Drill, Baby, Drill!

Ben Waiten, a resident at Wander In Active Adult Community, thought of the immortal words spoken by Sarah Palin in October of 2008. Ben wasn’t in search of oil or natural gas. He wasn’t running for Vice President either. Ben just wanted to improve his pickleball game, and his good friend Horace Henderson told him that the only way to improve is to drill.

“Drill and drill more. Play and then drill. Then, drill some more.” is what Horace kept telling Ben.

Drilling though, wasn’t always that easy. Free court time was scarce, and during peak hours, courts were only available for open play. By the time the temperatures started to soar, most players were done for the day and didn’t stick around for drills. Every now and then, someone would hit balls back and forth with Ben, but that wasn’t enough. Ben needed a partner who could hit balls to him with force, finesse, and consistency.

“Have you tried the Lobster™?” Horace asked Ben one day.

“I prefer the scampi. Or even Alaskan king crab legs.” Ben replied. “They go great with a nice bottle of Chablis.”

“No. I mean the Lobster.” Horace interrupted. “The pickleball machine the park owns. I’ve heard it’s great for drilling when you can’t find a partner.”

“I’ve heard of it, but have never given it a try.” Ben added. “Can anyone use it?” he asked.

“You’re supposed to have training on how to use it, but it’s pretty straight-forward. You should give it a whirl some time. It’s in the shed behind the courts. The combination for the shed is 1-2-3-4. Pretty easy to remember.”

Ben thanked Horace for the advice and said he’d look into the Lobster.

Later that week, once the temperature reached into the nineties and everybody left the courts, Ben walked to the shed. Using the top-secret code Horace gave him, Ben entered the shed and found the Lobster in the corner. It was plugged in and the green light shone solid, a good indication to Ben that the battery was fully charged. Ben unplugged the machine. He noticed a reference sheet with basic use commands, but figured he could figure out how to use it just by playing with the controls. He also saw a sign-up sheet, but since he had never officially had instruction, he didn’t sign his name. Ben wheeled the Lobster to the closest court, placed it on one side of the net, and then bent down to examine the switches and knobs that adorned the control panel.

One toggle switch read On/Off. It was self-explanatory. There were four knobs below the toggle. The label above the first read Speed. The second read Trajectory. The third read Delay. The fourth read Rotation. Ben twisted all four up and down, and figured he could control the ball lobbing with ease using the four controls. He returned to the shed and brought back a large box of bright yellow pickleballs. He poured around 40 balls into the hopper, the large funnel-shaped bowl on top of the Lobster. Ben made three random adjustments to the knobs and flicked the toggle switch to the On position.

A soft yet audible sound purred from the Lobster. It was running. Ben waited a few seconds, but nothing happened. He walked around the front to examine the control panel, just as the first ball shot out of the barrel, at a very high rate of speed. The ball hit Ben squarely in the stomach, knocking him over in the process. Ben sat there, thinking how glad he was that the Trajectory knob wasn’t set a few inches lower when a second speeding projectile soared over his head, barely missing his hat. Ben rolled out of the way, reached up, and turned the toggle to the Off position.

“That was close!” he thought as he made adjustments to the knobs. “Maybe a little less Speed and Delay.” he said to himself as he turned the two knobs down. He also gave the machine a little shove, just to let it know who was boss.

He flicked the toggle up. Within seconds, three balls slowly dribbled out, hit the ground directly below the barrel, and harmlessly rolled by his feet. Two seconds later, another ball rolled out, and then another and another. Ben switched the Lobster off again.

“I know it’s just figuring out the right combination of settings.” he murmured under his breath. He again rotated a few knobs, and turned on the Lobster. The base of the Lobster swung to the right, a pickleball blasted out of the barrel, and landed in the next court over. The Lobster swiveled left and deposited another ball on another court. This continued until Ben once again hit the switch. Ben looked around to see if anyone watched the barrage of balls flying here and there. No one did. He quickly ran to the adjourning courts and gathered up all of the wayward balls.

“This is getting frustrating.” he thought. “One more try and then I’m giving up.” he assured himself.

He again made adjustments that he thought would be good for drilling. He again looked around for spectators, and when he was sure no one watched, he flicked the switch up. The familiar hum of the Lobster began, but nothing else happened for about ten seconds. Then, before he knew what to do, five balls shot like mortar rounds over the brick wall and directly into Saguaro Drive. Ben immediately heard the sound of squealing tires as multiple cars came to abrupt stops in the middle of the busy boulevard.

“Crap!” Ben yelled as he ran to the wall and hoisted himself up to take a look. Fortunately, no accidents occurred. Ben saw several drivers exit their cars, raising fists and cursing loudly. Before Ben could back down, another five balls arced over his head and landed in the street.

“Incoming!” one of the drivers yelled.

Ben yelled an apology to the drivers as he quickly scurried to the Lobster and shut it off. While doing this, ten balls flew back over the wall. He yelled an apology again and thanked the drivers for returning the balls. He gathered everything up, and grabbing the Lobster by its handle, hightailed it for the shed. He put everything back, cursed to himself about the frustration he encountered with the nefarious machine, closed the shed door, and walked away.

Ben was twenty feet from the shed when he heard the distinct humming of the Lobster humming, followed by the sound of high-velocity balls pummeling the shed walls. As he quickened his pace, he was glad he didn’t add his name to the sign-up sheet. “Next time” he thought, “I’ll read the instructions.”.

