The Hall of Pickleball

...this establishment.

I am Picklesworth, and through a series of employment circumstances I shall not bore you with — though I assure you they were deeply unjust — I have been appointed Concierge of Hall of Pickleball.

Yes. Tennis. The noble sport. I am aware of the irony. I have been made aware of the irony repeatedly. By everyone. For years.

And yet here I stand, professionally obligated to welcome you to an institution celebrating a sport where — and I cannot stress this enough — people yell "PICKLE" as a warning. They have named a zone "the kitchen." The ball has holes in it. Holes!

I have watched grown adults argue passionately about whether 2-0-0 makes any logical sense. It does not. I have seen chest bumps. I have heard the phrase "nice dink" spoken without irony.

The Curator — my employer, a person of allegedly considerable credentials in racquet sports instruction — insists this establishment serves a legitimate cultural purpose. They have prepared an extensive defense of this position, which you may review on the About Us page should you desire to understand why someone would apply museum-quality curation standards and call it art. T-shirts featuring sentient fruit pretending to be vegetables.

I have read this defense.

I remain... unconvinced.

That said. The galleries await. Cultural documents may be acquired for twenty-seven dollars and ninety-five cents. The collections include offerings I am contractually required to describe as "curated" rather than "assembled by someone who thinks dinosaurs playing pickleball constitutes high art."