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Murmurs from the Losers’ Bracket: Spirited Pickleball Poetry

Murmurs from the Losers' Bracket Frank Cerabino 11-28-2022

We here at Murmurs from the Losers’ Bracket have detected an appalling lack of holiday-themed pickleball poetry. With the Christmas season here, we’ve taken action to correct this.


‘Twas the night before Christmas, and cross all the borders
Not a pickleballer was stirring, not even a Waters.
The courts were all padlocked in the rec center park
To keep fanatics from trying to play in the dark,
The Boomers were all snoozing, dreaming of battles
Soon to be won with new Christmas paddles
While Mamma with her ice pack, and an Advil nightcap
Had just settled down for long winter’s nap
When out on the lawn, came a sound, oh so faint
Much like your average pickleball noise complaint
So, I sprang from my bed, my leg nearly gave way
I gotta stop playing pickleball two times a day
Away to the window, I flew like J-Dub
Suddenly no longer, a 60-plus schlub.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen rain
Gave lustre that made me forget my leg pain
When what to my wondering eyes should appear
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer
With a driver named Santa, who was hard at his work
In a logo-clad sleigh clearly sponsored by Selkirk
More rapid than eagles, his coursers they came
And he whistled, and shouted and called them by name
“Now, Simone! Now, Zane! Now, Lucy and Tyson!
On Jorja! On Riley! On, both Ben and Collin!”
The sleigh landed swiftly, for its Christmas Eve tasking
And Santa hopped off, and I couldn’t help asking
“What happened to Comet, Prancer, Blitzen and Dancer?
And what’s with the pickleball names? Please answer.”
The jolly old elf gave a laugh, loud and throaty
And I noticed his belly was not very bloaty
“And Santa, you’ve lost weight, and seem less older
But you have a limp and an ice-packed shoulder.”
“It’s pickleball,” he said, “It’s swept the North Pole as well
and now getting the elves to work is a real living hell.”
“Their toy-making zeal is gone, they’ve altered their thinking.
‘Cause all they want to do is get back to their dinking.”
“And I myself, started out as a jolly old cynic
Until Mrs. Claus signed us up for a clinic.”
“And now, the Mrs. and I, have been paired up as doubles
But I think that’s just causing some marital troubles.”
“Enough talking,” he said, “or I’m gonna be late.
I’ve got a court in the morning starting at eight.”
So, he reached in his bag, tossing all the balls I could hold
“Be advised, those are the ones that crack in the cold.”
“And how about a paddle? I’ve got distribution goals.
So, try out this new Diadem, the one with the holes.”
Santa kept going, reaching deeper into his bag
which appeared to be filled with just pickleball swag
Then a single tennis racket he pulled out of that hole
“For the naughty list,” he said. “It’s the new coal.”
So Santa, too, has become a pickleball zealot
I couldn’t wait to wake up everyone and tell it
“It’s pickleball for all,” Santa said, “a game that is super.”
“And by tomorrow I’m back to improving my DUPR.”
So, he sprang to his sleigh, but his deer were on pause,
Negotiating with an MLP billionaire, not with the Claus.
“It’s crazy,” said Santa. “Way more than a trickle.”
“I should have invested in a Chicken-n-Pickle.”
And then in a flash he was gone, lifting off of my lawn
But I heard him shout something, just before he was gone.
“Happy Christmas to all, to every man, woman and kiddle.
“And just keep it simple; hit down the middle.”

Murmurs from the Losers’ Bracket: Spirited Pickleball Poetry | Pickler Pickleball


Read past editions of Murmurs from the Losers’ Bracket, including:

Murmurs from the Losers’ Bracket: The PPA, the APP and Monty Python | Pickler Pickleball

Frank Cerabino is a long-time columnist for the Palm Beach Post in Florida, a pickleball addict like the rest of us, and a newly published author. Check out Frank’s newly released book, I Dink, Therefore I Am: Coming to Grips with My Pickleball Addiction (available on Amazon and a great read (or gift!) for any pickleball player), for pickleball tips and laughs!

I Dink, Therefore I Am | Frank Cerabino


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