I threw my pickleball paddle.
Like an impetuous little cry baby, I tossed it into an empty bench.
It soared like a Frisbee, garnering several audible gasps from surrounding players.
I tell you this not because I am proud but because days later, I’m still embarrassed.
The catalyst? I went one and six in games against lateral competition and I couldn’t point to a single reason why. I reverted back to that 14-year-old boy who once smashed a tennis racket against the tree. But that was a hormonal rage brought on by girl trouble.
Decades later, and a much more mellow dude, there is no excuse for my pickleball frustration to be left on the court.