Every now and then, life tosses you a little gift wrapped in unexpected joy.

That’s what happened to me today on the public courts in Tarrytown, New York. It started as just another hour of pickleball—a sport I love and play five times a week. But this session? It came with a twist.

I was invited by my daughter (shown here with me) to join her and 14 of her “closest” friends—every one of them a woman in her late 30s or early 40s, most with small kids at home or in school. And there I was, the only guy. One man among fifteen women, all paddles, smiles, and ponytails. If that sounds like the setup for one of my dreams, you wouldn’t be wrong.

The truth is, I’ve loved pickleball long before it was cool, back when people still confused it with a deli side dish.

My love affair with the game goes back nearly 60 years to Bainbridge Island, Washington, where the sport was born in the backyard of Joel Pritchard (shown here with then three term Governor of Washington State, Dan Evans) — a man I was lucky enough to call a friend. Joel was many things: a beloved U.S. Congressman, Washington’s Lt. Governor, and the proud co-inventor of a sport that now sweeps the nation one dink and drop shot at a time.

I’ve walked the original court. I’ve stood where the magic began. So yes, I’m a bit of a pickleball purist, even a fanatic. My entire extended family plays—we’re a tennis family turned pickleball clan. A few years back, I flirted with tournaments, but after getting thoroughly humbled, I’ve happily settled into the world of recreational play. But don’t let that fool you. I still like to win.

So there I was today, rotating partners, shifting courts, running drills, chasing drops—sweating, smiling, and trying to keep up with a crew of fast-moving, paddle-swinging moms. The atmosphere was pure joy. It wasn’t a tournament, it wasn’t competitive—it was just…fun. And what a rare and beautiful thing that is.

At 81, I was a good 40 years older than most of the women out there. But I didn’t feel it. Not on the court. The spirit of play has a way of suspending time. Out there, we were just people who love the game, trying to hit clean shots, move our feet, and cheer each other on.

And yes, there was a part of me—the cheeky part—that couldn’t help but smile at the scene. One man. Fifteen women. Paddles in hand. On a sunny morning in June. I’ve had worse days.

So here’s to pickleball: a sport that brings generations together, makes strangers into partners, and gives a guy like me a morning he won’t forget.