CLASSIFIED · FOR MY EYES ONLY · PLEASE READ
I read every player on the court before the first serve. Kit, paddle, shoes, posture, vibe. Then I assign a threat level and a plan. My accuracy to date is zero percent. Study these anyway.
CASE FILE 01
Assessed threat: professional · Actual threat: none
Matching top and bottom. Coordinated shoes. A $280 paddle with the plastic still on the edge guard. This player has invested in looking like a professional, therefore they are one. Compliment the kit early to establish psychological dominance. Play defense. Do not poke the bear.
They shanked the first three into the fence and apologized to each one individually. We won 11–2. I complimented the kit anyway, because it really was a tremendous kit, and a compliment is free.
CASE FILE 02
Assessed threat: none · Actual threat: catastrophic
Faded 2015 Metallica tee. Gas-station sunglasses. Pickleball shoes from the sport's first administration. A wood paddle. This is not a serious person. Warm up the put-aways. This will be quick and it will be merciful.
They dinked me into a documented state of self-reflection. I did not win a single point I did not personally gift myself. Do not make eye contact. This player dreams in kitchen strategy. Run — respectfully, and toward them, to learn.
CASE FILE 03
Assessed threat: unbeatable · Actual threat: reset them
Hits every ball at maximum velocity from any position on the court. Terrifying. There is no known defense. Consider forfeiting to preserve dignity and teeth.
We hit it soft. They did not know that was allowed. Every ball we floated into the kitchen they tried to detonate, and every one sailed long. We won by doing less, which felt illegal, and I have never respected a soft ball more in my life.
CASE FILE 04
Assessed threat: nap incoming · Actual threat: the ceiling
Cotton tee. White New Balances with actual arch support. Moves like they are conserving something. Elderly, kind, no threat. I will gently carry this game and help them off the court after.
They have been playing since before I was tall. They out-patienced me into next week, dinked me 11–3, and asked about my knee between games because they'd clocked my brace. I took the one tip they offered and did not ask for, because they had, unambiguously, earned the right to give it.
CASE FILE 05
Assessed threat: confused · Actual threat: subterranean
Tennis whites. Swings like the court is 78 feet long. They'll be hitting everything over the fence by game two. Lob them and they'll start calling the score fifteen-love.
They sliced every ball. It cleared the net by a hair, landed, and then stayed 2 millimeters off the ground for the rest of its life. I spent the match digging like I'd dropped my keys. I asked where they learned that. They said tennis. I have started watching tennis.
CASE FILE 06
Assessed threat: gentle · Actual threat: physics
No pace on the serve whatsoever. Moves like every step is billed by the hour. I will step in and punish it.
The serve had no pace and every spin known to science. It kicked left, then right, then away from my paddle entirely. Everything they hit came back spinning like it had somewhere better to be. I did not get one. Afterward I bought a paddle with more spin. It did not come with the spin.
THE PLAYBOOK — MY PROVEN SYSTEM
Every pickleball video on the internet gives you the same advice. I have watched all of them. What follows is the opposite, and I stand behind every word.
My buddy says drop it soft into the kitchen and let them make the mistake. He’s wrong. Drops are for people who can't hit it hard enough. Rip it 40 mph into the tallest opponent's sternum and let the court know pickleball has an owner now.
Never reset. Resetting is admitting the last shot happened. Deny that it happened. Speed up into a ball at your own ankles and blame your partner with your eyes.
Serve as hard as humanly possible. If it goes into the net, next time you get the serve, hit it as hard as humanly possible again, but high and long. Gotta keep them guessing. Consistency is a myth invented by people with soft serves and something to hide.
Call it out. Call it out loudly. Call it out before it lands. Whether the ball then lands in is a technicality, and technicalities are for lawyers. My buddy says if you think it was out, it was in. He’s wrong. If I think it was out, it was out. I called it out because it was out. Or maybe it was in and I thought it was out. Either way, it was out. I don’t need the point. I’m going to crush you on the next one. So when you see my index finger in the air, I’m letting you know who’s number one. (And it was out.)
Stack. Do not learn why. Stand on the same side as your partner, project total confidence, and cross at a moment that feels right to you and to no one else on the court.
My buddy has a whole page about who’s supposed to get the lob. He’s wrong. Nobody gets my lob. Lob everything. First ball, fifth ball, match point. This is especially true when the sun is sitting just above their hat visors. Hit that lob straight up into the glare, where only God and I can track it. They will eventually smash it through my shoelaces. I will not have seen it either. I was still looking up, admiring the lob. That's pressure.
