The Year of Pickleball and Grieving
“Life changes in the instant. The ordinary instant.”
“A single person is missing for you, and the whole world is empty.”
― Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking
Eleven months after my 20-year-old son, Eli, drowned in a river near Yosemite, I played doubles pickleball for the first time.
Since July 15, 2021, the day our world turned upside down, I rarely had left the house. Our youngest son, Jesse, was at college, and my wife, Nancy, and I were empty-nesters. Emphasis on empty. Eli’s unending absence was unbearable and I was desperate for the past we had, heartbroken that my imagined future was shattered, and trying to survive the present. I had lost my sense of everything. Life was unrecognizable.
That was my state of mind as I approached the pickleball courts in my Berkeley, CA neighborhood on a sunny morning that June, where I was greeted by thunderous thwacks of wiffle balls, screams of laughter, and shouts of joy.
I first heard about pickleball back in 2013 from my Dad, who wintered in Florida and played regularly with other retirees. At the time, it seemed to be a hobby for old people who wanted to stay active and busy during the twilight of their lives. Ten years later, it’s become one of the fastest growing sports in America, played by young and old, and was the distraction I needed to stay active and busy during the saddest time of my life.
My foursome that morning included three sixty-something women, and based on their banter, I assumed they had been friends since childhood. I later learned they met just three months earlier at a beginner pickleball lesson. When I introduced myself and revealed this was my first time, they immediately took me under their collective wing, providing feedback during the game that included positioning (“Stay out of the kitchen!”), technique (“More top spin!”), and skepticism (“Are you sure you don’t play tennis?”). After that first game (an 11-2 loss), I played 10 more times that day, not once thinking about my reality. When it was over, I got in my car and sobbed, thinking, Eli is still dead, I can’t believe life goes on, and I love pickleball.
Everyone grieves differently. For me, it’s relentless. Most nights I lie awake thinking about Eli, trying desperately to block the image of him drowning from my mind, while hoping he appears in my dreams. He’s my first thought when I wake up, and I somehow drag myself out of bed to face another day where everything reminds me of him. I’m lonely and homesick in my own home, knowing our family of four will never make new memories together. This is my new life.
Pickleballers love the sport for many reasons. For me, it’s a glimmer of hope. Some nights I lie awake picturing perfectly executed dinks, and in the morning jump out of bed, energized by a full day of games ahead of me. I feel at home with my foursome, comfortable within the tight confines of the 20x44 court. The game is easy to learn, hard to master, and the open play format is inherently social and welcoming. Nothing reminds me of Eli because he never knew I played. This is my new life.
Throughout that summer, of 2022, when Eli should have been interning in New York, or bartending in San Francisco or going to Birthright in Israel, I played twice a week and quickly got the hang of it. In the fall, when Eli was supposed to be back in Ann Arbor for his senior year of college, my play increased to three hours a day, five days a week with other Bay Area pickleball addicts, their faces becoming more familiar. On the court, the weight of my grief temporarily vanished, and I occasionally caught a glimpse of the person I used to be, the person I no longer was.
During the holidays, when Eli should have been home, sleeping well into the afternoon in his childhood bedroom, these familiar strangers, who I only knew by their first names and how they played (banger, soft game, deep serve), were no longer strangers. They now had last names and jobs and families and they were funny and kind and interested in me. I was no longer a stranger to them, which meant I had to focus less on perfecting my third shot drop, and more on figuring out how to talk about my dead son and the grief I was carrying.
After Eli died, regular conversations no longer existed. Most of us are horrible talking about grief and death, and those who are skilled often don’t choose it; they have first-hand experience. Do I bring up Eli to someone who doesn’t know my situation? And if you do know me and my loss, you’ll likely avoid it in fear of saying the wrong thing and making me sad, even though I’m already sad. Chances are I’m thinking about Eli in that moment anyway, and I’d be relieved if you brought him up. The mental gymnastics it takes to decide if, when and how is exhausting; none of us are saying what we’re feeling and thinking, which makes for polite, but lousy conversation.
The first time I was asked about my kids at pickleball, I said I had a son named Jesse, who was 20 and currently a sophomore in college. That was it. One kid. In that moment, it felt generous to spare the no-longer strangers I chatted with on the sidelines from an uncomfortable interaction minutes before heading back on the court. I patted myself on the back for being so unselfish. On the way home that evening, I was physically sick, filled with sadness, rage and self-loathing about the choice I made. Eli was real. He existed. How could I disregard him so easily?
The next time I was asked about my kids at pickleball, I said I had two sons. Jesse, my youngest, was 20 and currently a sophomore in college, and Eli, my oldest, drowned in July of 2021 and I was still learning how to say this out loud and it’s sad and awkward, but I wanted you to know and if you’d like, you can visit the website we created in his memory and get to know him.
It was uncomfortable, honest, and emotional. Some averted their eyes and offered the standard responses: “I can’t imagine.” (you can, and the reality is worse) and “there are no words” (there are words, you have to work hard to find them). Others looked directly at me with sad eyes and said nothing, hurrying onto the court for their next game. One remembered hearing about Eli’s death and said, “Oh my God, that was you?” Another emailed later that night saying he read about Eli and hoped that pickleball helped. He then told me his oldest son was named Eli. My relentless grief and my glimmer of hope finally met on a pickleball court and they were no-longer strangers. I felt surprisingly good.
In June of 2023, when Eli should have been launching his post-college life as a young adult, I celebrated my first anniversary as a pickleball addict. One month later, I was grieving his second deathaversary. Two years into forever. I continue to play five days a week, and most people know me as the guy with two kids and a lousy backhand. The grief is still constant, the game a joyful escape, and Eli feels incredibly close one minute and unbearably far away the next. Introducing him in conversations is complicated, but I’m trying, because to know me is to hear about Eli. And each day, I search for more glimmers of hope. Maybe I’m a completely different person who sees the world differently, and maybe I’m still the person I used to be. I have no idea. The only thing I know for sure is there’s no changing the past. This is my life.
July 2023