By the time the pickleball league was officially two weeks away, Lucky Now had entered what could generously be called the preparation phase.
Preparation, in this case, meant vibes.
Nugs declared himself “in training” on Monday morning.
He arrived at Fern’s in athletic shorts, a hoodie, and a confidence level wildly outpacing his understanding of the sport.
“I’ve been visualizing,” he said.
“You’ve been sitting,” Fern replied.
“It’s mental conditioning.”
Nugs held a pickleball paddle he’d purchased online at 2:14 a.m. because it was labeled PRO-FEEL. He didn’t know what made it pro, but it felt important.
Across town, several people had taken training in… creative directions.
At the community centre gym, Trevor was stretching aggressively while watching a video titled “Pickleball for Beginners (But Like, Chill)”. He paused it every thirty seconds to say, “Okay, yeah, that makes sense,” despite nothing making sense yet.
Two courts over, Pat and Len were practicing teamwork.
“Okay,” Pat said, “I’ll cover left, you cover… energy.”
Len nodded. “I’ve got energy.”
They missed every shot but felt closer as people.
Joe’s Coffee Shop had become an unofficial strategy hub.
The chalkboard now read:
PRE-PICKLEBALL FUEL
Coffee first. Decisions later.
People huddled around tables discussing tactics they absolutely did not need.
“I heard it’s all about patience.”
“No, it’s speed.”
“My cousin said footwork matters.”
“I thought it was mostly yelling ‘sorry.’”
Joe listened, nodded, and handed someone a drink that was definitely stronger than usual.
“Training blend,” he said. “For confidence.”
Glady, shockingly, took training seriously.
She showed up to the park early one morning with a paddle, proper shoes, and a glare that suggested she intended to win quietly.
“I don’t like group activities,” she said. “Which is why I plan to be very good.”
The Mayor checked in on the situation mid-week, coffee in hand, clipboard under arm.
“Anyone injured yet?”
“Emotionally?” someone asked.
“Yes.”
“Several.”
The Mayor nodded. “Good. That means it’s working.”
By Friday, things escalated.
Someone brought a pickleball paddle to Fern’s and started practicing slow-motion swings in the corner.
“I’m working on my form,” they said.
“That’s a houseplant,” Fern replied.
“Still counts.”
Nugs attempted cardio by jogging half a block, then rewarded himself for the effort.
“I’m pacing myself,” he explained. “For February.”
By the end of the week, Lucky Now had achieved peak readiness:
- Half the town thought pickleball was about finesse
- The other half thought it was about vibes
- Everyone was absolutely certain they’d be “pretty good at it”
The league hadn’t even started yet.
But the stretching had begun.
The confidence had bloomed.
And the number of people saying, “We should probably practice,” followed by absolutely not practicing, reached record levels.
Fern watched it all from her doorway and shook her head.
“This,” she said, “is how we prepare for everything.”
Lucky Now was ready.
Not for pickleball.
But for whatever they thought pickleball was going to be.
And honestly?
That was probably enough. 🏓🌿