First, our apologies to all of our NuckleNuck^™ subscribers. We are shifting our focus to the Baby Boomer generation and the growing on-court and off-court needs revolving around the sport we have come to love.

Note: If you didn't see the Apollo 11 Moon Landing on a black & white TV in 1969 maybe it's time to hit the unsubscribe button (below). Not that we don't care about you anymore but more that we have been too scattered and we need to focus on the generation we know well—it’s a peer-to-peer thing, nothing personal.

Sorry if we have misled you into subscribing. Turns out we are fluent in the Boomer language and we speak a little GenX. Millennial-speak is still a foreign language to us, so we’re not saying you have to go. But… its been fun… please feel free to go, we still love you and thank you for the months that you have allowed us to spend in your email inbox.

We honor the Greatest Generation and of course you are included in our new focus, so don’t you go anywhere—you’re one of us. We know you are still very active and fiercely competitive. Truthfully, we want to be more like you.

It has taken us a little while to figure out just WHO WE ARE and WHERE WE ARE GOING. Unfortunately in the pause to figure this all out, we missed the NuckleNuck Father’s Day issue, by over a month.

Being an entrenched 70 year-old Baby Boomer myself, I hate to admit that I broke my word to provide “consistent content” to you our readers. (a Boomer’s unpardonable sin) Again—sorry.

—Dan King, NuckleNuck owner.

My Dad’s Shoes

Pickleballer, Biology Professor, Chiropractor and Author: Mike Gruich

When my parents married, my dad didn’t even have a driver’s license.

He bought a three-speed manual transmission Ford Falcon and took driving advice from some friends. The bride he had only known for six weeks could drive, but not stick shift. I can just imagine him pushing the clutch down as they shifted the gears together. Back in the 60’s the shift handle was on the steering wheel column. “One foot on the clutch”, he would remind himself, “then let go of the accelerator”. His feet that had been used for walking everywhere for years, were finally used for driving. 

Three years earlier, his feet had taken him north across Serbia into Austria to evade an army draft. He went with friends. Several of them got caught and spent up to ten years in prison for running from civil duties. Dad hired a driver and drove north to the Serbian border, alongside a young couple and their child. The car crashed, and the driver told them to get out, climb the embankment, and continue on foot. Dad carried the child. They ran, walked and climbed the southern portion of the Alps, and at times hid to evade the military, until they found the welcomed Austrian border.

Making their way to Canada and newly married, he worked as a Tailor. Pressed suits and shined shoes for Sunday church. Later, in my own teenage years, I watched Dad as a proud landlord walk across parking lots and lawns picking up trash, sticks, grass, digging his feet into a pile of mulch to fill a wheelbarrow. When his Sunday shoes got worn, they became Monday through Friday shoes.

In my own history, I worked as a Chiropractor, then as a biology teacher, drawn always toward sports and movement in my time off and Pickleball in recent years. I have always been fascinated with the body and its abilities for motion. For Pickleball players, shoes are vital. And as we age, visits to the orthopedic office seem to come one after the other, plantar fasciitis, bunions, heel spurs, hammer toes. We jump, pound and pivot on our feet especially in Pickleball.

Memories of my dad never included Pickleball, but he did tap his toe from time to time to a favorite song. And on a rare occasion, he’d push the back door open to kick a ball with my brother and I. His strong kick sent the ball whirling into the air, and we laughed, running underneath, trying to be the first one to catch it.

My dad left his home to build us a life, a work that took his whole lifetime.

Though my own work had taken different paths than my Dad’s, I have worn the name “Dad” myself, a name which for me has meant fun, play, movement, and being present with my two sons and daughters. I like to think I’ve made up for lost time, the times I didn’t get with my own dad.

He’s gone now. 

Dementia had taken it’s toll on him. One recent winter morning would be the last day he’d bend over at the edge of his bed slip on his pants and tie up his weekday shoes.

In the months that followed his death, my mom prepared to get rid of some of his things the following spring. I looked through the nice suits and shoes in his closet. Our feet had long been the same size. The pair of wing tips that had graduated to work shoes seem to call to me.

