By Adam Brownstein
Unrecognizable. Dysfunctional. WTF!
These descriptors popped up again and again in the parlance of my expat friends who had visited America of late. Most of my good buddies tend to have strong opinions about material and trite topics alike, so I ingested their kvetching with a few grains of salt. Being both independently minded and curious by nature, I decided to make my grand Summer 2022 United States Tour an observational study. Like de Tocqueville, I would first see, hear and describe, reserving my own judgment to be deployed sparingly and carefully.
My methodology held fast and firm during the first leg of our trip. My time in California, Utah and Montana yielded equal parts fun and fascination. Despite the worldview schism of those locales, in general people seemed unchanged since my last sojourn out West. Even my trip to New York felt more like a study in continuity than discordance. Manhattan was still rife with the energy, blazing style and intense odors that I had missed since leaving there for Tokyo in the Summer of 2011. I find myself noting a great deal about Life from Billings to the Bowery, but not overthinking things too much.
My final segment of travel led us back to Seattle, our beloved adopted home in America. Two out of our three children were born in Ballard, and my wife and I had always held the Emerald City in a place of reverence and cheer in our hearts. But sadly, Seattle had changed. And none for the better, I’m afraid.
What follows next is a peculiarly tragic tale of how a novel idea, left to stew in the idle hands of the wayward fringes of society, can foment into something gastly. With this disclaimer, dear reader, consider yourself duly warned.
I knew something was awry when, while checking out at the Ballard PPC Market I spied something called “Vegan Jerky”. It struck me as an oxymoronic fluke of sorts until I discovered “Mushroom Jerky” beside it. I stared at this new and peculiar sub-category of food for several minutes, enough time for other patrons to waltz by place some in their baskets.
“You should try the teriyaki flavor!” a kind-eyed woman who resembled Jane Goddall commented. “It’s lovely.”
In keeping with my observe-don’t-judge mindset (and so as not to offend Aunt Jane), I tried to muster the courage to secure a package of the stuff. It would go alongside the 40 bars of overpriced chocolate that Megumu and I were buying for friends and family back in Japan. Someday, I might find the inclination to actually eat it in order to form an opinion. I froze in a moment of indecision and left the jerky by the checkout stand for others who were more appreciative of the genre.
Leaving PCC, I felt a great weight had been lifted off of my shoulders. I had been met by the sinister hand of Judgment and walked away holding no opinion of vegan jerky. I passed the Padawan learner test! Feeling extra spry and thankful, I ventured out with my family to celebrate.
We sojourned to our old stomping grounds of Wallingford taking in a meal at our favorite neighborhood izakaya on 45th Street. The mediocre quality of the cuisine and “slackadaisical” service (OK, I am a wee bit judgy) did not dampen our spirits. Bowls of miso soup and plates of mildly mushy edamame inspired beaming smiles to our three children. It was a welcomed taste of Japanese soul food that they had been lacking amidst a steady July diet of chicken fingers and mac and cheese.
The evening took a flavorsome turn for the better when we queued up for ice cream at Molly Moon. Looking at our progeny and their huge waffle cones housing scoops of Scout Mint, Cookies n’ Cream and Yeti, Megumu and I beamed with summertime satisfaction. The endless daylight of the Pacific Northwest and breezy temperature beckoned for more fun before traipsing back to our AirBnB. So we elected to head over to Greenlake for a late evening family stroll.
And there, our fortunes really went South.
It began with a sound that penetrated my ear drums the moment I got out of the car in the parking lot of the Green Lake Community Center. A kind of dull, manically persistent popping noise emanated through the otherwise playful summer air. Sharp, loud and grating it caused my curiosity radar to instantaneously deploy . I had walked the tranquil shores of fair Green Lake hundreds of times before on balmy July evenings such as these. But I had never encountered such clangor. What for the love of Thundercats WAS it? My meditation was broken by the cries of my children.
“Dad, what are those people DOING???” my nine-year-old son squealed.
