Some Things Matter More Than a Pickleball Score

I play pickleball with George once a week. We first met two years ago when a mutual friend assembled our pickleball squad. George is a big guy, but a gentle giant. His only flashes of frustration are directed at himself, usually after one of his dinks goes into the net instead of over it. When I am teamed up with him, we usually lose, but we both play hard and do our best.

Last year, he informed our group that his 30-year-old daughter had been diagnosed with breast cancer. He detailed for us the surgery and chemotherapy that lay ahead for her. George was clearly devastated, and the rest of us stood by in stunned silence. For the rest of the morning, the mood was somber, and talk of the year ahead replaced our usual water-break banter.

As I commonly do for friends, I volunteered to review the pathology reports — just the written findings, not the slides — and explain anything the family had questions about. George accepted my offer, although it turned out his wife’s Googling had already explained everything at least as well as I did.

Since the day George told us of his daughter’s diagnosis, I find a moment every week between games to ask George how she is doing. I can usually read the answer on his face before he speaks. She has some good weeks, but many other weeks are plagued by headaches, nausea, and hair loss.

I hear a lot of other people at the fitness center ask George about his daughter, and he always replies with the same calm patience.

Lately, I have been wondering whether my questions to George are an intrusion. I don’t know him that well, and perhaps he needs to save his empathetic energy and responses for his closer friends and family. I can understand how wearisome constant questioning must be. So today, after a tough weekly update, I said to George.

“George, please tell me if you mind my always asking how your daughter is doing.”

To my relief, he looked at me and said, ‘No man, it is fine that you do. Thank you.”

So I’ll keep on asking, always hoping that one day George will respond with a big grin and say, “She’s doing great, buddy. The future looks bright.”

And when that day comes, I won’t mind at all if we lose another game—because some things matter far more than the score.