Rallying Around the Kitchen

I have been running long distances for a decade, riding my bike, and swimming in open water for six years. My mind often wandered while training for endurance sports like running or triathlons. I'd think about my need for more progress in writing or why I wasn't gaining speed in my swims, bike rides, or runs. I failed to be mindful of the present, which sometimes caused minor accidents like tripping over a stone or disrupting my rhythm. I kept believing I wasn't good enough. I would push harder, trying to overtake the biker or runner in front of me. 

In the summer of 2022, I felt a throbbing pain and a locking sensation in my knee whenever I ran. After an MRI scan, I discovered a hole in the cartilage bone in my left knee. I had to undergo a bio knee surgery and a meniscus repair, which required me to be on crutches for the initial six weeks. I was asked to take a one-year break from running- a sport I loved the most. I also had to keep away from swims and bike rides and focus solely on strengthening for the initial period. Suddenly, my world had crumbled. I missed the endorphins and adrenalin rush. I felt trapped inside a body that didn't feel like my own. My mind wandered even more during this arduous period. It left me with feelings of inadequacy and anxiety. I heard it was customary for athletes to experience withdrawal symptoms when asked to stay away from a sport they loved. Yet, it didn't make things easier. I grappled with a sense of fury and exasperation, making me question the existence of God. My family, physio team, and the doctor were patient and kind. This too shall pass, they reassured me. 

Returning to my long swims in January, 2023 didn't make me feel any better. I was gasping for breath, fighting with the water, wondering why I wasn't good enough like the other swimmers. When I returned to biking, I would wistfully look at runners on the road. I was told I wasn't ready for running yet. My left leg had to be as strong as an ox to pound the streets again.

Most importantly, I missed the social aspect of meeting fellow runners and triathletes at various events and training sessions. Even my writing had stalled. I would be left to brood about those times when my thoughts would flow like water in the creek. 

In June of 2023, I saw a notice from the University Club of Palo Alto inviting members to join a pickleball session. Racket sports were familiar to me. I played Table Tennis and Badminton as a little girl and a little bit of tennis later in life. Eager and curious to try a new sport, I landed at the courts one Wednesday morning. The rest of the players were warm and empathetic when I told them about my knee problem. They reassured me, saying the game was mainly played from the kitchen, and oriented me with the rules. When I held a paddle for the first time, I was transported to my childhood days of playing table tennis, which required the utmost concentration. It was a time when my mind and soul were vested in nothing but hitting the ball over the net—the days when I was probably my happiest self.  

I stood at the baseline when my partner served. After which, I immediately walked towards the kitchen. My eyes were constantly on the yellow plastic ball with holes. I saw it approaching me and slammed my paddle on it—a forehand shot. I was thrilled when the player on the other side missed returning my shot. I helped in scoring a point for my team. The game went on, and my team scored more points. Whenever I hit those dink shots, making it difficult for the opposite team to hit back, I felt my heart leap in joy. Some good rallies ensued while sweat trickled down my face. Even the scorching Californian summer couldn't deter my spirits. 

When it was my turn to serve, my hands initially shook. I was elated when the ball landed in the middle of the opposite court. Another round of rallies and dinks took place. Despite playing against experienced players, I never felt pressure to surpass them. I attributed it to the fact I was just a beginner. Besides, I discovered my mind was so focused on hitting the ball that I had no time to think or brood. Even my unforced errors made me feel bad only for a fraction of a second. I had to recover quickly and gather my reflexes to judge which balls were worth attacking and which could land outside the court. Something stirred inside me that day. I recognized the same feeling I experienced when I crossed the finish line of my first half marathon in 2012. I felt traces of my self-worth began to return. Appreciation from other experienced players and coaches elevated my self-esteem. I was hooked on this sport in a day and motivated enough to show up every Wednesday morning. 

In a month, I began to play twice a week. Sometimes, I would fail to connect my paddle with the ball or miss my serves. But I was told not to lose heart and that it was human to make errors. Even the greatest of all-time players miss serves or shots at major tournaments. Most importantly, I was learning to enjoy the game and the camaraderie of a like-minded community who were supportive, encouraging, and non-judgmental. I discovered my concentration improved. My knee began to feel better. The locking sensation and stiffness were reduced. I felt more agile in my movements across the court. The glow on my face returned. My mental health received a boost. I relished the importance of being present rather than brooding about the past or worrying about the future. All that mattered to me were the rallies and focusing my eyes on the ball. 

The beauty of pickleball, or any sport, is its ability to reiterate my patience, humility, and perseverance. Not to mention the joy of learning something new every time, leading to further improvement and the capacity to strategize my moves. I realized this attitude would benefit me when I return to running in a few months—or even with my writing, which requires a similar mindset. There will be days when I am bound to hit a wall. Words may not flow on the page. Ideas may not emerge. I might not gain speed in my runs, bike rides, or swims. However, I realize I can train my mind to say it is OK not to be able to achieve what I want all the time. Instead, I can retain my focus, happiness, and sanity. Like I do when I hit those dinks and rally around the kitchen under the blazing sun, with beads of perspiration trickling down my face. 

SWETHA AMIT is an Indian author based in California and an  MFA graduate from the University of San Francisco. She has published works across genres in 60-plus journals, including Atticus Review, Maudlin House, Flash Fiction Magazine & others (https://swethaamit.com). She has received three Pushcart and Best of the Net nominations.