kickemaut. “Next thing you know, she’ll be sipping espresso and saying words like ‘existential.’ We don’t need that kind of French influence spreading. Imagine if there had been impressionable young children nearby!”
Eliza has been assigned mandatory viewing of all nine Fast & Furious movies, to reestablish a sense of traditional American narrative structure and car-based diplomacy.
Mrs. Edna Washington of Duluth, Minnesota was apprehended by ICE agents after she was caught in the act of listening to an audio cassette instructional program called “Beginning Spanish.” Officials, out of an abundance of caution, arrested her on suspicion she might be trying to smuggle illegal Mexicans into the USA to sell fentanyl to minors. She was last seen in an El Salvadoran women’s detention camp.
Miami, Florida – Teen Removed After Saying “Soccer is Better than Football”
ICE officials removed Diego Martinez, 17, from an AP Government class after he made the offensive statement, “Soccer is better than football,” during a classroom debate.
The school resource officer contacted ICE, who cited Diego for “public admiration of an alien sport” and “blatant disrespect of America’s national pastime.”
Diego is currently being held in a suburban juvenile holding facility where he will be required to memorize the rules of the American football, identify at least ten Jimmy Stewart movies, and list his top five favorite Tom Brady moments.
Madison, Wisconsin – Gay Schnauzer Deported After Being Caught Humping a Cat
A nine-year-old male schnauzer named Titus has been deported to a Guatemalan animal detention compound after he was caught attempting to fornicate with a male cat. ICE agents stormed the house where Titus lived after receiving an anonymous tip that “there is some ungodly, depraved homosexual promiscuity going on in the house next door.”
It turned out that Titus has a history of copulating with nonconsenting individuals including multiple attempts to mount other male dogs, a neighborhood goat, and the family’s La-Z-Boy recliner. Titus will enter a canine conversion therapy program, and if that doesn’t work, then he will be neutered.
ICE Defends Actions
In a press conference Friday morning, ICE Deputy Director Linda Shacklesworth defended the agency’s actions. “These individuals may appear harmless,” said Shacklesworth, “but so did jazz musicians in the ’30s, and look where that got us – berets, poetry, and rampant saxophone abuse.”
She added, “This isn’t about where you’re from or what you believe. It’s about ensuring no American citizen feels uncomfortable ever, even for a second, in a public setting about anything suspicious.”
When asked about the growing concern over the vague definition of “suspicious,” Shacklesworth replied, “If you have to ask what constitutes ‘suspicious,’ that just makes you sound awfully suspicious. Watch yourself.”
[Editor’s Note: ICE later clarified that a 4-year-old boy in Nebraska was mistakenly flagged after telling his daycare provider that his favorite food was “quiche.” He was released after agreeing to call it “egg pie with meat.”]
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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When I was young, I was taught to be kind, polite and avoid disappointing others. But I’ve learned (the hard way) that trying to constantly please other people by saying YES to their sometimes unappealing invitations and requests can lead to rather awkward moments. I am hardwired to be a people pleaser. In fact I once took off (almost) all my clothes in public – just to avoid disappointing the crowd that had assembled to see me humiliate myself. Don’t believe me? Well, it’s true.
I tend to say Yes to most invitations, even when I really want to say No. Not long ago I received an invitation to attend a fundraising event to save – I honestly can’t recall the critter – let’s say the Western Spotted Otter – when what I really wanted to do was lie on my couch and watch football. (I’m confident my $25 donation helped save a few spotted otters.) Maybe it’s just as well I attended the boring fundraiser, as my team lost in overtime.
Every week I’m confronted with situations in which I say, “Sure, I’d be happy to… Attend your party / Donate to your cause / Read that 500-page book you insist on lending to me / Fill out your 80-question survey / Feed your cats while you’re away for two weeks,” etc… when what I really want to do is give them a more HONEST RESPONSE. I’ll explain with a few slightly altered examples that are all eerily close to actual invitations I’ve received.
A friend invited me:“Tim, a group of us are going on a 3,000-ft. elevation gain hike up Mount YulNevaMaykit (okay, so I made up the mountain’s name – I think it was actually called Mount KillaMeNow). We plan to stop at an Iranian-Vietnamese restaurant on the way home. I know this place that makes the best fried chicken testicle soup.”
My actual response: “Gosh, that sounds like fun. Thanks for inviting me. My calendar looks clear. Hey, do you think that restaurant might have a Caesar salad?”(I’m a bit of a picky eater.)
