Category: Funny Business

When I was a kid, I used to suit up in full football gear, head to the backyard and pretend I played both quarterback and wide receiver for the New York Jets.

I can’t tell you how many touchdown passes I threw to Don Maynard and George Sauer, or how many I caught from Joe Namath. OK, I can tell you … it was a lot.

Invariably, the Jets season would end with a perfect record and Super Bowl victory over whatever scum and villainy the NFL (and later, NFC) threw at me. I would help win the game by firing a thread-the-needle TD toss to Don or George as time expired. Or, I’d clinch the title by snatching a Joe Willie aerial with one hand, pulling the ball to my chest while deftly dragging both feet in the end zone for six points.

I never thought I’d get that kind of feeling about sports again, but thanks to pickleball – yes, pickleball – I have.

Before drifting off to slumber last Tuesday night (the first day I ever picked up a paddle and ball and joined the Pickleverse) I allowed myself a little trip to the land of make-believe.

There I was in the Mandalay Bay arena in Las Vegas, sauntering toward the court to the urgent beat of My Sharona while adorned in a magenta T-shirt, bedazzled jorts and neon green running shoes. Across the way was Yuri Sonovabich, built in a lab by evil Kremlin scientists and heavily favored to make quick work of his short, bespectacled foe.

But a can-do spirit – and wicked topspin – propelled me to a stunning victory, one so shocking it forced Vladimir Putin to resign in disgrace and move into Steven Seagal’s basement.

That conquest led to my qualification for Gentlemen’s Singles at WimblePickle, and convinced Major League Pickleball’s Birmingham Dinks to place the franchise tag on me.

Those competitive fires I thought were gone forever had returned, and I was glad to have them back.

Before pickleball, the last sport I participated in was golf. I was never good at it, so it was never much fun for me. Plus, I knew going in I was going to lose, regardless of who I was playing. Worse than losing is that it takes about four and a half hours to complete a round.

If I’m gonna devote four and a half hours to something, it better involve whiskey, a live band and the potential for nudity.

However, in my teens, twenties and thirties I played tennis, and I truly enjoyed it. I was never great by any stretch of the imagination but I wasn’t bad, so on occasion I’d beat people I wasn’t supposed to beat and felt like I at least had a puncher’s chance every time I was on the court.

My biggest problem was serving; I just didn’t have a lot of power or control.

Enter pickleball.

My niece Tina has been playing for a while and invited me out to give it a try. I’d never been all that curious about it before, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to take it for a test drive.

I loved it immediately. I mean, I was on eBay buying balls that night.

My muscle memory from tennis came in handy because while the rules are different, they’re familiar. And the fact that you serve underhanded is glorious. The weakest part of my tennis game isn’t part of the pickleball game at all, so after a few swats I felt like I knew what I was doing.

Tina and I played a couple in doubles and lost, 14-12 (games are to 11 but you have to win by two). Even so, it was great fun.

Sure, I could’ve ripped up the net, slammed down my paddle and tried to perform a suplex on them, but that just seemed extreme.

Also, I have a bad back.

And despite my late night pickleball fantasies, I’ve reached the age (and temperament) where fun is more important than racking up the “W.” If I encounter anyone who takes it too seriously, I shall mock and shun them.

I love competition and obviously when you play you want to win, but there’s no need to be a wanker if you lose.

So yeah, going forward, whether Tina and I are working together as doubles partners or I’m taking on someone in singles, I’ll be playing hard but playing loose, because pickleball should be a hoot, not a hassle.

Unless, of course, I wind up facing Yuri Sonovabich at Mandalay Bay.

I hate that guy.

A house with three animals shouldn’t feel empty.

I mean, there’s the Chihuahua, Steve, who is basically a firecracker wrapped in fur.

And our two shelter cats, Thor and Bane, spend their days playing, fighting, and creating drama. When things get too quiet, they suddenly start galloping down the hallway at full speed, sliding as they round the corner in the bedroom and ultimately crashing into the closet with great sound and fury.

