Playing Pickleball in Prison

Something really unique happened in prison the other day.

I’ve previously shared a story about a student who revealed in one of his papers that he had faced the death penalty and had been spared thanks to the efforts of his public defender. In case you don’t recall or missed that newsletter, I reached out to the lawyer (who’s since retired) and wrote her a letter of appreciation explaining just how much of a wonderful human the young man she had represented had grown up to be. I mentioned that while I couldn’t reveal his identity, she could attend one of our horticulture classes and he might be in attendance. Sure enough, she came to class, and they ended up having a tearful reunion – one of my favorite days in HeartBound history.

Well turns out that the now-retired public defender is an avid pickleball player and mentioned her love of the game to her former client. He expressed interest in trying it out, so she and HeartBound worked together with the Macon Pickleball Association and Atlanta Pickleball Association to procure supplies for a pickleball program at Burruss Correctional Training Center. Generous strangers donated paddles, nets, balls, and more and we set a date for an opening clinic at Burruss. A few Macon pickleballers volunteered to come assist and together, we all walked into the gym at Burruss, ready to pickle it up.

Fifty men signed up for our first class. Over the noise of the gym fans blaring, we explained the rules, then played a quick game as a demonstration. The men were enthralled from the first bounce – necks eagerly turned side to side as they watched the pickleball bounce back and forth. After our demonstration, it was their turn to play. Everything was going perfectly, except for one thing – the former client, the man this former attorney saved from death, the one who prompted this idea, wasn’t in the gym and no one knew where he was. Still, we played on. The gym filled with the sound of paddles paddling and balls bouncing. Smiles abounded.

My recently broken ankle is still recovering, so I opted not to play. As I helped explain the rules and encouraged the men, one former juvenile horticulture student approached me. I lit up with a smile: “I thought you had been transferred, where you been, bro?” He replied sullenly, “Just staying out of everyone’s way. Can’t trust anybody.” His face was covered in some sort of rash, and I could tell something was out of place. I told him, “There are people who care about you. I care about you. There are people that want to help you, but you left class, and now no one can help you. You disappeared man, what’s up?” He struggled to look at me. This young man is 18 years old, maybe 120 pounds, maybe 5’3” tall. Something in my gut told me that something had happened to this formerly jovial young man when he had been transferred to the adult population. I felt sick, I can’t explain it, but I felt that someone had done something horrible to him. “Look, just come back to class. Mike and some of the other guys want to help you. They’ll make sure you’re safe.” The young man looked down at his shuffling feet, “I don’t know man, you sure?” “Yes. I’m sure of it,” I said. “Next Tuesday, 9:30 AM, same classroom, be there.” No response from him.

We surveyed the scene in front of us. Men were pouring sweat as they chased neon green balls around the gym. The former attorney was playing a doubles match with her former client (he’d shown up after all!) – a dream come true. She was sharing her favorite sport with one of her favorite clients – a man she had helped save from death. It was wondrous.

My former student asked, “What’s this game?” “Pickleball, bro! You got to try it,” I said. I grabbed paddles and we began to volley. A smile began to spread over his face.

There we were, in a hot gym in south Georgia, two young men, just dinking a tiny plastic ball back and forth. My ankle throbbed as I ran around the gym chasing after errant shots, talking trash in between points, laughing and smiling and thanking God above for this wonderful job. Afterwards, sweat-drenched and smelly, we shook hands. He looked me in the eyes. “Thank you. I’ll see you Tuesday.”

So yeah, that’s why we have programs like pickleball and horticulture. It’s not about the sport or the plants, it’s about the people. Broken human beings in need of a little reminder that someone cares about them. That God cares about them. That someone cares enough to give to make it possible. Walking away from Burruss that day, I was reminded that always, always, God provides. Thank you for being an instrument of God.

Have a blessed day.

Spencer