VIEW FROM THE KITCHEN: And Last Place Goes To …

Tim Jones here. As your CSPA club president, I feel it's only fair to disclose something about myself that has been weighing heavily on my conscience. I suck at pickleball. There. I said it. I've been playing this wonderful sport for four years now, and I have absolutely no concern that anyone will mistake me for a 4.0 player. Or a 3.75 player. Or, on some evenings, a person who has ever held a paddle before.

I'm living proof that you don't have to be good at pickleball to become club president – especially if you possess compromising blackmail photos of everyone else who was considering running. If I ever doubted my complete lack of athletic excellence, that uncertainty disappeared during our first-ever Camano Clash tournament.

The format was simple. Sixteen players who all considered themselves roughly 3.5-level players were divided into two groups of eight. After seven round-robin matches, players would compete against the person who finished in the same position from the other pool.

It was a terrific event. Unless you were me. I don't like to brag, but my wife says I have the speed and agility of a man twice my age. Based on the tournament results, she may actually be understating the problem.

When the final standings were announced, I just missed taking home the championship trophy... by 15 places. That's right. I finished 16th out of 16. Dead last. Not "just had an off night" last. Not "everyone was really good" last. More like, "Has anyone checked to see if Tim understands the rules?" last.

As everyone applauded the winners, I quietly approached the tournament director and asked where I should report to be fitted for my official Crown of Shame. She said there wasn't one. I suggested there probably should be.

How bad was it? I played eight matches. I lost seven. The eighth one ended in an 8-8 tie because the timer mercifully ran out before I could lose that one, too. At one point my Apple Watch asked if I'd like directions to the nearest retirement community.

For about three seconds I convinced myself that all my partners simply underperformed all evening. Then something unusual happened. I experienced a brief moment of self-awareness. Maybe... just maybe... the common denominator wasn't my partners. It was the guy whose name appeared on every losing score sheet. Me. If pickleball had a mercy rule, I think it should have been invoked during warm-ups.

Now, to be fair, I do occasionally hit a terrific shot. The last time someone yelled, "Great shot, Tim!" I believe gas was still under two dollars a gallon. Most of the time, though, my job on the court is to make my opponents feel really good about their athletic prowess. And, not to brag, but I’m damn good at my job. I'm basically the Pickleball Make-A-Wish Foundation. Several of my opponents thanked me afterward. Not for the game – for the confidence boost.

Losing doesn't really bother me. I've had decades of practice. I'm equally unremarkable at tennis, racquetball, golf, volleyball, and pretty much any activity involving hand-eye coordination. If Twister ever becomes an Olympic event, however, watch out.

After a loss, I don’t get upset with myself. I don’t walk away frustrated or dejected. Instead, I always walk to the net, congratulate my opponents, and offer a completely fabricated explanation. "My Vietnam War shrapnel injury was acting up." (I was in elementary school during most of Vietnam.)

Or... "Not making excuses, but I played that entire game with my right hand."

"Oh... so you're left-handed?"

"Nope." Then I walk away before they can ask any follow-up questions.

Sometimes I tell people, "I thought I played pretty well for an 85-year-old." For the record, I'm 71.

The wonderful thing about pickleball is that none of this really matters. If winning were the only reason to play, I'd have retired years ago. I play because of the fun, the laughter, and the countless wonderful friendships I’ve made along the way – both of them.

Besides, if I really felt a need to win, I could always challenge my wife to a game. Because when it comes to pickleball, I’m pretty sure I’d crush her (in part because she doesn’t actually play any sport involving a ball… or keeping score). And after my hard-fought humiliation of my wife on the court, then, for a few brief minutes, I’d remind myself, “See, Tim, you’re not the worse pickleball player in the world. Your wife is.” And that would make me smile.

– Tim Jones [Check out more of Tim’s View from the Bleachers humor column in the Crab Cracker, at www.ViewFromTheBleachers.net and his YouTube channel https://www.youtube.com/viewfromthebleachers]