What I wanted to say as an Honest Response:Let me get this straight. You want to inflict pain and suffering on me over several hours, only to “reward” me with a dish so disgusting that it would make my cat vomit? How long have you secretly harbored a death wish for me?”
My friend: “I’ve got a great investment opportunity – if you have just $20K to put down.” Me: “Gosh, I would love to. But I can’t afford to right now. Thanks for thinking of me.” Honest Response: “Are you on crack? Seriously? Are you? Did you mistake me for Warren Buffett’s nephew? How about I invest $7.00 for a Starbucks skinny no foam latte instead?”
A relative of mine texted me:“Heard this fascinating podcast about Robert F. Kennedy Jr. He makes a lot of sense. You should really listen to it. He has some innovative ideas about how we can live to 150 by banning all vaccines and adhering to a strict diet of cauliflower, oysters, and tobacco-onion juice. The audio interview is two hours long but it goes by fast.”
My actual response:“Thanks for this. I will try to watch it in the next day or two. I have been curious about Robert F. Kennedy Jr. I had thought he was a bit of a kook, but maybe I’ve judged him unfairly.”
My Honest Response:“Thanks for this. I was looking for a way to help me get to sleep faster. This looks like just the ticket. Ever since you first voted for Trump, I was concerned you’d lost your mind. And your most recent text officially confirms it. If you never hear from me again, don’t worry. It just means I’ve blocked you on every device I own.”
An acquaintance emailed me: “Tim, as a humor writer, I thought you’d get a kick out of a humorous play I wrote that I think is hilarious. It’s based on the time my cat tried to eat some geraniums I bought for my wife. Then it threw up on her lap. What a riot. Can you read my manuscript and give me suggestions on any tweaks you might recommend? Do you think I should submit it to The New Yorker? Or the New York Times?”
My actual response:“Nick, I am honored you’d like me to read your play. What a hysterical premise. A cat throwing up. I don’t know if that’s ever been written about.”
My Honest Response: “Nick, you asked me for suggestions. Here’s one: Never even think about writing a humorous play ever again. Miraculously I’ve somehow survived to page 75. At what point does the humor start? I totally think you should send this to both publications – along with a sincere apology cover letter for wasting their time. Does this help?”
A friend named called to ask: “Tim, my daughter Empress is going to turn 23 next month. I’d like to help her celebrate this milestone birthday by throwing her an epic music festival in our backyard with some local rock bands. I’m asking guests to donate $150 to help make this a birthday Empress will never forget. I think a music festival is just the kind of therapy that will help her overcome the funk she’s been in ever since she failed to realize her dream of becoming a TikTok influencer with five million followers. Can I put you down as a YES?”
My Actual Response:“Wow, what an exciting day you have planned. I would love to attend but I’ll be out of town that weekend. But thanks for the invite, Jill.” (You didn’t actually think I’d say YES to such an insane invitation, did you?)
My Honest Response:“Um, Jill, first of all, 23 is not exactly a milestone birthday. Second, Empress? Who names their kid Empress? Was the name Queen Aphrodite already taken? Third, I really believe you need to think much BIGGER if you want to impress your darling Empress. I recommend asking each person to donate $5,000 in bitcoin. If you get a mere 200 suckers people to say yes, you probably can convince Elton John to come out of retirement and perform. And doesn’t your little social media drama queen deserve it?”
LinkedIn Recruiter: “Tim, I saw your profile on LI. You look like you’d be a great fit for this job.” Me: “Thank you very much. Actually, I’m retired. But if I think of anyone, I’ll let you know.” Honest Response: “Do you need glasses? Because you apparently failed to read my LI headline, where it reads, “RETIRED.” Besides, my PT job as a Walmart greeter keeps me very fulfilled and busy.
Of course, the next time someone texts me insisting I watch a “must-see” four-part PBS documentary series titled “Comic Sans – The Forgotten Font”, I won’t insult them with a snide, sarcastic, but honest reply. Knowing me, I’ll send back my usual, polite response: “Thank you so much for thinking of me. Sounds amazing!” – right before I press the DELETE button.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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One of the many unexpected aspects of being married to my lovely wife is the frequent opportunities to demonstrate my patience, by which I mean WAITING… and WAITING… and WAITING. But the reasons I have to wait are not what you think.
A common complaint of many husbands is having to wait for their wives. Waiting as she picks out an outfit; waiting for her to finish putting on makeup; waiting in the store for her to pick out the perfect lamp for the living room. Waiting at the hospital while she takes forever to deliver their baby.
