The Man Who Couldn't Dink

 Bernie Untertopf was a newish pickleball player.  Or at least he wanted to be.  He had come from another sport, far, far away and he lacked a lot of the needed skills to move up in the PB world.

He managed to master most of them as he played regularly, but the skill that eluded him the most was dinking.  He tried and tried.  Read "An Idiot's Guide to Dinking," watched YouTube videos, "If you Don't Do This, You'll Never Dink Properly," until his eyes required glasses.  But still he couldn't do it.  He was athletic enough and young enough that the game shouldn't have been that hard.  It seemed to have become a mental issue.  He tended to tense up when playing and when it came time to hit a soft shot, he would freeze and dump the ball in the net, or slap at it and hit it out.  While he might be deadly at mosquitos, hitting the hanging drop shot was not his best.

He played at the local club and was there frequently.  He had time off in the mornings and could usually play three times a week.

He found a group of advanced beginners and did well.  At the beginning level, the need to dink was not a hindrance to social play and acceptance.  And there he stayed.  Without the dink he wasn't going anywhere.  Interestingly, he hardly noticed.  He had good days and bad and played and had a reasonably good time.

Nancy Machtbesser was a lady if a certain age.  Too young to be a cat lady, old enough to be comfortable in who she was, she owned three pickleball paddles all of different colors, for example, and didn't care who knew about it.

She cared about stuff, too much, it must be said, about all sorts of other things.  The environment, her Corvette, organic food, beef jerkey, proper recycling categories, and good plastic wrap, for example.  

A free spirit as it were and after having traded away her last flat of rescued succulents, was looking for a project.  The soup kitchen was fully staffed and fully souped.  The veterans' dining hall was fully decorated.  All her friends were healthy.  Her library books were all returned.  Her favorite authors had nothing new for her to read.  In short she was bored and ready for something new.

Nancy set her eyes on Bernie.  She liked what she saw, except for the dinking of course.  His other strokes were reasonable, he wasn't enamored with any strange shots, he didn't lob much, for example.  He looked like broken in shoes, that would be a comfortable fit and ready for a lively walk.  But not too old, nor too worn, he looked just right, with a bit of moderation. Well there was the dinking hole in the sole that needed patching...

She decided that Bernie was her next project.  She could "fix" him, she was sure, er, not like fixing a stray dog, of course, but could still help set him up for a better future.

Nancy had come from tennis and in spite of that, had developed a good pickleball short game.  The only reason she noticed Bernie is that she had friends in the beginners' group.

Nancy cut Bernie out of the heard.  No cowboy would have done it better with a rope and pony.  One day he was in one corral and the next day another.  They started to play together, then the old, "let's go for out for coffee" thingy happened.  Who can resist that siren song, hmm?  And resist he didn't.

"Bernie, we have something to talk about," Nancy said, while slurping at her Americano.

"Ok, what's on your mind?" a rich, dark roast in his cup.  This was a nice coffee shop, where coffee came in cups and was not in  permeable cardboard with ill fitting lids.

"I was thinking, Bernie, that I can help you with your problem."

"Well, my car is due for a wash, but I don't think it's anything I need help with..."

"No, I was thinking about pickleball."

"Oh.  Oh.  And what problem is it?"

"Well, Bernie, you don't dink much.  I need you to dink.  It's frankly a bit embarrassing.  You don't do it when you should and mess it up when you shouldn't."

"I know, I know, "he said wearily, " I struggle with it.  It seems against my nature.  I can hit and serve and stuff, but that dinking is tough for me," Bernie's thoughts returned to the five dinks he had netted, hit off of ordinary dinks.   Not the difficult dinks where anyone, and on occasion everyone, misses, but the biscuits and gravy type of dinks, where the pressure is minimal and even someone with very slow, large feet could get to them and get them back.

"Oh, Bernie, I sense your pain and it's a deep fester I'm sure.  Maybe a sign of a difficult childhood?" Nancy, was used to reading psychological self help books.  Perhaps the self help library could actually help someone besides the authors and publishers?

"I don't know about that, my mom and I get along well..."

"Maybe you just need to relax more.  Maybe it's stress?"  That was another book on Nancy's shelf, "Live a Stress Free Life and Live Long and Prosper."  That book had many unusual fans.

"Well, my job is pretty stressful.  No one appreciates how much accountants struggle to get every penny correct.  So many folks just say 'close enough!' but that doesn't work in my business.  When I play in the mornings, I often am thinking about work later in the day.  A lost penny here, and then one there and pretty soon you are up to a dollar," Bernie chuckled at the old accountants' joke.  It was an old one, but a good one.

