Greta watched me play pickleball and asked if I would like to join an elite group of female players.  Would I ever!  My tryout would be the following Thursday evening.  I showed up a little early, not too early (as not to appear overly eager), but just the right amount of “early,” I hoped.

Greta arrived soon afterward and asked me and another player, Kim, to play against Greg and John. She and Stephanie, the advanced team’s captain, would watch and determine if I was good enough. I was confident and excited to show I had the skills they were seeking.

Greg served the ball. My paddle never touched it.  His spin caused the ball to hit the ground and skid, not bounce like a normal serve. For the rest of the match, this did not change. Greta and Stephanie stood on the sidelines and whispered.  This was not good.

In my next match, I was paired against John and was forewarned that he took great delight in smashing it right at his opponent’s body, especially females.  Which he did. And even though I was able to deflect his ball, I was unable to return it into his court.  The harder I tried, the worse I played.  My mind kept repeating, You’re pathetic.  What’s wrong with you?  Get it together.  You’re embarrassing yourself.         

I had the yips, a term sports teams use for players who cannot do what they are supposed to do.  With the yips, for example, pitchers will throw twelve feet from a catcher, quarterbacks will pass the ball to the sidelines instead of the receiver downfield, and golfers will swing like I do.  It’s all in their heads, and few ever come out of it.

Perhaps I would take up knitting.  (Do knitters get the yips?)

When I arrived home, Dave asked me how I did; I told him I was terrible.  He didn’t believe me until a few days went by and Greta never invited me to join their league.

The following week, playing in my recreational pickleball league, with Greta present, Janel said that she was going to sign me up for the advanced women’s league.  Greta started stammering like a jackhammer as to why that wouldn’t work.  Janel disagreed.  I would have found it amusing, had the argument been about anyone else but me.

In my tryout, I had let my nerves (fear) get the better of me.  Have you been there?  You want to try out for the Praise and Worship team or take up photography or lead a Bible study, but those inner voices scream your unworthiness.  And if, by chance, you take a stab at it only to be told you’re not quite enough, is your confidence shaken?  I hope not.

According to Paul’s second letter to Timothy, God does not give us a spirit of fear.

The Bible is not short on stories of individuals who feared something.  Moses.  David.  Elijah. The disciples.  They all had to overcome that fear to use the gifts God had given them.  I was no different.  What happened to me on that pickleball court was all in my own mind, doing what it does well…making me doubt myself.

Ironically, as I was writing this article, Greta texted me and asked if I would help her coach a couple of relatively new players.

A chance to redeem myself… or a subtle way for her to coach me as well?

Something is seriously wrong with my mind.