I call it NASCAR – the Natural Alliance of Sliding Cats And Ratcatchers.

They’re quite the threesome.

But it used to be a foursome, fronted by the most wonderful dog I’ve ever known, Charlie.

Chuck came into my life back in 2010 when he was already nearly two years old. A friend of ours from Alabama came for a visit while we were living in Greenville, South Carolina, and she brought Charlie with her.

He was a Shetland Sheep Dog who already had a good life, but was a timid little soul who lived among several other Shelties. Maybe, our friend thought, we might want to welcome him to our smaller, more diverse tribe.

Mary and I already had another dog and two cats then, but Charlie got along with them all immediately. He took a leisurely sniffing tour of the house, played a bit in the backyard, and spent his time smiling and wagging his tail. If he was in a shell when he arrived, he came out of it nicely.

Still, with a houseful of fur, perhaps we had reached the stage of life where it was time to downsize. So, knowing Chuck already had it made, we figured it was best to let him keep living in the environment he already knew.

But as Mary and our friend were saying their goodbyes, Charlie was on the futon with me and I was petting him. Then, he looked at me – eyes wide and bright, and tail swinging like a pendulum.

At that moment I called an audible and announced that, yes, I wanted to be his dog dad. I knew beyond a shadow of doubt he had to be part of my life.

Turns out, he was one of the best parts.

In the interest of full disclosure, Chuck – unlike most Shelties – didn’t display what one would call high intelligence. While others of his breed are always up for a chase or ready to retrieve a stick, Charlie preferred huddling with you on a chaise lounge and retrieving a snack.

But what he lacked in brainpower he made up for in sweetness.

One of my favorite “activities” was taking naps with him. At first when I’d lie down, he’d flop at the foot of the bed. Often when I’d wake up, I’d be greeted by a cold nose and hot breath because he’d have eased his way right up next to me, head on pillow.

And when we weren’t having a siesta, he enjoyed sitting next to me while I wrote, usually plopping his head on my knee and then settling in for a snooze.

But he was also genuinely kind, which might sound a bit odd when describing a dog. During his time with us, he was introduced to four different shelter cats. As we brought each one home, he was the first to greet them, usually with a head boop and a wag.

In recent years bedtime consisted of Mary, Steve and me under the covers and Charlie on the bedspread with Bane and Thor on either side of him.

He was like the center of a sandwich, only served between two slices of feline.

He didn’t bite, he rarely barked … he merely loved (and loved to eat). In a word, he was perfect.

Sadly, dogs are far too good for this world, which I guess is why they can’t stay in it long enough.

Aging finally took its toll on our beautiful boy, first causing deafness, then arthritis, then chronic kidney problems and near blindness.

So last Friday – when we sat on the futon together and he looked at me – I knew it was time to make the awful decision no one ever wants to make and let him go.

You bring animals into your life with a duty to house, feed and care for them, and you take on that responsibility gladly because you love them.

I’ve loved them all and mourned each passing, but I don’t know if I’ve loved any of them as much as I love Charlie.

And I have no clue when I’ll stop mourning. It’ll happen one day, but today is not that day. Lately, I keep thinking of those lyrics from Mr. Bojangles:

We spoke in tears of fifteen years
How his dog and him
They travelled about
His dog up and died
He up and died
After 20 years he still grieves

In the meantime, Steve is still a live wire, skillfully countering his obnoxiousness with undeniable cuteness.

As for Bane and Thor, they show me plenty of affection – when they’re not crashing together in their dash to the checkered flag.

I know time heals a broken heart, and my three four-legged boys are doing what they can to cheer me up. The house won’t always feel this empty.

But I also know there’ll never be another Charlie.

He was a very, very good boy … and having my heart filled with his unconditional love for more than 13 years makes me the luckiest dog dad who ever lived.