How I Finally Stopped Blasting Home Runs Out of the Pickleball Court
By Hank Larson, Pickleball’s Accidental Slugger
I never meant to become the Babe Ruth of pickleball. Honestly, I just wanted to enjoy a sunny afternoon, swatting a perforated ball with a paddle that looks like it was stolen from a ping-pong table’s oversized cousin. But somewhere along the line, I developed a knack for launching pickleballs into low-earth orbit. My shots didn’t just leave the court—they left the neighborhood. And it wasn’t long before my fellow players turned my misfortune into a running gag.
“Oh, here comes Home Run Hank!” they’d shout as I stepped onto the court, my paddle gleaming with the promise of chaos. I’d laugh it off, but secretly, I was mortified. Every game, I’d tell myself, “This time, I’ll keep it in.” And every game, I’d watch another ball sail over the fence, landing in Mrs. Jenkins’ rosebushes or, on one memorable occasion, her koi pond. The splash was spectacular; the apology was awkward.
It wasn’t just the embarrassment. I was single-handedly funding the local sporting goods store. My friends started placing bets on how many balls I’d lose per match. The record was seven, set during a particularly windy day when I swear the breeze wanted my shots to go rogue. The court became a comedy stage, and I was the punchline.
Desperate to shed my slugger status, I tried everything. I watched YouTube tutorials, practiced against a wall, and even meditated, hoping to channel some inner Zen. But the balls kept flying. My opponents didn’t know whether to cheer or duck. Finally, after a shot ricocheted off a parked car’s windshield (no damage, thank goodness), the club took pity on me—or maybe they were just tired of replacing balls. They hired Coach Linda, a pickleball guru with a no-nonsense glare and a paddle that seemed to obey her every whim.
Coach Linda didn’t laugh at my plight. She studied my swing like a scientist analyzing a failed rocket launch. “You’re not playing pickleball,” she said. “You’re playing baseball with a paddle. Let’s fix that.” Over the next few weeks, she drilled three techniques into my game that transformed me from a home-run hitter to, well, an actual pickleball player. Here’s what I learned.
Technique 1: The Soft Grip
My first mistake was gripping the paddle like I was choking a rattlesnake. “You’re not trying to crush the ball,” Linda said. “You’re guiding it.” She taught me to hold the paddle loosely, with just enough pressure to keep it from flying out of my hand. Imagine cradling a baby bird, she said, which was a weird mental image but oddly effective. A softer grip meant I wasn’t swinging for the fences every time I made contact. Suddenly, my shots had finesse, landing inside the lines instead of in someone’s backyard.
Technique 2: The Low Follow-Through
My follow-through was another disaster. I’d swing upward, sending the ball on a moonward trajectory. Linda showed me how to keep my paddle low after hitting the ball, almost pointing it toward the ground. “Think of skimming a stone across a pond,” she said. This kept the ball’s path flat and controlled, perfect for pickleball’s low net. It felt unnatural at first, like patting a dog instead of tossing a Frisbee, but it worked. My shots started staying in play, and Mrs. Jenkins’ roses were safe at last.
Technique 3: The Power Dial-Down
Pickleball isn’t about power—it’s about placement. I was swinging at 100% effort, treating every shot like a grand slam. Linda introduced me to the “power dial,” a mental trick where you visualize turning down your swing intensity from, say, a 10 to a 4. “You only need enough force to get the ball over the net,” she said. By dialing back, I could focus on accuracy, placing shots in corners where opponents couldn’t reach. It was like switching from a sledgehammer to a paintbrush, and it changed everything.
It wasn’t an overnight miracle. I still sent a few balls into the wild during practice, but the home runs became rare. My friends noticed. “Hank, you’re boring now!” they teased, but their smiles said they were proud. I started winning points, not just laughs. The club stopped ordering pickleballs in bulk. And Mrs. Jenkins sent me a thank-you note, probably because her koi were sleeping better.
Now, when I step onto the court, I’m not Home Run Hank anymore. I’m just Hank, the guy who finally learned to play pickleball like it’s not a baseball game. Coach Linda’s techniques didn’t just save my game—they saved my dignity. If you’re out there blasting balls into oblivion, take it from me: grip softly, follow through low, and dial down the power. Your opponents, your wallet, and your neighbor’s koi will thank you.
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