Shuffleboard: The Spice of Life, by Courtney Courtwright

It had been six weeks since Ginger’s breakup, which was long enough for her friends to stop saying, “Take all the time you need,” and start saying things like, “Okay, seriously, you need to put on pants and leave the house.”

Ginger knew they were right.

Her post-breakup recovery plan—red wine, takeout, and enough Friends reruns to make Ross and Rachel feel like members of her immediate family—was no longer producing measurable therapeutic results.

She needed excitement. She needed romance. She needed to feel desirable again. Apparently, what she needed was shuffleboard. She just didn’t know it yet.

A few days earlier, Ginger had wandered through a local art show being held on the grounds of a local shuffleboard club. She barely noticed the courts then. They were just long stretches of green concrete. Little did she know that on one of those courts, her life was about to change.

Her best friend, Grace, finally staged the intervention. “You’re coming with me on Friday night,” Grace said.

“Where to?”

“Friday Night Shuffleboard in St. Petersburg.”

Ginger stared at her. “Shuffleboard?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm, I don’t know. Isn’t that what people do when they’re too old to play pickleball?

Grace took a sip of wine. “You’ve spent six weeks in bed watching Chandler Bing. At this point, I’m willing to try anything.”

The next night, Ginger found herself standing at the end of a long green shuffleboard court beneath warm lights, holding a yellow disc in one hand and a borrowed cue in the other, even though she had absolutely no idea what she was doing.

Grace felt certain that knocking heavy plastic discs across concrete was exactly the kind of therapy Ginger needed to get out of the house and reclaim her life. She had seen this work before for another friend when she took her to hit golf balls at the driving range.

Ginger’s first shot sailed off the court as if it were trying to escape her problems. Her second didn’t even reach the opposite triangle. Her third ricocheted off the disc sitting on the court, shot sideways across the court, and nearly amputated the ankle of a man playing next door.

Ginger froze. “Oh, my Goodness,” she squealed.

From the next court came a slow and steady applause.

Ginger turned.

A tall, well-built gentleman was leaning casually on his cue, smiling at her.

Grace immediately narrowed her eyes. “Oh, please,” she said. “Don’t encourage her.”

“Seriously,” the man replied. “I’ve been trying to make that exact shot for three years.”

His name was Matt. And Matt was…Well. Matt was just the type of problem Ginger needed. Matt was tall, tanned, fit, and recently retired. His hair had a touch of gray, and his confidence suggested that he knew both how to invest money and how to order wine. And worst of all, he possessed the irritating confidence of a man who knew exactly how much speed to put on a shuffleboard disc while accounting for drift.

Grace disliked him immediately. Which, Ginger later pointed out, was exactly how Grace had described every man she had eventually liked.

Matt retrieved Ginger’s runaway disc and walked it back to her. “First time?” He asked.

“Is it that obvious?”

“I wasn’t sure until you almost took out Larry’s ankle.”

He handed her the disc as their fingers gently brushed. It lasted maybe half a second, but Ginger’s body reacted with a surge of butterflies in her chest and a flush in her face.

Well, Ginger thought.

Matt smiled. “Want a little advice?”

Grace raised her wine glass. “Careful how you answer that.”

Matt cleared his throat. “Ok, let’s square your shoulders to your feet and loosen your grip. Then follow through smoothly, nice and easy.”

Hearing this, Grace nearly choked on her wine. “She just broke up with her loser boyfriend,” she blurted out. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

Ginger shot her a look as Matt laughed uneasily and stepped slightly closer. “Here,” he said. “Try again.” Ginger positioned herself. “Looser grip,” Matt said. She loosened it. Now, “Relax your shoulders and give it a smooth stroke.”

Grace made a strangled noise behind them. Ginger turned. “Would you stop?” “I didn’t say anything,” Grace said smugly.

“You didn’t have to.” Ginger shot back. Matt tried hard not to laugh.

Then Ginger took the shot. The disc glided beautifully down the court and settled squarely into the ten. Ginger’s mouth dropped open. “Yes!” She said with confidence.