"Ah, I thought so.  Work has its purpose, I suppose, but helping with dinks seems not to be it.  Tell you what, come over for dinner on Friday and I'll fix you something nice and we'll work on relaxation exercises."

"I'd like that.  I don't get a homemade meal all that often.  I'll bring some wine.  Red or white?"

"Don't be silly, of course red.  We won't be having fish or pasta!  Red meat is the answer to stress," she said it as if it were obvious, commonly known, and fundamental, like refraction and nuclear resonance.

The meal on Friday was lamb shanks in a thick rich gravy, with a bottle of wine and that was just what was in the gravy.  Bernie and Nancy drank the other two bottles.  After they had eaten and all were fed and full, Nancy stood and took Bernie's hand.

"Come with me and I'll relax you."

He did and she did.  Nancy believed in complete stress relief, she had read many books and was willing to share all of them.  The details are not important and we will draw a curtain across them.  Our story resumes some thirty six hours later...

On Sunday, they returned to the pickleball court.  A careful observer might have noticed a weakness in Bernie's knees, and a tremor in his hand, his non-paddle hand thankfully, and the hint of smile and some lassitude in his demeanor.  Yes, Bernie had been truly relaxed.  He had never been this relaxed.

His stress vanquished,  his fear of a missing penny or two gone, and his play was a revelation.  His baseline shots were deep and throbbed with cut spin, except for the ones with top spin.  His angles were acute when his opponents were obtuse and vise versa when required.  

His drops were the drops of the Gods.  And as he drew close to the kitchen line, lo, his hands remained steady, his eyes keen and shoulders ready to gently lift the ball and place it just so.  Bernie became a dinker.  He embraced it, he succeeded, he fell in love with the soft and short game.  Where he used to slap the ball, he now caressed, instead of an infinite variety of netted balls, he now could drip one after the other over the net, like dropping donut dough into a fryer, and hitting his corners were as nonchalant as 5.0 at a 3.0 picnic game.

The fear of the net vanished and the yippy slap shots were gone forever.  Bernie was a changed player.

Nancy and Bernie romped, if that is the word, through their normal opponents.  Mistakes were so seldom that it seemed a practice session.  Nancy observed this with a satisfied feeling that it was a project gone well, but wistful in that Bernie was done in one, like the inside out shot down the line to a center leaning poacher wannabe.  Bernie was on his way and he didn't need her anymore.  

The only task left, was to gently send Bernie on his way.  

Between games she had gotten a text.  The animal welfare group she worked with, "Felines for Friends," had an entire litter of kittens that needed someone to raise them.  Feedings every four hours for a month.  Yes, Nancy was on call and ready to take them on.

They finished playing that morning. Bernie glowed with victory and new skills.  His hands were the calm of a large rock well placed in a sluggish stream, his knees had recovered from their earlier weakness.  He was ready to climb the pickleball ladder.  Who knew how high it went?

"Nancy, that was great play today," he said.  His eyes sparkling and his confidence on the top shelf where one finds all the best bottles.

"Bernie, I'm so proud.  You dinked like a fiend and played like a young devil!"

"Shall we celebrate our play this evening?  I've got some more wine," he waggled his eyebrows in a suggestive fashion, with the confidence of a man who knows more than his share about, say, a high backhand roll shot, or extended means of stress relief.

"Oh, Bernie, I'm sorry, but our time is up.  We've worked wonders with your game and you are now ready to move on.  Go find the 4.0 game and impress them.  I'll never forget this weekend, but we can't do it again.  You are cured and I've got kittens to raise.  I'll be up all night and not fit for company for a long while."

Bernie pondered this.  It was not what he had expected to hear.  The weekend and now the play this morning seemed a dream.  And now, the dream was over, it seemed.  But it was one of those dreams that you remember and cherish, he supposed, not the ones you barely remember and you lose yourself trying to recall them.

His world was upended again it seems.  He found ultimate relaxation and a short game all in one weekend.  Now part of that was going away.

"I understand, Nancy.  I'll not stand between you and the kittens.  Send me a picture, please."

"I will Bernie," she said wistfully.

They took their leave.  They never played again.  Nancy was not on the courts for a couple of months.  Bernie moved up to the 4.0 group and then a bit beyond.  He played in other cities and was much in demand as a partner.  He truly had been fixed.  He played, improved and moved on.

Nancy raised her kittens and found them homes.  The smallest kitten, whom needed the most help, grew strong, became a little tiger, and was the last adopted, she named Bernie.