In my dad’s wingtips a few days later, I stood in the garage after starting our lawnmower and the memories of him teaching me as a child how to mow the lawn flooded in. Tears filled my eyes, blurring the soft brown leather on my feet. The miles of walking and thinking of the places his shoes had travelled became the stuff of warm memories.

This pair had hugged the feet of the man who rarely said that he loved me but proved his love by giving his days to us, year in and out, to bring safety and stability to me, my brother, my sisters and my mom. And kept giving, long after we’d been established on and comfortable in our own lives. We called to him to our come to our home, sit next to us, see what new game we’d learned—Dad.

I called him weekly in his last years and I always knew where he was. And he would always answer. I miss talking to him.

On some visits, we’d use a Pickleball paddle and ball to help his hand-eye coordination, when his feet no longer worked except in a restricted slow shuffle. 

Turns out the wing tips didn’t fit exactly as I would have liked. But I wanted to find a way to keep them around.

Sempervivums (a succulent plant), or as they are often called “hens and chicks” trawl the ground in my hobby garden, seeking space to take root. An old leather wingtip shoe seemed to be as good a place as any to bury their roots. I filled one with these hardy little plants, their thick leaves and ambitious growth created an homage to my Dad, and the sacrifices he’d made for me.

After long days, my dad would take his shoes off and set them next to the bed that he would rest on. I’d never have dreamed of the day I would try on his shoes. It never crossed my mind that I would be working in them, or finding a new use for them in my flower garden, but here I am.

Though I fall short of being the man that he was, I enjoyed the moment seeing his shoes filled in a way I think would bring him a chuckle.

I will always love you dad.
Happy Father’s Day.

—Mike Gruich

NuckleNuck & CityWear Pickleball history.

Pickleball was just getting started in our own community of Wadsworth, Ohio in 2018. We started playing at Durling Park in Wadsworth in 2020 when Nancy Bedillion (WPC founder) invited us to play with her family. We remember being so warmly welcomed by her and we played all through the Covid years when everyone in our neighborhood was isolated inside.

That is when we fell in love with the people and the game.

As a graphic designer, eventually I was asked to design a logo and design T-shirts for our unofficial Facebook club. Then our club members began to ask us to design different styles of apparel. We wondered if it could grow beyond just a hobby.

In February of 2024, I designed CityWear Pickleball logo, copyrighted the name and we started a Pickleball apparel business on Shopify. We knew it would not be perfect but decided to move forward and design shirts for the people we played with and hopefully they would be patient with us when we made our many mistakes. Our customers were so forgiving and helpful along the way. No one gave up on us—you guys are the absolute best!

The Pickleballers of the neighboring city of Barberton invited us to also help them design a logo and get their new club T-shirts going. We were more than happy to do that since we played with them often in Wadsworth.

After 4 years of hacking away at the T-shirt hobby, we saw the need to actually to communicate more with our customers and get a feel for what they wanted and even what they didn’t want. We began to write about the Boomer world that surrounds the Pickleball court and not necessarily the game of Pickleball itself.

Our goal was to open up NuckleNuck subscribers to the larger world of Boomer Pickleball in other States across the US and not keep it just to local players. 

We are excited to see the beginnings of that kind of growth.

Ever want to plan a Pickleball Vacation? We have some upcoming articles on that very subject. These vacations can be exotic or just a great time to get away from home and play other Boomers.

What about Senior 70+ Tournaments? Ever consider traveling just to do tournament playing? We have the guy for you—coming soon! He will share how your DUPR score is considered for Tournaments and where tournaments are held and of course how to enter and prepare for them.

Boomers are dealing with knee and hip replacements and Pickleball Elbow. But we don’t want to be defined by our limitations. Mobility issues are common with Boomers but it does not keep us from playing. Most people we play with cannot even tell that we are playing with limitations unless we need to play the knee replacement card to explain not making it to the kitchen for the put-away.

How do you play the game or should you even play with mobility issues? Insights from a DPT that has experience with Pro Pickleball Players will be shared in upcoming issues of NuckleNuck.