Drill, Baby, Drill!

Ben Waiten, a resident at Wander In Active Adult Community, thought of the immortal words spoken by Sarah Palin in October of 2008. Ben wasn’t in search of oil or natural gas. He wasn’t running for Vice President either. Ben just wanted to improve his pickleball game, and his good friend Horace Henderson told him that the only way to improve is to drill.

“Drill and drill more. Play and then drill. Then, drill some more.” is what Horace kept telling Ben.

Drilling though, wasn’t always that easy. Free court time was scarce, and during peak hours, courts were only available for open play. By the time the temperatures started to soar, most players were done for the day and didn’t stick around for drills. Every now and then, someone would hit balls back and forth with Ben, but that wasn’t enough. Ben needed a partner who could hit balls to him with force, finesse, and consistency.

“Have you tried the Lobster™?” Horace asked Ben one day.

“I prefer the scampi. Or even Alaskan king crab legs.” Ben replied. “They go great with a nice bottle of Chablis.”

“No. I mean the Lobster.” Horace interrupted. “The pickleball machine the park owns. I’ve heard it’s great for drilling when you can’t find a partner.”

“I’ve heard of it, but have never given it a try.” Ben added. “Can anyone use it?” he asked.

“You’re supposed to have training on how to use it, but it’s pretty straight-forward. You should give it a whirl some time. It’s in the shed behind the courts. The combination for the shed is 1-2-3-4. Pretty easy to remember.”

Ben thanked Horace for the advice and said he’d look into the Lobster.

Later that week, once the temperature reached into the nineties and everybody left the courts, Ben walked to the shed. Using the top-secret code Horace gave him, Ben entered the shed and found the Lobster in the corner. It was plugged in and the green light shone solid, a good indication to Ben that the battery was fully charged. Ben unplugged the machine. He noticed a reference sheet with basic use commands, but figured he could figure out how to use it just by playing with the controls. He also saw a sign-up sheet, but since he had never officially had instruction, he didn’t sign his name. Ben wheeled the Lobster to the closest court, placed it on one side of the net, and then bent down to examine the switches and knobs that adorned the control panel.

One toggle switch read On/Off. It was self-explanatory. There were four knobs below the toggle. The label above the first read Speed. The second read Trajectory. The third read Delay. The fourth read Rotation. Ben twisted all four up and down, and figured he could control the ball lobbing with ease using the four controls. He returned to the shed and brought back a large box of bright yellow pickleballs. He poured around 40 balls into the hopper, the large funnel-shaped bowl on top of the Lobster. Ben made three random adjustments to the knobs and flicked the toggle switch to the On position.

A soft yet audible sound purred from the Lobster. It was running. Ben waited a few seconds, but nothing happened. He walked around the front to examine the control panel, just as the first ball shot out of the barrel, at a very high rate of speed. The ball hit Ben squarely in the stomach, knocking him over in the process. Ben sat there, thinking how glad he was that the Trajectory knob wasn’t set a few inches lower when a second speeding projectile soared over his head, barely missing his hat. Ben rolled out of the way, reached up, and turned the toggle to the Off position.

“That was close!” he thought as he made adjustments to the knobs. “Maybe a little less Speed and Delay.” he said to himself as he turned the two knobs down. He also gave the machine a little shove, just to let it know who was boss.

He flicked the toggle up. Within seconds, three balls slowly dribbled out, hit the ground directly below the barrel, and harmlessly rolled by his feet. Two seconds later, another ball rolled out, and then another and another. Ben switched the Lobster off again.

“I know it’s just figuring out the right combination of settings.” he murmured under his breath. He again rotated a few knobs, and turned on the Lobster. The base of the Lobster swung to the right, a pickleball blasted out of the barrel, and landed in the next court over. The Lobster swiveled left and deposited another ball on another court. This continued until Ben once again hit the switch. Ben looked around to see if anyone watched the barrage of balls flying here and there. No one did. He quickly ran to the adjourning courts and gathered up all of the wayward balls.

“This is getting frustrating.” he thought. “One more try and then I’m giving up.” he assured himself.

He again made adjustments that he thought would be good for drilling. He again looked around for spectators, and when he was sure no one watched, he flicked the switch up. The familiar hum of the Lobster began, but nothing else happened for about ten seconds. Then, before he knew what to do, five balls shot like mortar rounds over the brick wall and directly into Saguaro Drive. Ben immediately heard the sound of squealing tires as multiple cars came to abrupt stops in the middle of the busy boulevard.

“Crap!” Ben yelled as he ran to the wall and hoisted himself up to take a look. Fortunately, no accidents occurred. Ben saw several drivers exit their cars, raising fists and cursing loudly. Before Ben could back down, another five balls arced over his head and landed in the street.

“Incoming!” one of the drivers yelled.

Ben yelled an apology to the drivers as he quickly scurried to the Lobster and shut it off. While doing this, ten balls flew back over the wall. He yelled an apology again and thanked the drivers for returning the balls. He gathered everything up, and grabbing the Lobster by its handle, hightailed it for the shed. He put everything back, cursed to himself about the frustration he encountered with the nefarious machine, closed the shed door, and walked away.

Ben was twenty feet from the shed when he heard the distinct sound of the Lobster humming, followed by the sound of high-velocity balls pummeling the shed walls. As he quickened his pace, he was glad he didn’t add his name to the sign-up sheet. “Next time” he thought, “Maybe I’ll read the instructions.”.