Matt smiled. “You’ve got natural talent.” Ginger looked at him and laughed. “Beginner’s luck.” “Maybe,” Matt said, as his eyes stayed on hers just a fraction longer than necessary. “Or maybe you just needed the right instructor.”

Ginger felt something she hadn’t felt in weeks. Maybe months. She was flirting, and enjoying it. “Mind if I join you?” Matt asked. Grace muttered into her wine, “Apparently, you already have.”

Matt handed Ginger another stray disc. Oh, and don’t worry about apologizing to Larry over there,” he said. “He clears discs so hard that people started wearing steel-toe boots when they play with him.”

Larry raised his cue from two courts away. “I HEARD THAT.” “Good!” Matt shouted back with a smile.

Over the next hour, Matt completely abandoned his own game and gave Ginger what could generously be described as a shuffleboard lesson and more accurately described as flirting with the drift.

He explained blocking. He showed her how to hide a disc. And somewhere around his explanation of “coming around the outside and slipping gently behind the block,” Grace announced that either shuffleboard possessed considerably more sexual innuendo than she had been led to believe or she had had too much wine.

Matt showed Ginger another shot. “You don’t always have to hit hard,” he said. “Sometimes touch is more important than power.” Grace turned toward them. “Oh, for the love of God.” Matt lost it, and Ginger laughed so hard she nearly dropped her cue. Suddenly Ginger realized something. She hadn’t thought about her ex all night. Not once. She hadn’t thought about the breakup. She hadn’t thought about being lonely. She hadn’t thought about crawling back into bed with Netflix and a pint of Ben and Jerry’s.

Here she was on a beautiful evening, laughing with her best friend while Mr. Matt stood close enough for her to smell the clean, fresh scent of his Old Spice cologne. Life, she realized, felt good again.

Matt began to explain the strategy of Kitchening. Knocking your opponent’s disc into the kitchen while leaving your own safely behind. At this point, Grace had reached the stage of the evening where technical explanations were no longer advisable.

“So let me get this straight,” Grace said. “You want to knock Ginger in the kitchen while keeping yours protected?” Matt rubbed his forehead. “I feel like there’s no safe answer to this question.” “There isn’t,” Ginger said.

Grace pointed toward the court. “And what did you call that disc thingy again?”

“A biscuit,” Matt said.

Grace stared at him. “A biscuit?” Grace slowly looked at Ginger. “So he’s trying to knock your biscuit in the kitchen.” I’m starting to think he might be a creeper.

Matt closed his eyes. Ginger burst out laughing, her cheeks hurt from smiling. “I think we’re done with lessons for tonight.” “Probably wise,” Matt said.

As people began putting away their cues, Matt leaned against his and looked at Ginger, and for the first time all night, he seemed almost nervous. “See you next week,” he said.

Ginger looked at him. Then at Grace. Reluctantly, Grace gave her a quick shoulder shrug while finishing what remained of her wine.

Ginger turned back to Matt. “Maybe.” Matt smiled. “Maybe?” Ginger stepped a little closer. “Bring a bottle of Pinot Noir for Grace?” “Done, Matt said!

Ginger smiled. For a moment they just looked at each other. That warm flutter returned. Only this time, Ginger didn’t mind it at all.

Behind her, Grace was attempting to carry three cues, two wine glasses, and her purse at the same time. “You two are ridiculous,” she slurred.

Matt looked at Ginger. “I don’t think your friend likes me.” Ginger smiled. “Actually, that’s a very good sign.”

And as Ginger walked toward the parking lot that night, she felt lighter than she had in months. Maybe shuffleboard wasn’t a game for people too old to play pickleball. Maybe it was exactly the opposite.

Sometimes life knocks you into the kitchen. Sometimes you end up ten-off. And sometimes, when you least expect it, a handsome stranger walks onto the court, teaches you to loosen your grip…

…and reminds you that you still have plenty of game left.