Retired Wadsworth School Teacher and Inaugural member of the Wadsworth Pickleball Club, Author: our own, Nancy Bedillion

What makes someone a good husband and good father? 

Generosity?
Integrity?
Respect?
Compassion?
Positive Attitude? 

My husband, Ernie Bedillion, certainly had all those traits.  But it was something else that first attracted him to me. His sense of humor. We were married in 1982. I had three teenage children. He had one 4 year-old son. 

It was his sense of humor that guided him as he maneuvered his way into that sometimes difficult role as a step dad. What different roles he had to play as Dad to a young child and as a mentor to my children. How did he do that? By using that sense of humor, his quick wit, and his constant sense of fairness.

He made it look simple. 

Ernie taught science at Wadsworth High School. What made him a favorite teacher of his students? You got it - that sense of humor, quick wit, and sense of fairness.

Ernie was diagnosed with cancer in his last year of teaching before retirement - 2001.  Throughout his short and losing battle with cancer, somehow he kept that sense of humor. 

He had always joked with me and our kids about how long we would be married. Since I was married to my first husband for 20 years, he would say,  "20 years and out." 

We were all gathered around his bed in those last days of his life, holding in our grief.  Suddenly his eyes popped open and he was grinning that ornery smile of his. I asked him what he is smiling about.  He said, "I didn't have to do my 20 years!"  We all just burst into laughter - a wonderful brief respite from such intense grief.

That was my Ernie Bedillion , 1949 - 2001. 

He was my best friend, my husband, a father to our children and a great teacher. What made him so good?  Kindness, generosity, goodness, integrity, respect, compassion, positive attitude?   

What made him great? 
His sense of humor.

When I think about it.  Aren't these same traits of character we want to show on the pickleball court? I hope so.

Thanks to my hundreds of Pickleball friends for letting me share this personal part of my life, you guys are the best.

—Nancy

Do you PLAY BETTER when you
LOOK BETTER on the Pickleball court?

Did you know it has been scientifically proven that what you wear changes how you perform? In the next issue, NuckleNuck^™ joins with CityWear™ Pickleball to talk about the role of apparel and the psychology of the clothes we wear when we play Pickleball.

Here is a sneak peek:
LOOK BETTER | PLAY BETTER | FEEL BETTER | GET BETTER.

Also in the next NuckleNuck Issue: As owner of NuckleNuck^™ and CityWear Pickleball^™, I will share my new approach to high quality Pickleball apparel. We are making a BIG move to the Nike^® Dry-Fit and Sport-Tek^® Activewear, very soon. We’ll keep you posted.

I will share about the mistakes we made in 2024 and what we learned along the journey, thanks to you all, and also the reasons we are moving to a local high-quality apparel printer in Medina, Ohio.

Timely Baby Boomer note: We like face-to-face relationships in doing business and decided the remote Print-on-demand printers we were using have not delivered the quality we wanted for our customers. Besides we wanted to touch the shirts and actually approve it before we send it to you.

OF COURSE, IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT! 
Your positive and especially your negative feedback has caused us to change to a new paradigm towards better activewear designed with you in mind.

STAY TUNED!

Award winning Author—Tony Agnesi

Father’s Day without Dad

Today is Father’s Day, the one day each year that we honor dad.  Fatherhood is one of the most important roles in life and one that I have always taken seriously. Being a dad, mentor at the jail, coach, uncle, and grandpa are the most meaningful tasks I have ever performed. 

Yes, I love being a father!

But, on Father’s Day, it is important to note that one in three kids today grow up without a father. Single moms have become more commonplace and the lack of influence of a father figure in a child’s life is one of the main causes in the breakdown of the family.  Some men today just don’t understand the importance of being present for their kids.

“It is easier for a father to have children than for children to have a real father.”  — Saint Pope John XXIII

Others, through no fault of their own, have lost their fathers. Accidents and illnesses have claimed decent men, wonderful fathers, and terrific teachers too soon. For some lucky kids, an uncle, neighbor, grandfather of family friend will fill that role. These unofficial dads are special people. They become the surrogate father figures that will never be forgotten.

