I Lied To My Pickleball Group This Morning

I lied to my pickleball group this morning.

I sat in the rec center parking lot at 6:47 AM. Same spot I'd parked in for 14 months.

I sat there for 23 minutes.

I watched Tony walk in. Then Ron. Then Tina with the new Selkirk paddle she'd been bragging about all week.

I didn't get out.

I drove home.

I pulled over on Elm Street and typed into the group chat.

"Stomach bug guys. Out today. Sorry."

Six months before that, I wouldn't have sat in that car for 30 seconds. I would have been first on the court. First to stack a paddle. First to grab Tony and say let's take the back court before the 7 AM crowd shows up.

I'm 58 years old and that was the morning I realized I was about to lose the best thing that happened to me in the last ten years.

---

Let me back up.

14 months ago I'd never touched a paddle in my life. My buddy Dan at work dragged me out on a Saturday because one of his guys flaked. One game. That was supposed to be it.

I bought a paddle off Amazon the next day.

Three weeks later I was playing three times a week. Two months later, five times a week. Six months in I was playing six days a week and my wife was calling herself a pickleball widow at dinner parties.

There's a thing they call the honeymoon period. The first few months where you can't stop thinking about it. Supposedly it lasts six to eight months.

I'm on month 14 and I'm still thinking about it in the car on the way to work.

I've never stuck with a workout in my life. Never. I bought a rowing machine in 2017 that became a coat rack by 2018. But pickleball I did every day.

And the thing nobody tells you is that it's not really about the pickleball.

It's the group.

Tuesday morning open play. Thursday morning. Saturday morning. Same rec center. Same crew. Tony, Ron, Tina, Dan from HR, couple other guys who rotate in.

Afterwards we walk across the street to Millie's Diner. Eggs, coffee, and a 30 minute argument about whether someone's third shot was a drop or a drive.

When Ron's wife had her knee surgery last spring four of us showed up at the hospital. None of us knew each other 14 months ago.

That's what pickleball is. Anyone who plays knows exactly what I'm talking about.

---

Then around month seven my body started saying something.

Mornings got rough. That first step out of bed felt like I was 80 years old. I'd shuffle to the bathroom holding the wall like I was recovering from surgery.

Then my knees. Dull throb after every session. I started going down stairs sideways, one leg at a time, like my dad used to in his 70s.

Then the back. The arch of my foot. The ball of my foot. The outside of my other foot.

It wasn't one thing. It was my whole body.

Someone on reddit wrote that pickleball is marketed as a chill social sport but it absolutely cooks your joints. That was exactly what was happening to me.

I told myself what everyone tells themselves.

I'm 58. I went from walking the dog twice a week to playing 15 hours of court sport every week. Of course my body hurts. That's just what happens when you get older.

So I did what every pickleball player in America does.

I bought new shoes.

First pair were Babolats. Everyone on the Facebook group said they were the best. About 130 bucks. Felt great for two weeks. Pain was right back.

Second pair were K Swiss Hypercourts. The shoe half the guys at my level wear. Another 120. Same story.

Third pair were Skechers Viper Court Pros. The reviews were insane. Another 110.

Same exact story.

I had three pairs of pickleball shoes in my closet and my heel still felt like someone was driving a nail into it every morning when I stood up.

I moved on to the next stage.

Two Advil before every session. Sometimes three. KT tape under my arch. A frozen water bottle I'd roll my foot on in the car on the way home. 20 minutes of stretching every morning before I could stand up properly. Orthopedic insoles from Costco, about 60 bucks, felt good in my work shoes but made my pickleball shoes so tight my toes went numb.

It helped a little. Then it didn't.

---

Around month 12, Tony pulled me aside at Millie's.

He waited until the other guys were arguing about something else and leaned over his coffee.

"You alright Rick?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"I don't know man. You've been moving slower."

My ears went hot.

"I'm fine."

"You sure? Last Saturday you didn't chase that wide ball at the kitchen. Three months ago you would have dove for that."

He was right.

Here's the thing about Tony. Tony knew exactly what was happening to me because Tony had been doing the same stuff. I'd seen him rolling his foot on a lacrosse ball in the parking lot for months. He just never said a word about it. None of us did. We all thought it was just getting older.

I drove home from Millie's that day and sat in my driveway for 15 minutes before I went inside.

Because I knew what was coming.

