Pickleball, definitely not an obsession - a short story.

Meet Doug "Dinkmaster" Thompson, a 42-year-old accountant who swears pickleball is just a game. "Obsession? Pfft," he'd scoff, while etching his latest serve stats into the family fridge with a Sharpie. "It's a lifestyle choice, like breathing, but with paddles!"

It started innocently enough. Doug's friends noticed when he showed up to poker night with a neon-green paddle strapped to his back like a samurai sword. "Guys, check this out!" he'd beam, slamming a bag of mini-donuts onto the table. "Yesterday's match? I dinked a 14-shot rally! That's like chess, but a great workout and with fewer nerds!"

His buddy Mike rolled his eyes. "Dude, you talk about pickleball more than your own kids."

Doug laughed it off. "Nah, that's just conversation! Small talk keeps friendships alive. Like asking about the weather, except mine's 'How's the humidity affecting my topspin?' Totally normal!"

But the real drama brewed at home. Doug's wife, Margaret, a saintly yoga instructor, stared daggers as he laced up his pickleball sneakers for the seventh night in a row. "Doug, we're supposed to host book club tonight. You've been gone every evening this week!"

He froze mid-tie, then flashed his best puppy-dog eyes. "Babe, I have to keep active! For you! Doctors say sedentary lifestyles kill marriages faster than snoring. I'm out there dinking for our health, sweating off the stress so I can be the virile hunk you married. Plus, pickleball burns 600 calories an hour. That's like eating a whole pizza guilt-free!"

Margaret crossed her arms. "You skipped our anniversary dinner last month for a 'tournament qualifier.' And now your phone's autocorrect changed 'I love you' to 'I lob you'?"

“Absurd!" Doug protested, already backing toward the door. "That's technology adapting to excellence. And hey, the kids love it, I taught Timmy to serve yesterday. Family bonding! See? I'm basically Ward Cleaver with a whiffle ball."

The next weekend, Doug escalated. He converted the garage into "The Dink Den", a shrine of 17 paddles, a wall of laminated scorecards, and a custom Pickleball Prayer candle ("Blessed is the graphite that surrounds the polymer honeycomb core of my paddle"). When Margaret found him at 2 a.m. practicing shadow dinks by flashlight, she exploded.

"Doug, this is an obsession! You're missing soccer games, date nights, everything!"

He dropped into a dramatic kneel, paddle raised like Excalibur. "Margaret, hear me out: Pickleball isn't an obsession, it encompasses all that we are! Einstein played violin to think. I play pickleball to live. Sure, I ghosted your sister's wedding for regionals, but that volley I nailed? It was for us! Health! Happiness! And okay, fine, the trophies make great doorstops and my wall of medals is growing. But mostly... for you!"

She sighed, handing him his keys. "Go. But if you win nationals, bring home takeout."

Doug sprinted out, yelling back, "Deal! And babe? Great talk, just conversation, not obsession, wouldn’t you agree?"

By Monday, Doug's obituary, er, I mean LinkedIn profile read: "Pickleball Enthusiast | Dinking My Way to World Peace." His friends formed a support group called "Doug Anonymous." Margaret? She took up knitting tiny pickleball sweaters. Because in the Thompson house, denial wasn't just a river in Egypt, it was a doubles court.

And Doug? He dinked happily ever after. Totally not obsessed. Not a bit, Not at all, right?