With a casual swipe of her thumb, the woman at the pickleball court smudged my name off the sign-up sheet, erasing me as easily as a stray mark.
A united front of matching visors and condescending smiles, the four of them owned this community center.
“The pen must have slipped,” their silver-haired queen had chirped, her voice dripping with fake pity.
These retirees didn’t just want the 9:00 AM court; they believed it was their birthright, and I was just a peasant in their way. But they had no idea I was about to trade my paddle for their own dusty rulebook, and I was going to use their kingdom’s own bylaws to burn it all to the ground.
The Clipboard and the Crown: A Kingdom of Four
The community center smelled of chlorine and floor wax, a scent that usually meant clean, wholesome fun. For me, it had come to smell like frustration. I clutched my new paddle, the grip still tacky, and stared at the pickleball sign-up sheet. It was a flimsy clipboard, zip-tied to the chain-link fence separating the courts from the hallway, but it might as well have been a stone tablet of commandments.
And the high priests were already holding court.
Carol, Frank, Barb, and June. The 8:00 AM Pickleball Regime. They were always here, a phalanx of toned, tanned retirees in matching visors and expensive court shoes. Carol, their silver-haired queen, surveyed her domain from the service line, her eyes missing nothing. Frank, a block of a man with a perpetual scowl, practiced sharp volleys that sounded like gunshots in the echoing gymnasium. Barb and June, the ladies-in-waiting, flanked the net, giggling at some shared joke.
My name, Sarah Jenkins, was written neatly in the 9:00 AM slot. It was 8:45. I’d done everything right. I’d arrived early, I’d used the designated pen, I’d even practiced a friendly, non-threatening smile in my car.
As I watched, Barb trotted over to the clipboard. She squinted at my name, then glanced back at Carol. Carol gave a nearly imperceptible shake of her head. With a casual swipe of her thumb, Barb smudged my name into an illegible blue blur, then scribbled “F. Miller” over the smudge. Frank Miller. I looked over at Frank, who was now stretching his quad, looking immensely pleased with himself.
My stomach went hot. This was the third time this week. They didn’t just own the courts; they owned the very concept of time and space within these four walls.
The Clipboard and the Crown: The Doctrine of Smudges
I took a deep breath, the air thick with the rubbery scent of the court surface. Don’t engage. That’s what my husband, Mark, had said last night over dinner while I poked at my salad. “They’re a pack, Sarah. You go after one, they all turn on you. Just sign up for noon.”
But I didn’t want noon. Noon was when the high school kids on summer break showed up, all power and no finesse, blasting the ball like they were trying to put a hole in the wall. I wanted the crisp morning air, the quiet hum of the building before it filled up. I wanted the 9:00 AM slot I was entitled to as a dues-paying member.
I walked over to the clipboard, my sneakers squeaking my indignation. “Excuse me,” I said, my voice tighter than I wanted.
Barb turned, her smile a little too bright. “Can I help you?”
“I think there’s been a mistake. I signed up for this slot.” I pointed to the blue smear that was once my name.
Frank ambled over, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “Sheet looks full to me,” he grunted, not making eye contact. He was looking at the clipboard like it was a legal document he had just personally notarized.
“Someone erased my name and wrote yours over it,” I said, looking directly at him.
Carol finally drifted over, her paddle held like a scepter. “The pen must have slipped. Happens all the time with this cheap equipment.” She gave the clipboard a little shake of mock pity. “Such a shame. Maybe try for tomorrow? If you get here early enough.” The implication hung in the air: you will never be early enough.
They stood there, a united front of condescension. My hand was balled into a fist around my paddle handle. The rage was a physical thing, a hot coal in my chest. I wanted to scream, to point, to call them the petty tyrants they were. Instead, I just nodded, a jerky, unsatisfying motion, and turned away. Their quiet, victorious laughter followed me down the hall.
The Clipboard and the Crown: A Debriefing with the Home Team
“So, the Pickleball Mafia struck again?” Mark asked, not looking up from his laptop. He was working from the kitchen table, a habit I usually found endearing. Today, it felt like an invasion of my sulking space.
“It’s not funny, Mark. They literally erased my name. Like I’m some graffiti they can just wipe away.” I slammed my gym bag on the floor, and our teenage son, Leo, flinched from his position on the couch, where he was absorbed in his phone.
“Did you, like, challenge them to a duel?” Leo asked, his tone dripping with the signature irony of a sixteen-year-old.
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