Thwack, Thwack, Thwack

Becky Jeeves

Word Count 1164

The apartment overlooked pristine tennis courts. Evergreens lined the court’s perimeter and on the other side of the fencing, white-flowered California lilacs dotted the slope of a hill. Touted as a “peaceful suburban living experience,” the complex did seem quiet—a rarity in San Diego.

Time was of the essence. Our landlady wanted Taloncrest Way back. We were the best tenants she’d had, and she was sorry to see us go, but her eighty-year-old mother needed somewhere peaceful to rest and recuperate after surgery.

And Taloncrest Way was peaceful. My husband and I had spent two years cocooned in spacious solitude. Nestled on the ridge of a canyon, our daily walks were spectacular. With coastal breezes and crimson-buffed sunsets, it was a jewel in the crown. The evening chorus of bullfrogs sounding from the bowels of the valley luxuriated our ears like a nighttime balm.

The sun—the leasing agent assured us—flooded the apartment during the day. We nodded eagerly. I was finishing a master’s degree and needed somewhere quiet to work.

By the time we’d driven home, I’d already pegged the spare bedroom overlooking the tennis courts as my writing room. It was going to be my sanctuary. Not as good as Taloncrest Way—nothing could be as good as Taloncrest Way—but it was a start.

Maybe it was the disappointment of being ousted from our apartment, or the idea of having to submit yet another application on Zillow. Maybe I was lured by the premise of the pine trees, the hedgerows, the open space of the courts, or the distance between the apartment and the road. But a week later, we signed a six month lease.

Before signing our sanity away, I’d shushed my husband when he mentioned potential noise from the tennis courts. “Who plays tennis in the middle of the day?” I quibbled. “We live near a tech hub; everyone will be at work.” How loud could a tennis match possibly be anyway?

Back then, I was clueless about the pickleball craze that had been sweeping the West Coast for some time. Or the rising popularity of tennis.

At 7 a.m., I wake (yes, even with the windows closed) when the tech workers arrive, always on time and eager, for their pre-work matches. Usually, these players are men. They hit the ball forcefully, priming themselves for a day at the office.

Mid-morning, a new set of enthusiasts materializes. These players could be retirees, but they don’t look like your average sixty-somethings dabbling in a spot of gentle daily exercise. These players have juice. They have stamina. They descend in large, chatty groups. They play doubles. And they love pickleball.

Occasionally, there’s a lunchtime lull. Then, at 1 p.m., coaching starts.

There’s only one coach. Each day, he wheels his trolley brimming with tennis paraphernalia and training aids—balls, rackets, throw-down markers—past my window, a reminder that recess is over. The sound of the wheels rattling on the pavement sends a depressive shiver down my spine.

“Nice!” he shouts at every backhand, volley, forehand and serve. Nice! Nice! Nice! His voice possesses the decibels necessary to nullify the sound of my fists banging on the window.

Coaching is allowed on the courts provided no money exchanges hands, which makes this coach’s commitment to teaching the epitome of dedication. He volunteers his time, giving lessons to a variety of ‘friends’ ranging in age from ten- and twelve-year-olds to teenagers and adults.

After the ‘free’ lessons for ‘friends’ from the tennis-player-turned-coach wrap up at 5 p.m., the post-work crowd shows up: the busiest stretch of the day. The courts become a hive of activity. Noise levels soar.

Thwack, thwack, thwack,thwack.

Eventually, the Gen Zs take over, swaggering onto court with their rackets and rucksacks. The Gen Zs have a raw, competitive edge. With their abrasive heckling and high-intensity thwacking, my husband and I spent the first two weeks out on the balcony at 10 p.m., waving them down most evenings, politely asking them to leave.

In the fourth week, I cracked. I wobbled down to the leasing office in tears. The leasing agent didn’t have much sympathy. Neither did her boss. I told them that the sound of pickleball from 7 a.m. until 10 p.m., along with the coach’s daily barking, and the Gen Zs’ indifference to time—was driving me mad.

The leasing agent tilted her head, tapped her nails on the desk, and told me in a sickly-sweet voice: “Noise is subjective.”

Since then, I’ve morphed into a stay-at-home stalker. I watch from the living room when groups show up, knowing that when they leave again their departure only means someone else is coming.

When I went to the leasing office for the second and third time, the leasing agent made it clear that the complex “doesn’t have any say on the tennis court rules since it’s governed by an external Home Owners Association.” Now, my HOA middleman probably wishes we’d never signed the lease too.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for community and engagement, but not at the cost of my mental health.

It became impossible to concentrate, to relax, to get an early night. My husband and I are never alone: we watch television with the volume high to drown out the repetitive sound of balls being hit. The noise is like an unabating tap dripping inside my head.

My husband developed tinnitus.

“I’m sick of this,” I screeched one night after a series of relentless back-to-back ball-hitting days. “I can’t handle it,” I screeched again, and that’s when his hand shot to the side of his head and he frowned, “There’s a sound in my ear,” he said, puncturing my wails with his own. “A ringing.”

At home—in my ‘writing room’— I was constantly slamming a racket over someone’s head.

Feeling insane sometimes drives you even madder. It forces your brain to think thoughts you’ve never considered before. One time, I stationed myself in the closet cupboard and shut the door. It is the only space in the apartment sound proofed. Another time, I imagined hosing a group of women down.

But it’s not all bad.

After a barrage of emails, the HOA finally agreed to turn the tennis court’s flood lights off at 10 p.m., ending the Gen Zs midnight reign. For the first time since moving, I felt empowered. Elated. Sadistically relieved.

With the three-month mark approaching, I’ve grown as a person. I’ve learned new ways to suppress sound. Ten-hour YouTube videos streaming white noise. Noise-cancelling earphones. Writing with the blinds drawn, the patio door shut, and the windows closed has turned out to be satisfying and surprisingly productive. I’m looking forward to moving.

I have—I think—improved mindfulness. Now, I can consciously disengage from my external environment: the incessant thwacks and the shouting won’t stop no matter how much I try and will them away.

Living here, I’ve learned there are ways to manage what I can’t control—something that, as it turns out at the age of forty-nine, is looking like another one of life’s unexpected and valuable lessons.

Living behind the noisiest tennis courts in San Diego has taught me that.

Becky was born and raised in England and now makes her home in the American Midwest. Her work has appeared in a variety of publications, including Good River Review, HerStry, and Months to Years. A recent graduate of the Naslund-Mann Graduate School of Writing at Spalding University, she is currently putting the finishing touches on her debut memoir, The Daughter I Am.