My friend Bob lost his dad at age 3. The men in the neighborhood rose to the occasion and many became unofficial dads. Recently, he shared:

“I was lucky in a way, because every father in my neighborhood became my father in my mind. If I did something wrong or something good one of them would say so. I felt lucky, and thanked them later in my life when I saw them.”

As sons, Father’s Day reminds us just how much we miss our fathers. I often wish that my dad was around to share in my success, to get to know his great grandchildren, or to just enjoy a fishing trip, round of golf or a great meal together. So, I have adopted a few older friends as unofficial fathers and have enjoyed times with them in his honor.

“My father gave me the greatest gift anyone could give another person, he believed in me.”  –Jim Valvano

Many reading this might be experiencing their first Father’s Day without dad. The first year following the death of a father is a tough one. Christmas, his birthday, Easter and annual family gatherings become sad times that were once happy ones. Father’s Day is one of those. I understand.

What can we do to make that day a memorable one and less difficult.  Here are a few things to try:

• Do something he enjoyed.  A cookout, ballgame, or family gatherings are a great way to keep his memory alive.

• Tell a story. Even though dad is not there, share stories, lessons he taught you, and funny things he said over the years that made you laugh.

• Honor him with your fatherhood. The best way to honor your father is with your own fatherhood.  Let’s your kids see how much you love their mother.  And, if you don’t have your own kids, become an unofficial dad to a kid or kids in need.

• Do things that would have made him proud. Work hard, be kind and generous, make your family a priority and be a father figure to those who have no father.

• Don’t forget your heavenly father. Saint Joseph has always been one of my favorite saints.  We don’t know much about him from the bible, but what we do know is that he shared the same title with God.  That title was “Father.”  To Jesus, Joseph was his earthly father and God his heavenly father!  God is your heavenly father too!

—Tony

Father has compassion on his children, so the LORD has compassion on those who fear him.” — Psalm 103:13

How will you celebrate dad today?  How can you honor him with your own fatherhood?  Happy Father’s Day!

Old-Man Johnson’s Empty Shoes.

“I had no idea what to do with a dead body.” (A Pickleball story, of sorts.)

Old-man Johnson laid face down, surrounded by Queen Anne’s lace and A cloud of gnats swarming above him. A blistering hot day. Not sure if he face-planted into that position or if he fell asleep and just rolled over, possibly tormented by the mosquitos on the humid night before. I was relieved to see his chest moving, I had no idea what to do with a dead body, I was way too scrawny to ever drag him out of the woods.

Read more…

This was not the first time that I had seen him laying along the worn path to Penny’s Grocery Store near my Grandpa Addy’s house. On that morning I was sent to buy a loaf of white bread, a bag of Mail Pouch tobacco for Addy and a flat tin of Prince Albert tobacco for my great grandpa Brown who always had a rolled cigarette stuck to the corner of his mouth. I’m 70 years-old now but back then I was only 13 but there was an unspoken agreement with the owners of Penny’s that I was responsible enough to deliver these forbidden goods to the 2 patriarchs in our family. Tobacco products were considered a necessity back then and never thought to be harmful.

To me old-man Johnson had no first name, in fact I don’t know that anyone in our neighborhood knew his first name. He was the late-80’s widower of the Johnson family—our dirt-poor neighbors.

The fact that he was lying with a mostly-empty wine bottle still loosely in his hand tells part of this story without me needing to overload you with his alcoholic background. I imagine that anyone reading this article has an alcoholic somewhere in their family line and you may even struggle with it yourself. Believe me I understand your life more than you know, but this is not a story about alcoholism it’s a true story about a man. A neighbor of ours.

We never called old-man Johnson a drunk, we referred to him as a “Wino”. It seemed to be a little more respectful back in 1967. Wine was the pain-killer of choice back then because it was cheap and always available. For at least one night it would dull the pain that was evident in his weathered face.

He was a man of few words and his eyes were always bloodshot, but visibly kind.

He had only owned one pair of dark gray work pants, held up by a 3-foot-long piece of braided clothesline. I knew it was his only pair because of the holes on the knees and frayed edged cuffs were familiar to anyone who knew him. He wore the same old flannel shirt that was missing most of the buttons. His calloused feet, stained black from the tar bubbles on the road were showing through his cream colored socks. Socks that were once white but they had rarely been washed, and when they were washed it was all done on a washboard and hung on a clothesline on his front porch.

