As my freshman year of college quickly came to an end, I found myself wondering what awaited me in the suburban town of my childhood. Technically, I could look forward to my 9 to 5, but painstakingly organizing an overflowing material library for hours in a drowsy office didn’t sound too thrilling to me.

Soon after returning home, I realized I needed some sort of outlet. I was working a boring job, I was miles away from all the friends I had made that year, and I could not rely on thrifting to entertain me as it seemed all the good thrift stores were back in Athens.

At some point, my boredom led me to a ridiculously named sport called pickleball. Luckily, my mom also picked up the game, and our passion for it grew together, despite its arbitrary and confusing rules.

We started to meet up with pickleball groups on a weekly basis, which often meant I was the youngest on the court by a few decades. I was shocked at how the sport seemed to be some sort of unifier with different types of people interacting so effortlessly.

As I started getting to know the people I was playing with, I quickly realized that I was getting a chance to talk with types of people I would be unlikely to meet in any other community I was a part of. In this crowd, the question, “So, do you have any kids?” often killed conversation rather than giving me a jumping point for further questions.

Coming into my sophomore year, I have found a local pickleball community to join in Athens, and I can appreciate how pickleball not only brought me and my mom together, but saved me from an unremarkable summer.