There's a story on reddit that's burned into my head. A guy wrote that his pickleball partners were skipping their turn in the rotation if they ended up paired with him. Because he'd gotten slow. They weren't mean about it. They just quietly worked around him.

And he wrote: it was an awful feeling.

I read that months ago and thought that's horrible. That would never happen to me.

Now I was sitting in my driveway wondering how many more Saturdays before Tony stopped texting the group chat the night before to confirm I was coming.

That's why, the next Tuesday, I sat in that parking lot for 23 minutes and drove home.

---

I went to the doctor that Monday.

He looked at my chart for four minutes and said exactly what I knew he was going to say.

"You need to stop playing pickleball. At least three months. Maybe permanently. You're 58. Your body can't handle this volume."

"Doc, I'm not stopping."

"Then you'll keep getting worse."

I walked out and sat in my car for another 10 minutes. Stop playing. Stop playing the one thing that made me feel younger than I'd felt in a decade.

Not happening.

That night at Tuesday open play I told Tony what the doctor said.

He looked at Ron. Ron looked at Tina. Tina stopped untying her shoes.

"Rick," she said. "Go see Dr. Chen. Over on Maple."

"Who?"

"My husband saw him last year for his achilles. He plays four days a week now. Completely fine. Chen specifically treats pickleball players. Plays himself, five days a week."

"My other doc was a general ortho."

"Right. Chen is different."

She pulled out her phone and texted me the address right there.

"One thing though. He'll tell you to bring your pickleball shoes. Just do it."

I made the appointment for that Thursday.

The waiting room made me laugh out loud when I walked in.

Pickleball posters on every wall. A signed paddle behind the front desk. A framed tournament bracket from 2024. The TV in the corner was playing PPA Tour highlights on mute. The magazine rack had Pickleball Magazine and nothing else.

The receptionist saw me looking around.

"Dr. Chen plays five days a week. He treats half the local tour."

Chen walked in. Maybe 60 years old. Lean. Coffee mug that said Just Here for the Dinks.

"Rick. Tell me what's going on."

I told him everything. The heels. The knees. The back. Three pairs of pickleball shoes. Advil. KT tape. The orthopedic insoles from Costco. Tony's comment at Millie's. The other doctor saying quit.

He listened. Didn't interrupt.

When I was done he said: "Did you bring the shoes?"

"Yeah."

I pulled out the K Swiss. My current pair.

He took them and turned them over. But he wasn't looking at the outside. He pulled the insole out with two fingers like it was a used napkin.

"Look at this."

He bent it in half like paper. Pressed his thumb into the middle of it.

It squished down. And stayed there. Flat.

"Press your thumb in."

I pressed. Same thing. Dead foam. Stayed compressed where my thumb had been.

"This has been inside your shoe every time you've played pickleball for 14 months."

I didn't say anything.

"This is what comes in a 130 dollar pickleball shoe. Babolat puts this in. K Swiss. Skechers. Nike. Adidas. All of them. The shell of the shoe is different. What's inside is the same."

"Hold on doc. I'm 58. Isn't this just what happens? Maybe I just need to play less."

He shook his head.

"Age isn't the problem. Load without support is. I've got patients in their 70s playing six days a week. Pain free."

"Then why didn't my shoes fix it? I spent 400 bucks on three pairs."

"Because the shoe isn't the support. The insole is the support. Every shoe company sells you the shell. Nobody sells you the support."

He held up the dead K Swiss insole again.

"Here's the thing nobody tells pickleball players. Pickleball is not walking."

"Alright."

"Walking puts 1 time your body weight on your foot. Running puts 2 to 3. A hard lateral stop on a pickleball court puts 4 to 5 times your body weight on one foot. Sideways. Not straight down. Sideways."

"4 to 5 times."

"Every time you stop for a ball at the kitchen. Every time you push off to cover a wide shot. Sideways. Into a piece of foam built for walking."

"What about the orthopedic insoles I tried? The Costco ones."

"Those are built for walking around in everyday shoes. Older people with bad arches who want to stand at the grocery store without their feet killing them. Those work great for that. They do nothing for dynamic movements like pickleball."

"So basically every insole on the market is for walking."

"Every insole on the market is for walking."

"Is there anything that isn't?"

"One brand I've found. One. Built specifically for pickleball. Not running. Not even tennis. Pickleball."

"What's the difference. Tennis has lateral movement too."

He smiled.