Anytime that I had seen him there, it was typically late morning and he was always passed out—cold. His hair was a creamy gray color, tangled and uncut. His neck was deeply wrinkled, freckled and reddish brown from the sun. Most of his teeth were missing and the ones he did have were badly stained from cigarettes and never owning a toothbrush.

He was a quiet man. A humble man.

The kind of humble that makes you respect him because his humility came at a personal cost. He had an unspoken story, forever hidden in the past by his lack of words in public. He never held a job as long as I knew him but was rumored to have some sort of railroad pension from his younger working years.

I loved being at old-man Johnson’s house because their décor was “poverty minimalistic”. The only furniture they had was a couple of wooden chairs, a stained overstuffed chair and a couch with springs that had worn through the cushions. The living room light source was a single light bulb hanging from a twisted wire in the ceiling. The only “running water” they had came from a rusted cast iron pump in the kitchen.

They always had a pot of coffee going, especially at the beginning of the month and it came from a tin Dripolator. Coffee grounds were always reused several times with a spoonful of fresh coffee grounds intermittently added. The grounds were eventually dumped into the garden to encourage the nightcrawler population.

Turning coffee grounds into a “happy meal” for a nightcrawler was common. These worms were so big you could split them in half with your thumbnail to make it squirm and be more noticeable at the bottom of the muddy Mahoning River near our house. They could be used to catch a big catfish and turn that into a much-needed protein meal. From coffee grounds to a catfish dinner was the only “sustainable living” that i knew in my early years.

Everyone, even us kids, knew how to recycle in our neighborhood but it was out of necessity and sometimes survival.

I digress.

I loved going to old-man Johnson’s house because when you came in their front door you were the main attraction. They loved company because it was so rare to get visitors. Family and plain folks were their entertainment.

His 2 sons were always talking about one of three of their favorite things to do: coon hunting, red squirrel hunting and groundhog hunting. That was their life—”huntin’” They loved guns as much as I did and there was always a 12-gauge shotgun propped up in the corner of their bare living room. Gardening and hunting was their main source of food.

Bringing home a flea-infested groundhog was to them a real treat. Today a groundhog is only roadkill and a farmer’s nuisance because of the holes they dig can lame a horse. Groundhogs (we called them whistling pigs because they would stand on their hind legs and whistle to warn of predators) were plentiful but skittish and you needed a .22 rifle to pick them off from a distance. You never had to get permission from a farmer to hunt’em. It was the welcomed neighborly thing to do to help others and yourself.

Old-man Johnson had a 50ish-year-old daughter named Opal. She was the homeliest woman I had ever seen but she was also kind and gentle and you could not help but love her. My fondest memory of Opal was that she always had a bowl of coffee in-hand. Not a cup—a bowl. Her brothers both had cups because they were more “evolved” but Opal drank from a white porcelain bowl.

I like to think that she was named that for the beautiful woman she was on the inside if you could only look beneath her simple appearance. She was a genuinely nice person and I loved her shy, backward personality. If you still need help getting the visual look up “Angels in Heaven, by Abby, the spoon lady” on YouTube (81M views), that will help—she’s almost a spittin’ image.

The thing that I remember the most about
old-man Johnson was that he was shoeless.

Not that he had no shoes, but more that he was always shoeless when he was unconscious. Sometimes only one sock but always shoeless. In fact I had seen him walking with shoes many times and I remember… they were black dress shoes. The kind with the round waxed laces.

It never made sense to me that he would lose his shoes somehow in his drunken state. He only lived a mile and a half or so from Penny’s. Did he just forget to put them on before he left the house?

This all became clear one day when I saw old-man Johnson at the door of Addy’s house. I could overhear Addy and him having a discussion through the screen door. They were in a negotiation of sorts. Addy knew better than to let him into the house because he would end up overstaying his welcome. Old-man Johnson was asking for money and I could tell it was not the first time this took place, this seemed to be routine. It would have embarrassed him if he knew I was within earshot so I stayed out of his peripheral.

