No Spring Chicken

***Disclaimer: I got this idea from Pinterest, an exercise where you write a 20 word sentence, then a 19 word sentence, and so on, ending the story with one word.***

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Every Friday morning, at my old gym back in Texas, there were regular pickleball players on the court, always punctual. 

But there’s one person that I never forgot, an elderly man in knee length jean shorts and a polo. 

He showed up at 8AM sharp, grabbed some coffee, eagerly clung to his pickleball paddle, and he waited. 

I would watch him from the second level track, where I ran and listened to my music. 

When anybody decided to hit the court, the old man would appear shortly after, paddle ready. 

And every time, the strangers would oblige, and he would play a round or two. 

I even had the privilege of playing with him once, the old gym regular. 

I knew nothing of the sport coming in, so I just went along. 

The old man proved to be quite skilled, and witty to boot. 

And after that day, I knew one thing was for certain. 

That this man was a cold blooded killer…at pickleball. 

A seasoned pro, with all the talent and quips. 

Spritely for an old fellow, that’s for sure. 

A set of lungs on him, too. 

I watched and listened from afar. 

And every time I heard. 

I heard his voice. 

Above my music.

One word…

“Oooout!” 

THE END