You will never hear me make any such complaints about my wife – although there was that one time when I got a flat tire. It took her forever to jack up the car and put on the spare. I got so bored waiting for her to finish. A guy can only play Solitaire on their phone so many times before it gets repetitive.
The truth is, in most aspects of our wonderful life together, my wife rarely makes me wait. She can be very decisive. What I’m not quite as fond of is the way my dear wife takes FOREVER whenever we are visiting an interesting place, particularly one that has a lot of incredible scenery or fascinating history. Once there, if we see ANYTHING REMOTELY WORTH TAKING A PHOTO OF, well, that’s when the problems begin. Did I mention my wife is an artist? She does oil paintings of landscapes – mountains, flowers, birds, seashores, and interesting architecture. She is very accomplished and well known for her artwork.
Because of her passion for her art, whenever we take a hike to check out, say a pristine lake or some lovely beach or a historic castle or a cathedral or a heron sitting on a log, my wife has an uncontrollable impulse to take several photographs. Let me clarify. When I say, “take several photographs,” I don’t mean three or four photos of the very same thing. That’s what a normal person might do. My wife is not normal. No, she’ll take three or four DOZEN photos of the very same thing. Why does she obsess over getting the perfect shot? She claims it’s so she can make oil paintings from her photos.
Recently we took a stroll along a beach near our home. She loved the way the sunlight reflected off the waves as they lapped along the shore. I’ll admit it was a lovely, tranquil maritime setting. That’s why I took two photos… and my wife took 125. She kept on clicking over and over. Thirty years ago, when people used film to take pictures, my wife knew that each snap of the camera’s shutter cost money to develop. So, she was conservative in her click-count.
Thanks to the age of digital cameras, she can now take a myriad of shots, and they’re all free. Whoever invented the digital camera, that person has seriously threatened our marriage and my sanity. That’s because my wife sees nothing wrong with spending hours photographing every possible nuance of a babbling brook, while I sit around waiting for her to run out of steam. She never does. She’s the Energizer Bunny of taking pictures.
My wife is a gifted artist. She paints landscapes in oil of the natural beauty near where we live. Just one problem. She is forever in search of the PERFECT SHOT!
One time we were on vacation in Rome when we decided to explore the famous Coliseum. Big mistake. My wife stopped every ten feet to take fifteen to twenty photos of the very same building from a slightly different angle, apparently in pursuit of a Pulitzer-Prize-winning photograph. If you’re curious as to which of the 800+ photos she took of this ancient Roman ruin she ultimately used to paint from, the correct answer would be none of them. She decided not to do a painting – probably because she was sure she would have better luck clicking hundreds of photos of the canals of Venice or a row of Vespa scooters in Milan.
Don’t get me wrong. I love my wife. And her landscape paintings are truly amazing. But I have seen glaciers crawl forward in less time than it takes for her to finish taking photos of, say, a crawling glacier. I’ve learned to accept this peculiar quirk about my wife. Whenever I’m forced to wait around while she clicks away in search of the perfect closeup of a tulip, I try to make productive use of my spare time by getting caught up on my latest Stephen King novel… or chopping down tree branches and erecting a lean-to, to take a nap. She’s going to be a while.
Our house is filled with dozens of her original paintings – on just about every wall of every room, I pretty much live in an art gallery. Before long we will run out of wall space for her art. Maybe then she’ll dial back on the need to take hundreds of photos of every waterfall she sees.
Who am I kidding? She’s not going to change. But I have discovered a way to give her a taste of her own medicine. In the evening, when we sit down to watch a movie together, I deliberately take an annoyingly long time to decide on a film. I’ll check out the trailers of ten different movies, until in exasperation she whines, “FOR GOD’S SAKE, JUST PICK ONE!”
It drives her crazy. Let’s just say we’re even.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
For too long, millions of people naively thought pickleball was a relaxing, fun, social game. Little did they know just how dangerous a sport it really is… until now.
Fellow pickleball players, it’s time somebody lulled all of you out of your collective coma and revealed the news that the mainstream media refuses to report: Pickleball is trying to kill you. Now hear me out. Yes, pickleball – that sport you shifted over to a couple years ago because you found tennis too strenuous.
Oh sure, the game looks innocent enough. Heck, even I was fooled and regularly played the sport three or four days a week before I discovered the terrifying truth. But I’ve done some research about the health risks of playing pickleball. Prepare to be shocked. If you think playing pickleball is not hazardous to your health, then you might as well take up smoking crack cocaine. At least with crack you’re probably not going to tear your Achilles Tendon.
