Sadie Gifford

Editor-in-Chief Annica Dupre hugs a tennis racket to her chest, cowering in fear at the sight of a pickleball paddle.

Longtime Spectrum readers know I love tennis. In addition to playing and watching a substantial amount of it, I’ve written several articles on the sport, whether they captivate the student body or not. By the time I graduate, I hope to have inspired exactly one person to watch exactly one tennis match. If Challengers can do it, so can I, right? Even if my articles are less, um, wild. And lack Zendaya.

Anyway, you can probably guess I enjoy talking people’s ears off about tennis. However, something has changed. When I tell people I play tennis, the follow-up question is no longer, “Which is better, your forehand or your backhand?” or “Who’s your favorite player?” or “What did you think about that double bounce Jack Draper hit on match point against Felix Auger-Aliassime in the third round of the Cincinnati Masters?” It’s “So what do you think about pickleball?”

Instead of answering this question again and again, I have written the contents of my response in a manifesto. The following is what I, described by Mr. Higgins as a “hardcore tennis person,” think about pickleball.

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Put simply, pickleball is an invasive species that needs to be eradicated.

I couldn’t have been older than 12 the first time I encountered “the sport.” I was a naive child, not yet crushed by the horrors of the world. As I skipped onto the court to warm up, I noticed long, foreign vines of blue tape choking the service boxes. My coach Ray told me they were pickleball lines. This was long before the boom, so I felt nothing but confusion. Why would you name a sport after pickles? Squashes I understood, but pickles?

Soon, I would learn.

Since the pandemic died down, pickleball has been converting people by the masses. What makes it so appealing? Many cite the low barrier of entry. Pickleball does not require complex technique or athletic prowess or actually trying. Anyone can jump right in after learning the basics in minutes. The tiny size of the court and the lack of intensity allow you to chat with your opponents as you rally. Players call the game inclusive, social, and fun (Snopes hasn’t fact-checked these statements).

Why would anybody want this when you have tennis? It’s the darling of stuffy country clubs, notorious for its high barrier to entry. Tennis, where you dart every which way around the court, panting and dripping in sweat and decimating the ball until you finally clinch victory and your limbs feel like they’ll pop off like Mr. Potato Head parts. Tennis, where that weird girl who plays first singles for Dartmouth gets moody and quiet when she’s losing, leaving you to stand awkwardly beside her during the changeover, chugging water in deafening silence. What could be better?

Pickleball isn’t one of the invasive species that leaves its new environment unharmed. It’s a parasite. Cities across the nation are learning that, once you destroy one tennis court’s surface, you can build four pickleball courts in its place—and they’re doing just that. It’s like taking a bulldozer to the Colosseum and building a Taco Bell in the middle of the rubble. 

And the noise—what an obnoxious sound. The thwock of a pickleball clocks in at around 70 db, which is 15 dbs above what the CDC deems the “limit of acceptable noise exposure” for outdoor activities before they become irritating. It’s the reason many neighborhoods adjacent to pickleball courts are filing complaints. “It’s a torture technique,” victim Clint Ellis told The New York Times. As is playing it, Clint.

Nonetheless, pickleball’s expansion persists. Its encroachment on the tennis world goes beyond the court space conflicts. I recall dashing off the bus last year, thrilled to watch the ATP Finals. When I flicked on the Tennis Channel, something horrid burned my eyes.

There it was. Four men in the center of a small stadium, rooted into place, sticking their arms out to tap around a plastic sphere.

Pickleball? On the Tennis Channel? I was already sick from seeing Top 100 players swap their racket for a paddle, while legends invested in leagues or played in charity tournaments. Now pickleball? On the Tennis Channel?

I fell to my knees—then quickly stood up. After watching for a few minutes, I realized at least one aspect of tennis is safe: pickleball’s dull viewing experience will never beat watching Novak Djokovic hit a down-the-line backhand winner with an extended grunt on match point.

Pull up a compilation of top 10 craziest pickleball shots, then watch the 2012 Australian Open men’s final. Tell me which one inspired you to run a mile afterwards. The best pro tennis matches are emotional rollercoasters, ruthless battles that leave you in awe of the human body and spirit. Pickleball, on the other hand, robs my soul of its joie de vivre.

I grasp onto this win as pickleball continues to sweep across this brainwashed nation. I know I’m not alone. Throughout its rise, pickleball has maintained stern resistance from many tennis players, amateur and pro alike. Occasionally I have to keep a low profile, pulling a hood over my head as I pass by an occupied tennis court, suppressing snickers when a customer enters my work wearing a “If You Can’t Stand the Heat, Stay Out of the Kitchen” T-shirt. (There’s a part of a pickleball court called the kitchen and you can’t step in it when hitting a volley or something. Hilarious, I know.)

I nurture hope, though. For I have a feeling the pickleball empire will crumble. One day we will emerge from the darkness and stare at the cracked courts, monuments to societies past. They’ll be faded and overrun by weeds as nature reclaims its land. In that moment, we will have to face the mistakes we made as a collective species. Only then can we rebuild.