IDENTITY CRISIS: A PICKLEBALL STORY

This summer marks my ninth year of playing pickleball. It has brought so much joy and fulfillment into my life. I’ve forged fantastic friendships and made hundreds of acquaintances. I introduced the game to my brother, who is now an avid player. It has brought literal life back into my legs, as I play several times a week thanks to doctor’s orders that prescribe “more movement and less sedentary activities.” And I even got the dream job of working in it professionally. How cool is that?

As I reflect on an almost decade of involvement in pickleball, I’ve realized something that has made a huge difference in my life: My identity is found through many other things than pickleball and my rating does not define me.

For the first couple years of playing, it was all I would think about. Obsess is probably a more accurate word. I’m sure many of you can relate. As a single man post-divorce, I would fill any gaps of time outside of work or family responsibilities with pickleball. Within 15 miles of where I live in Utah County, there are at least 20 pickleball court facilities where paddle racks are overflowing with players chomping at the bit waiting to hear the next “Court!” outburst, signifying a vacancy. This was me and I would find myself driving from location to location looking for familiar faces or at least the smallest crowd possible to ensure shorter wait times. Before I had introduced my brother to the game during Covid, he could never get a hold of me. And when he did, he always knew that I was playing and just couldn’t understand why pickleball was the only thing that I was doing in my free time. And then he caught the bug and now he gets it. As best-friend brothers who consistently talked 2 to 3 times a week prior, we currently play a lot of phone tag as a result.

As my level of play increased after countless skills clinics and years of numerous rec play sessions, all I could focus on was my ability to play and compete at the highest level possible. I studied the game when I wasn’t playing it. I watched copious amounts of social media content from the likes of Tyson McGuffin, Zane Navratil, and Tanner Tomassi. I watched dated clips of the OGs playing at Margaritaville when the game was slow and methodical and rallies reached 40 hits or more. When the PPA started broadcasting games on television, I already knew what my weekend plans would be. Like I said. Obsessed. And it seemed like the honeymoon period was never going to end.

If you’ve been reading along with me on previous posts, you’ll know that the most challenging part for me as a pickleball player is my disability. It’s not dinking or dropping–I actually have a consistently great drop which sets up a lot of pop-ups for my partners to attack. To make matters more complicated, it’s really frustrating having an athlete’s mentality with a body that can’t keep up physically more often than not. To know the strategy of this game and to be playing it with mobility issues is a venn diagram I’ve been trying to close into a circle for years. Achieving this had become my holy grail.

When I was certifying as a relationship coach, I learned a concept from Brené Brown that really helped in getting to the root of any situation. It’s a tool used to fact-check and evaluate what is really happening. It defuses conflict and challenges the false, self-protective narratives our brains invent during moments of hurt or insecurity.

It’s a simple, yet powerful, statement that goes like this:
“The story I’m telling myself is…”

The truth is, most of us live in story. Even though something may not be true about us or a situation, we take comfort in the narrative and we tend to cling to it at all costs. The majority of time, we are in our heads and disconnected from our bodies. A story gives us something to say whether it’s true or not. While we can have this conversation with ourselves to check facts, it’s even more effective when done with someone we trust and who knows us well. This gives a person an opportunity to reflect back what they are hearing us say. And usually, they will challenge our story to the point where it becomes untrue.

One of the stories that I default to when I’m playing is that my disability is affecting the game with my partner in a negative way most of the time. That it’s creating frustration for them. That they’re over there crossing their fingers that I make the right play. And that they’re disappointed when I don’t.

Last week I was playing drop-in at my Club with my friend group. An old friend of mine named Steve had shown up unexpectedly. The last time I played a game with him was two years ago after the PPA event in St. George, Utah. He’s a great 4.5 player with a consistent game filled with a variety of shots. During one rally, my legs went to lunge for a middle ball but I quickly realized that Steve should take it instead, favoring his forehand. I backed off too late, he hesitated, and the ball landed between us for the point. I apologized and began audibly blaming my my legs for having a mind of their own. Steve swiftly dismissed my story and what I heard next caught me off guard. I can’t remember everything he said, but it was something like this:

“Daniel, what are you talking about? I’ve never thought anything about how your legs might be affecting our game. You hit so many great shots and keep the ball in play. You’ve got a great game.”

Oof. What an unexpected response. I could feel my body soften and relax. I was quickly reminded of the previous rallies in the game, where he praised a number of shots that I made. I found it interesting that my story negated all of those previous facts. I left the conversation with a newfound confidence in my ability, backed with facts.

Indeed, stories can be powerful in positive ways to teach a principle. But it became clear to me that my story was doing me no good. I know my abilities. I know a lot about the strategic elements of the game. And I accept the fact that while I should have hit an erne in that last play, that my legs just aren’t capable of doing so. And that’s okay. Cause I still have a killer drop shot that keeps us in the point and sets my partner up for success.

When it comes to my identity, I am a lot of things: An activist. A creative. A relationship coach. A student. A friend. A lover.

Who just happens to play pickleball.

What stories might you be telling yourself? Perhaps have a chat with a friend so you get the real truth. It may just be the start of a new chapter you’ve been longing for.

About the Author

Daniel Singer is a senior designer at Pickleball Central and a certified relationship coach. He is an avid pickleball player and plays with a rare disease called Charcot-Marie-Tooth. He resides in Orem, Utah.