“It’s some sort of dance contest,” my pre-teen daughter concluded, only to redact her initial hypothesis. “No. Wait! It’s NOT. It’s some kind of GAME that they’re playing! Like Squid Game, but (gulp!) . . . worse!”
My older children’s gaze, pregnant with fear and fascination, was trained on the public tennis courts nestled just behind the Greenlake Boathouse and Coffee Shop. On said courts were dozens, perhaps hundreds, of people engaged in acts of such debauchery that I covered the eyes of our three year old son. Some of the court inhabitants moved incessantly, as if possessed by a metronomic demon. Others stood still, chatting idly and loudly. A few were prancing around the court holding what seemed like weaponry from the set of Dune.
“What is going on HERE?” I inquired.
“Dad,” my older son demurred. “We know what these people are doing. They’re playing . . . pickleball.”
“. . . and it is NOT pretty,” imbued my daughter.
They were right. It was pickleball.
As the initial visual shock wore off, the confirming signs came full bore. The tennis court dimensions, unspoiled for centuries, had been reduced to a version of the game appropriately sized for kindergartners. The broad and beautiful white baseline and service line for tennis had been defiled by the gaudy, johnny-come-lately yellow tape of pickleball. Rather than wielding tennis rackets with proper names like “T-2000”, “Black Max” and “Pure Aero”, the instruments that the picklers (yes, that is the term these “athletes” use to refer to themselves), were stubby, stringless eyesores. The naming convention of the paddles came right off the Warby Parker home page. Hey, is that the new Ashbury you’re pickling with? Yes! Almost as cool as your Clarkesville!
And then there was the wardrobe selection. It seemed that this not-so-secret society of renegades had sent around a memo earlier in the day urging participants to combine outfits that were one part Big 5 deep discount sale and one part Hogwarts school uniform. To their credit, many of them sported proper sneakers, although I swear one was adorned in swim flippers.
Serena, Bjorn, René and Billy Jean had worked tirelessly over many decades to craft styles that struck an elegant balance between wink-at-the-past tradition and rebellious individuality. The picklers demonstrated no such sense of decorum, hoping somehow that the combination of loud socks and Elvis Costello glasses would be enough to make a statement.
Perhaps most frightening of all was the actual game play. We already touched on the mindblowing cacophony of the paddle striking the ball. Fortunately, that did not happen so often. Rallies were mercifully short-lived, perhaps due to the lackadaisical nature of the teams. There were not many experts amongst them. Very often balls went astray affording the retrieving player a chance to actually run. When rallies lasted a while it was akin to watching a foursome of gardeners plucking weeds from the ground. Though largely devoid of anything qualified as athleticism, the contests did not hold back on celebratory dances. They were frequent and disturbing to watch.
My wife grabbed my hand and gently directed me to back away slowly. Over the years she had rescued me in moments of distress when my dander was up. This situation called upon her skill and mercy to do it yet again. When we reached the safe haven of the playground 100 paces away I felt the need to sit down.
What I had seen could not be unseen.
That night I suffered from cold sweats until daybreak. According to my two sons, whom I bunked up with at the AirBnB in Ballard, I shouted continuously “put the paddle DOWN!” in my broken sleep. I awoke with Talmudic sense of gratitude. We had weathered the unexpected hardship and lived to enjoy another day.
That morning over our standard vacation breakfast of chocolate pancakes, treat-yourself OJ and salter banter my daughter elected to poke at the fresh nerve of my emotional damage. She informed us that not only had Pickleball been invented on nearby Bainbridge Island, but also in 2022 Washington had adopted it as the official state sport.
Alaska has Dog Mushing. Hawaii, of course, has Surfing. Maryland has Lacrosse (and Jousting, too, so it seems). Both Texas and Wyoming have Rodeo. My adopted State of Washington and home away from home in Tokyo, has Pickleball. Proof positive that idol paddles are indeed the Devil’s plaything.
The Tokyo Yenta 