The Claremont Resort & Club looks like it was built to repel an invasion. Perched high above the East Bay, the sprawling white hotel rises through a canopy of trees like some grand old garrison, keeping watch over Oakland for enemy ships that, thankfully, never arrive. Instead, there are tennis and pickleball courts, a spa, a few wedding after-parties, and plenty of people drinking cocktails on the terrace.
This is where I have come to contemplate getting old. Not old-old. Just old enough to know that some things aren’t meant for me — or these knees anymore. I’ve always considered myself athletic enough. A former three-sport high school athlete who made it onto a collegiate soccer team, and long after those days ended, “athlete” always seemed to remain part of my identity. Then came a dreaded ACL/MCL surgery after one bad step during a pickup basketball game. That was followed by physical therapy, recovery, weight gain, and the gradual transition to adulthood from chasing a ball to chasing a career.
I hear what you’re thinking. What about working out? Yes, it’s an important part of maintaining a healthy life, but working out has sets, reps, calories to burn, and a little watch that occasionally congratulates you for standing up.
I missed the game. The competition. I missed having a score. That is how I ended up in Oakland.
A New Game
To be clear, I did not need to fly from Atlanta to Oakland to try pickleball. We have pickleball in the South. But travel has a way of making you say yes to things you tend not to find time for at home, and Oakland felt like the right place to try something new. Across the Bay, San Francisco gets the postcards. In Oakland, things tend to be a bit more complicated.
That was part of the appeal. Oakland can feel elegant and defiant at the same time, with vintage homes tucked into the hills, murals splashed across walls, Lake Merritt opening up near the center of town, welcoming farmer’s markets and generations of Black history embedded in neighborhoods that have had to fight to hold on to their history. The Black Panther Party was born here. Ryan Coogler grew up here. Too $hort built his legend here. Yes, its major sport franchises have moved on, but Oakland has long made its own culture rather than waiting for someone else to. That seemed useful to remember as I tried to figure out whether an athlete still lived somewhere inside me.
At Pickle Athletics, a Black-owned facility, I met my instructor for the day, Phil Calhoun. When I asked how he got involved with the game, he told me, “From the moment I walked in the door, I knew I belonged here.” I understood immediately. There is a particular anxiety that comes with entering a new athletic space as an adult, especially when most of the participants may not look like you. That feeling eased when I walked into Pickle Athletic and was greeted not only by a Black employee at the front desk, but also by my instructor.
I had played pickleball socially with friends a few times before taking this trip, but saying I knew the game would be generous. I understood the paddle, the ball, and the general concept of getting one over the net. The rest of the time, I was mostly there for vibes. Phil quickly earned the unofficial title of Patron Saint of Patience. He started with grip, positioning, and control, and explained why a perfectly innocent section of the court is called the kitchen. Then, with a wry grin, he pulled out a special tiny ball to challenge my eye-hand coordination. Before I knew it, the back and forth started to feel familiar enough to trick my brain into believing my athletic instincts could take over. They did not. My competitiveness, however, came right back.
A few minutes earlier, I had been thinking about my knee and whether I had stretched enough. Then Phil and I got into a rally that lasted longer than my skill level suggested it should. I stopped thinking about the spa treatment I had scheduled at the Claremont and started thinking about two things. First, how to get the ball back over the net, and second, how to beat Phil.
Evidently, Phil was also interested in beating me, as he suggested a game of skinny pickle where you play the ball into certain areas of the court. I approached this new sport with patience and perspective. Out loud, I reminded myself this was only a lesson. More realistically, I wanted not to embarrass myself. Game on, Phil.
When Did We Stop Playing?
Apparently, plenty of us are looking for a new game. According to the Sports & Fitness Industry Association and USA Pickleball, 24.3 million Americans played pickleball in 2025, up from 4.2 million five years earlier. About 2.4 million Black Americans picked up a paddle at least once last year. Which makes me wonder: when did we stop playing?
I would venture to guess most adults at some point played some form of youth sports. We tell kids that sports build confidence, discipline, friendship, and healthy bodies, then adulthood arrives and games get replaced by work, errands, and, for parents, driving kids to their own practices where now you’re in charge of snacks and carpools.
Every so often, someone in the group text asks who is down for five-on-five on Saturday morning. But eventually those messages come less often.
Beginner’s Luck
Eventually, my lesson ended. I wish this were the part where I revealed a previously dormant pickleball gift. I did not, although I have already declared myself “Your Mom’s Favorite Pickleballer,” a title I assume no governing body has the authority to revoke. However, I discovered I wanted to play again, and that feels more important than any most improved trophy I think I deserve.
Back at the Claremont, this time with my own cocktail on the terrace, I looked out toward the Bay and thought about how fitting it was that I had come to Oakland to reconsider an identity I had been carrying around for years. This is a city accustomed to outsiders trying to define it, yet it keeps insisting on being itself. Maybe getting older requires some of that same stubbornness.
There is an indignity in aging that nobody warns former athletes about: your mind retains an increasingly inaccurate scouting report on what your body can do. You can see the opening, but your knees choose not to comply. For a long time, I thought that meant the athlete I remembered was disappearing, but maybe I was mourning the wrong thing. I don’t need to still be seen as an athlete. I just need to permit myself to play. So for now, catch me on a pickleball court. And Phil… I’m coming for you.