A Pickleball Poem

'Twas the night before Christmas, when around the resort, Pickleballs were flying, all over the court.

The paddles were hung in the saddle with care, in hopes that a forth player soon would be there;

While the players lined up waiting to serve, jeers from the gallery got on their nerves.

With John in a knee brace, and Doc in his cap, he had hours to go before his noon nap.

When out on the courts there arose such a clatter, we all sprang from the bench to see what was the matter.

And what to our sun-dazed eyes should appear, but a golf cart sleigh, and eight Picklers with gear.

With a little old player, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

How rapid and crafty his players they came, and he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

"Now, Gordy! now, Randy! now, Jimmie and Phil! On, Julie! on, Tracy! on, Laura and Estelle!

To the front of the kitchen! to the top of the net! Now smash away! smash away! Make them all sweat!”

As the balls left the paddles and flew through the air, they met with a block, to the players' despair.

But up to the kitchen the players all knew, the best way to win was to dink it on through.

And then, with a spin, the serve was so cool, but St. Nick called it out, and more watched from the pool.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his toes, how he played in that heat, nobody knows!

A bundle of balls he had flung on his back, and he looked just like Bill opening his pack.

His eyes—how they twinkled! He looked right at Mary!

His cheeks were like roses, just like ol’ Lary’s!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, as we sat looking on under 'Hecklers’ Row.'

The stump of a paddle he held tight in his hand, and the serve he let go was the best in the land.

He had a broad face and a little round belly, but his sneakers were wet and a little bit smelly.

He was chubby and plump, but was quick to the net, and I cheered when he made a really good ‘get’.

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head, he landed a backhand which was something to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to the lobs, and racked up the points, then turned with a nod;

And laying his finger aside of his nose, he scored the last point and the gallery rose.

Then he sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, and away they all flew like one of Franks’ missile’s.

But I heard him exclaim, to all Picklers in sight,

"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night."

Diana Lyons