Pickleball might be sweeping the nation as our fastest growing sport. But make no mistake, it’s not just a game. It’s a potential death trap waiting to suck you into its treacherous evil clutches. Let’s talk about the numbers, people. If the following statistics don’t terrify you and make you throw your paddle into a nearby volcano, then you’re living in denial – either that or you must not live near a volcano.
In 2023 alone, here in the United States of America, pickleball injuries clocked in at a staggering 66,750 emergency room visits. We’re talking about twisted ankles, broken wrists, sprained backs, and the occasional heart attack from the sheer shock of realizing that you finally won a game against Trevor, who is a 4.0 player, and you’ve never beaten Trevor.
But it doesn’t stop there. The pickleball plague reaches deep into our healthcare system, sending over 366,000 Americans to outpatient visits annually. That’s over a third of a million individuals who, after engaging in what was supposed to be a pleasant recreational activity, found themselves begging for immediate medical attention and needing anything from stitches to hip surgery to a heart transplant (admittedly, the likelihood of needing a heart transplant after a pickleball injury is probably remote).
I wonder if there’s a support group for the survivors of pickleball. If not, there should be. The meetings would probably have a 50% no-show rate because, well, half of those people would still be recovering in traction. Statistics show that men are significantly more likely to be hospitalized after a pickleball injury than women, with a ratio of ratio of 2.3 to 1. The medical explanation for this discrepancy is that men are wimps.
Still think pickleball is a safe sport and that you’ll somehow skate by unscathed? Good luck with that, buddy. Did you know that in 2023 alone there were 4,700 hospitalizations and just under 9,000 surgeries in the USA caused by pickleball? All those hospitalized victims had to endure the trauma of anxiously wondering whether they would make it through the surgery alive – or at the very least wondering if that gorgeous intern would be coming come back soon to check on them. Man, they’re cute! (That’s what that red button is for next to your hospital bed.)
As if all this wasn’t enough to make you rethink your life choices, let’s turn to the financial horror show that pickleball has unleashed upon the world. The cost of this bloodsport? $377 million in healthcare expenditures in the USA alone in 2023. Yes, you read that right – nearly $400 million spent on treating people who decided that hitting a plastic ball over a net was a good way to spend an afternoon. Let that dink in, I mean sink in.
I can think of a lot of better things I could have spent that $377 million on – like buy a desolate country (I hear Greenland is for sale, but that’s a topic for another time). Or perhaps you could stay at home, park yourself on the couch, and binge-watch all five seasons of Breaking Bad, like you’ve always been meaning to (because your spouse wouldn’t let you watch it when it first came out).
At this point, you may be thinking, “But Tim, I just wanted to get some light exercise. I’ve found it to be a good social activity. I’m just trying to have fun!” Well, fun is what they call it right before you’re sprawled on the court, clutching your ankle while the EMT’s prepare to load you into the back of the ambulance.
This is a typical way too many pickleball matches end – with someone ending up in the hospital, in need of medical attention. This man is distraught – mainly because the doctor told him to rest for four days before heading back out onto the court. “Four days, doc? That’s an eternity! I can’t wait that long!”
Oh sure, the social appeal of the game is undeniable. Nothing brings people together quite like a shared experience of trauma and profound worry over whether you’ll ever walk again. On the bright side, you just might meet some interesting new people in the waiting room of the ER. But honestly, was it really worth a trip to the ER when you hurled your body headlong into the concrete court just so you could make the game-winning shot? I think we both know the answer to that question: Yes. Yes, it was. But that’s beside the point.
I for one can no longer stand idly by and watch as pickleball claims more innocent victims. If you’re playing right now, it’s time to stop. Take up shuffleboard, join a knitting circle, or maybe get into competitive bird-watching – anything but pickleball.
After writing the previous paragraph, I did a little more research. If none of the above suggestions for an alternative to pickleball appeals to you, then you could always try skydiving. I just Googled it, and apparently there has not been a single reported incident of anyone dying while skydiving in years – unless you count the 486 people who died between 2000 and 2021 due to parachutes failing to open. But what are the odds that would ever happen to you?
Okay, so did a little more Googling. It turns out that, technically, there has never been a report of anyone actually dying from playing pickleball. But for God’s sake, why take any chances?
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it aLikeorsharing this post on Facebook.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it aLikeorsharing this post on Facebook.