"Tennis is a baseline sport. You're mostly moving forward and back. Long strides. Full swings. A second or two between shots. Pickleball is a kitchen game. Everything happens in a 20 foot space. Short lateral shuffles. Split steps. Reaction time is twice as fast as tennis. The forces and the angles are completely different. A tennis insole is not a pickleball insole."

"And this brand is pickleball specific."

"Pickleball specific. The arch support, the heel cup, the material, all of it built for the kitchen shuffle and the short lateral stop. Not for forward running."

"What's it called."

"OnAce. Here."

He opened a drawer. Pulled out an insole.

"Press your thumb into this one."

I took it.

I don't know how to explain this.

The thing compressed under my thumb. Firm but not hard. Then it pushed back. Immediately. Like there was something alive inside of it.

Not soft like the dead foam that was just in my other hand.

Not rigid like the Costco orthopedics that made my toes go numb.

Something in between. It compressed exactly as much as I pushed and then bounced right back.

I pressed it again. Same response.

Then I pressed my K Swiss insole again.

Dead. Flat. Stayed down.

I held them both. One in each hand.

"These are not in the same universe."

"They are not."

"How much."

"About 50 bucks. Most of my patients grab two pairs so they can put one in their everyday shoes too. Helps at work, on the weekend, anywhere."

I sat there for a minute.

"Why isn't this everywhere. Why haven't I heard of this."

"Because the shoe companies make their money on the shell. Nobody's out there advertising the thing inside the shoe. That's not where the margin is."

"So every guy at my rec center."

"Playing on a piece of foam built for walking. Yeah."

I drove home from Chen's office that day.

I didn't order them that night. I don't know why. Part of me didn't believe a 50 dollar insole was the answer to something my actual doctor told me to quit over.

Next morning, Friday, 5:40 AM. I swung my legs over the side of the bed.

The knife was right there. Harder than ever.

I held the railing going downstairs. Both hands. Step, hold, step, hold.

Made coffee. Sat at the kitchen table. Opened the group chat.

"Bad night guys. Out today. Next week."

And I just stared at it.

And I thought about what Chen said at the end of my appointment. About the window. About how this stuff turns chronic if you wait too long. 12 months to get back. Sometimes surgery.

I was 7 months into this.

I went to the website on my phone. The first thing I saw was a 60 day money back guarantee.

So here's what I thought.

If it doesn't work, I send them back and I'm out nothing.

If it works, I get my life back. For 50 bucks.

I ordered two pairs.

They showed up Wednesday.

Thursday morning open play. Slipped the insoles into the K Swiss in the parking lot and walked to the courts.

First thing I noticed. My foot felt held. Not squeezed. Not pushed up. Held. Something underneath catching my arch.

I played two hours.

Next morning. First step out of bed.

The knife wasn't there.

By week two the knees stopped aching. By week three the back loosened up. By week five I was playing six days a week again, chasing wide balls, and one Saturday morning Tony watched me dive for a lob and shouted "There he is."

There he is.

Yeah.

This Tuesday. 6:47 AM. Same parking lot. Same spot.

I was out of the car and halfway to the courts before the engine was all the way off. Paddle in my hand. Ron waving from the door.

---

Now listen.

If you're reading this, you've probably been where I was.

Six, eight, twelve months into pickleball. Your whole body suddenly telling you something it wasn't telling you before. Knees. Heel. Back. Arch. The morning you can barely walk to the bathroom.

You've probably already bought new shoes. Maybe two pairs. Maybe three. They helped for a couple weeks and then they didn't.

Do me one favor right now.

Grab your pickleball shoes. Any pair.

Pull the insole out. It comes out easily.

Look at it.

Bend it in half. It probably folds like paper.

Press your thumb into the middle. Hard.

Does it stay compressed? Or bounce back weakly?

That's what has been under your foot for every hour you've played. Every Tuesday morning open play. Every Saturday. On a piece of foam built for walking.

It's not your age.

It's not that your body can't handle pickleball.

It's not that you started too hard.

You did everything right. You bought pickleball shoes. You drink water. You warm up. You ice afterwards.

The shoe industry just sold you the shell and left you to figure the rest out on your own.

The hard part, and the reason I'm writing this, is what Chen said about the window. If you wait another two or three months, this thing turns chronic. Then you're looking at 12 months of treatment to get back on the court. Some guys end up in surgery. I caught mine late and I got lucky.

I don't want anyone else waiting until it's too late. I've linked it below. Click the button and it takes you right there. 60 day guarantee, so you test them the same way I did. You lose nothing.

Rick