I found out later that he was there to borrow money at the end of the month when his pension money was gone and he desperately needed a drink. Addy was fully aware of his intentions but nevertheless the negotiating had to happen. Addy never judged him, ever, and always had empathy. He made him “work” for it in a way. But never to shame him because of their mutual respect. Without fail Addy would open the screen door enough to put his arm through and slide a couple of bucks into his pant’s pocket and not into his open hand. That gesture was purposeful to make him aware that it was a gift and not a hand-out. Their friendship was the quiet kind, mostly unspoken.

The night would end with him blacking out and never remembering where his shoes had “gone off to”. He would leave his shoes on my grandpa’s front porch as collateral for Addy to keep there in case he would not return to pay him for his accruing wine debt.

As far as I knew, the money was never repaid.

The shoes were always placed outside Addy’s door for him to pick up when he returned to consciousness the following afternoon.

Addy knew there would be a day coming that old-man Johnson would not be at the screen door anymore. And true enough, that day came when he didn’t return for his shoes. Addy could finally, after all these years, collect on old-man Johnson’s debt.

His shoes were still at the screen door in the months that followed his death. To my grandpa, the left-behind shoes were considered “Payment in Full”. They had become a priceless memory of an old friend. A memorial to a life-hardened neighbor. A friend that could only cope with his life by trying to forget his life in a bottle.

In time the shoes were given to a red-headed neighbor we called “Frenchy”, even though they were a size too big, they were a welcomed gift.

Addy was one of a few who really knew his story.

I have only shared a small chapter of old-man Johnson’s story but as you can tell his story is really what made him lovable.

My grandpa may have been his only friend, bonded by infrequent meetings at his screen door. He would occasionally stop in when my grandma was breaking beans for canning or pitting cherries for cobbler, usually hoping to share in the spoil.

Old-man Johnson died, knowing that he was not alone. He had at least one friend—my grandpa Addy and to a much smaller degree, his grandson.

What does this story about a man’s empty shoes have to do with Pickleball?

My sole purpose (pun intended) for sharing this memory is to remind myself and maybe even 1 or 2 of you, our subscribers, that we play Pickleball with real people; people with real stories. Some of those stories are complex, painful and unspoken. We may never know what they are dealing with before they walked onto the court to play with us.

As you know, we all have a need to know another person and to be known by another. For many, it is the very reason we come out to the court. Everyone at some point in their life feels powerless and alone, no matter who we are. This is our common human experience regardless of social status.

Pickleball gives us a sense of having some power against a younger mind inside an aging but active body.

For some being alone is a daily struggle.

You may be one that has spent a great deal of time disciplining your body and keeping healthy and fit. Your body may be in top condition but your heart may need the healing that can only come with a game or two of Pickleball with friends.

Consider what it would be like if no one knew even your name and didn’t feel the need to ask for it.

Will you join me as I try to make it a habit to never say the words “Zero. Zero. Start” without at least learning the names of who I am playing with, if for no other reason than just common courtesy. Asking a person’s name is where every Pickleball friendship starts.

And…if I happen to play Pickleball with you, you may get irritated by my Boomer-related short-term memory issues and I have to ask you for your name even though I should already know it. But please tell me your name, one more time. I guarantee you that my heart intentions are to not only know your name but to actually know you, no matter who you are.

Someday I will know what old-man Johnson’s first name is. Maybe I will even get to hear his full story and maybe even Addy will be the one to tell it to me.

But today, on the Pickleball court, alive and still kicking, I can learn the names of at least 3 other people. Tomorrow I may even be invited to hear or even write your story.

Would you mind commenting on this article?

Our identity is deeply important. Do you know who you are?

In my own case the Pickleball world is tied into my identity. My identity is connected to the people of this great game. I love the social connectedness of the game. I get to love people that I have never met until I play with them on the court, and to me, it is the most satisfying part of the game. 

Each game is an opportunity to get to know someone a little more and to step out of my own small world and into the shoes of another Pickleballer before they are empty. I realize no one wears their shoes forever.

Author: Dan King