Balls of Pickle

Mon night - 11:15 PM Walking outside. I can hear loud voices, yelling to the southeast. I assume it’s pickleball. People here love their pickleball. I walk over to the church on Salem canal road. There’s about 20 people playing pickleball at the courts there. One music device is playing Billy Joel (My Life). Another device is playing country music. Everybody is really loud. I’m not mad though. Why should I be mad? I’m curious, so I watch them all like a creeper for a few minutes, hidden behind a fence. I wish deep down that one of them would turn and somehow see me through the fence, say “who the hell…?” And then I would take off running. Just to give them all something to talk about, besides pickleball. Later on, I walk past another house, where a girl is arguing with somebody, and crying, and she says “I wish my mom was still alive, because she believed in me!” A male voice says “She did believe in you! She did!” And some more arguing. The dialogue sounds like they're filming a soap opera. Maybe they are. I try to eavesdrop behind a tree. This is risky. Kinda hard to hear everything because of the noise of the pickleball people. Of course, I want to join in this conversation, just jump out from behind the tree, and be like “All right, fill me in. What’s the haps? Who died? I want to be part of this.” But they probably won’t like that too much, especially at 11:40 at night. And I don’t do things people don’t like.