I was looking forward to the empty nest years. Then my husband discovered pickleball

I had high hopes for our empty nest years. I had heard it was the best time of marriage, a time to travel the world, reconnect as a couple, sleep in late on weekends without compromise. But last year, my husband discovered pickleball.

I thought it was just a sport for older men who could barely bend down and tie their shoes until our townhouse community installed tennis courts. Curious to see what it was all about, I went on Amazon to buy a cheap paddle and balls to try out with my neighbor.

“It’s great fun,” he replied. “But I think I need to take some lessons to get used to it.”

So he signed up for an hour-long private session, returning home with a $250 paddle with a “power polymer core.” He had no idea what that meant, only that the instructor insisted he needed it. Then came the gear: T-shirts, caps, visors, shorts, socks, sneakers. Selkirk, Joola, Tiara. He listed brands, scoured the Internet, stalked Instagram accounts, and boxes started arriving daily. There were grips, tape, even shatterproof goggles (apparently losing an eye to a pickleball badmouth is a real problem). One paddle wasn’t enough; he needed several, like sets of golf clubs, “for different levels of play.” He was hooked. More than hooked—addicted.

My friends are as confused as I am. Suddenly, their husbands are joining pickleball leagues, escaping to City Pickle in Long Island City, Queens, and The Barn in Westhampton, New York, several early mornings a week. My husband wakes up at 6 a.m. on weekends to play, leaving me alone in bed, cuddling the dog. He even found a league that met on Thursday nights from 8 to 10 p.m. When he got home, he threw himself on the bed, exhausted, barely able to take off his clothes.

I’ll admit that when this all started, I wasn’t sure what the motive was for my husband’s new hobby, but I could tell the obsession was real. For example, there wasn’t a vacation we booked (including a recent trip to Vegas) where he didn’t check out the no-holds-barred pickleball scene. He signed up for an intensive clinic in Naples, Florida (“the pickleball capital of the world!”) to “level up his game.” This involved competing for hours a day, barely coming up for air.

OK, I thought, maybe I don’t understand something. “Sign me up for a lesson,” I told him.

On a muggy, hot Sunday morning, we drove to an outdoor court. My teacher was a gentleman in his seventies who claimed to be “one of the best players in the Hamptons.” His grandson, a chatty teenager, had been paired with my husband and boasted, “Grandpa taught me everything I know.”

I looked at my husband: He was sprawled against the fence, as if warming up for the Wimbledon final. His face looked fierce and determined as he took a stance and began playing his high school-aged opponent. Meanwhile, my grandfather handed me a lightweight paddle and a neon yellow ball. It was smaller than a tennis ball, made of hard plastic and full of holes.

“Hit it,” he instructed. I let it slip out of my hand and it hit the ground, barely returning above my ankle. “It won’t go very high,” he said. He wasn’t kidding. Then he told me to step back, far back, and serve. I had taken tennis lessons for most of my childhood, raising my arm above my head.

“No! Stop it!” the teacher corrected me. “Underhand, not overhand. Like you’re playing ping-pong.” I nodded, but I still hit the ball into the sky, sending it flying into the parking lot. The impact set off a car alarm. It took me three or four more serves to learn how to keep the balls on the court. At that point, he decided I could be better at hitting them, so he threw a few balls at me. To reach them, I had to bend low, almost kneeling, and stand with my legs spread so I could reach in any direction.

I walked to the net, dripping with sweat. “Explain something to me,” I asked. “How does my friend’s 90-year-old father do this all day, every day?”

“They’re taking drugs,” he replied. “And they’re standing in the kitchen.”

Apparently the sport also had its own language and scoring system that was impossible to decipher (three numbers?). We passed the ball back and forth, back and forth, gently over the net, staying away from the kitchen line (the 7 foot zone on each side). After a while I mastered the art of dinka, barely moving my feet in either direction. It took laser focus, but I could easily take on my grandpa and get by!

On the way back, my husband wanted to know what I thought. “Okay,” I said. “I really don’t understand why you love it so much.” He talked about the excitement, the strategy, learning how to spin the ball so it drops at a sharp angle, out of reach of your opponent. Honestly, I didn’t get it. I just wanted to get home and take a shower.

At first I worried that he was taking it too far. Or worse, that he was using pickleball to escape our marriage. But then I tried to put myself in his neon orange tennis shoes and think like him: Our 21-year-old daughter just moved out, and he misses her. He recently turned 59, and retirement and retirement loom on the horizon. My parents are dead, and his are 86 and 90. The golden years, from our perspective, aren’t looking too promising. They’re filled with illness, memory loss, and hip replacements, so why not be active and energetic while you can? Pickleball gives him an adrenaline rush, a sense of strength, agility, masculinity. The games are short, and the rallies are quick. It’s also a social game: you can play with people of all skill levels and eventually find your “team.” In my husband’s case, it’s four or five guys who are well-matched, and a network of players in Florida, where he dreams of snowbirding. They pat each other on the back, tell jokes, and tap their paddles when they get a good shot.

That said, none of them are Roger Federer, although they dress the part and carry an assortment of professional paddles in giant backpacks. Our coffee table in the living room is littered with Thera-Bands, hand strengtheners and finger stretchers. He and his buddies are in physical therapy for tendinitis, tennis elbow, plantar fasciitis and a host of other game-related hazards. And yet they play on.

While other wives mourn the loss of their partners to pickleball, I think I’ve finally come to terms with it—on a few conditions. No more talk of pickleball at the table, and no gadgets strewn all over the place (I tripped over a paddle and nearly broke my neck). My daughter’s closet has now become his backup storage unit, her childhood stuffed toys stacked high on a shelf to make room for her father’s growing wardrobe of neon T-shirts with slogans like “Dink Responsibly” and “I’m a Heavy Dinker.” I’ve made it a point to indulge him by giving him gift cards to pickleball.com (“all about pickleball!”) and recently waking up at dawn to take action photos to frame on his office wall. As a thank-you for his support, he bought me a silver pickleball pendant on a chain for our anniversary. Every time I see it in the mirror, the little heart carved into the center of the paddle, it makes me laugh. It’s so… his.

Instead of whining, I’ve learned to enjoy the quiet hours I have when he goes out to play. I work, I write, I read a novel. I go out with friends and go to yoga classes.. I understand that this is “his thing,” something he’s been looking for for a long time. It’s more than just a hobby or a pastime, it’s a true passion, something that gets him excited to get out of bed in the morning. Maybe I didn’t see the benefits at first. I whined and complained and rolled my eyes. Then I saw him become a new man with a renewed sense of purpose. He spends quality time with his circle of male friends. He eats healthier, works harder, is more present when he’s around me. So yes, I may have to endure a detailed recap of his last game and do more sweaty laundry, but he’s happy.

As we grow older, maybe it’s okay if we don’t share all our interests. He’ll never love watching “Bridgertons” and I’ll never be a fan of “Curb Your Enthusiasm.” So be it. After 26 years of marriage, I think we have plenty of time to focus on ourselves as individuals; it makes us appreciate our time together even more. I love learning Why he loves pickleball, the way his face lights up when he talks about mastering the drop spin (I have no idea what he’s talking about, but that’s okay). Ultimately, relationships are better and stronger when each person has things they do on their own. Differences don’t tear you apart; sometimes they create an even stronger bond between you. And that’s definitely something worth complaining about.

This article was originally published on TODAY.com