The videos all say keep it low. Someone smart once told me there's always more room on the Z-axis. They were not talking about pickleball. I am. Also, Z is the last letter, which means it knows the shape of every letter that came before it. Z is the most knowledgeable letter. The ball belongs up there. They call it a pop-up. I call it vertical pressure.
The videos never cover this, because they don't want you to know about it. When I drop the ball, kick it while picking it up, and chase it halfway to the next court, that is psychological warfare. Two opponents and my partner, fully distracted, wondering whether to call an ambulance. Then I serve. Into the net, but they never saw it coming.
Friendly Tuesday game? Everyone's there to rally and somebody brought orange slices? Perfect conditions. Go for the ace on every single serve. They came to play pickleball; you came to be undefeated. When it goes into the net, and it will, call a mulligan. For yourself. Only ever for yourself.
The videos all say good players are relaxed. That's how you know they're hiding something. Play amped, like you're on your seventh Red Bull and the eighth is in your bag, ready to crack open between games. Grip the paddle like it owes you money. Tense shoulders are just muscles that are paying attention.
Some pros don't even look at the ball when they serve. Amateurs. Stare at it. Stare at it so hard it gets uncomfortable. Then serve it into the net anyway, but with eye contact.
My buddy says the best paddle is the one that works for you. He’s wrong. The best paddle is the next one. I own ten. Today I almost bought the eleventh. It’s the pro version of one I already own. Mine is for “touch” and “placement.” The pro version wins games with pro-level power, and it comes in hot pink, which is the color of winners, like the winner of the Giro d’Italia, which I saw on TV once. It wasn’t pickleball, but the kits were pro because pros were wearing them, so the color must be pro. It makes a sound like a cannon going off. I have never heard a cannon, but that’s what I think they sound like. At least, that’s what the ad says. Then I read the fine print: pink is only for players with a DUPR over 5.0. I’m halfway there, so I ordered the maillot jaune. Sounds fancy. Status report to follow.
The coaches say mix it up: dink somewhere unexpected, never drive at the same person twice. Cowardice. Pick one spot and hit it every single time until your opponent is not beaten but bored. Eventually they'll step over and put it away. That's just them giving up on the rally. I win on spirit.
When my ball clips the tape and dribbles over for a winner, that isn't luck. I spent a month doing nothing but tape reps, knowing they would pay off. When it clips the tape and falls back on my side, that's also reps. Different reps, different results.
A power move. It shows the other side you mean business. The videos say wear your opponents down with soft dinks and side-to-side movement. Too slow. I wear them down with sprints. I hit my drop into the net, but not in an obvious way. It looks like it’s landing in their kitchen, so they run all the way in from the baseline, and then it drops on my side of the net. As they arrive, I look across, say “Psych,” and run my left hand slowly back through my hair, like the Fonz at the mirror. Do that all game. Watch the hands go to the knees. That’s attrition. My drops are working exactly as expected.
When the better group texts “Wanna be the 4th?”, that is not an invitation. It’s an audition, and auditions are won with highlights. Attack every ball, especially the ones at your ankles. Off balance is just balance with ambition. Never let your partner lead; they had their chance, and they picked me. Speed up everything: the dinks, the serve, the walk to the water bottle. They were stunned. They went quiet. They haven’t texted since. Clearly, they lost my number.
SPOT THE SANDBAGGER — A FIELD GUIDE
Sandbaggers walk among us. These are the tells. I have never been wrong about a single one.
Sandbagger. Nobody wears out a paddle by being bad.
Sandbagger. They just bought their way in.
The most dangerous garment in the sport. I have the full kit. They have pockets. They have beaten me every single time.
Sandbagger.
Sandbagger. Too quiet.
Confirmed sandbagger. This is my most reliable tell. It has never once been wrong.
THE SEVEN STEPS — FOR PLAYERS WHO CAN'T STOP
Hi. I'm the scout, and I play pickleball every day.
Only one of these steps actually matters. It's step three.
FINAL ASSESSMENT
I have been wrong about every player I have ever scouted, the one in the mirror most of all. I have lost to all of them.
And I would play every single one again tomorrow. Tap the paddle. Mean it. The scouting report is garbage. The game is perfect.