The Lion and the Hare at the Pickleball Court

The Lion and the Hare at the Pickleball Court

Upon a bright and breezy morn

Where paddles popped and shoes were worn,

A lion strode with mighty glare

To rule the court and claim his share.

He smashed each ball with roaring might,

A thunderclap of yellow flight.

“Stand back!” he cried. “I end points fast—

No rally here shall ever last!”

The players sighed. “What can we do?

His drives come hard, his temper too.”

Then from the fence there hopped with care

A quiet soul—a thinking hare.

The hare bowed low and scratched his ear:

“O King of Smashes, lend an ear.

Your power’s great, your roar profound—

But might we try a softer round?”

The lion scoffed. “A dink? A drop?

Such timid tricks shall never stop

The storm I bring! Now feed me balls—

I conquer courts and pickle halls!”

The hare just smiled, so calm and mild,

The wisest trick of forest child.

He sent a drop so slow and sweet

It barely crossed the kitchen’s sheet.

The lion lunged with pounding tread—

His royal mane bounced overhead.

Then wide the hare sent left and right,

A dancing dink of feathered flight.

The lion chased with mighty pride

But slipped a step and lunged too wide.

Then up the hare, with gentle art,

Released a lob of cunning heart.

The lion spun and raced behind—

The sun flashed gold, he swung half-blind.

The ball fell softly near the line;

The lion roared, “That trick was mine!”

Again the hare with patience played,

Each stroke a quiet plan well laid.

No force, no haste, no thunder grand—

Just angles drawn by careful hand.

Soon sweat adorned the lion’s brow,

His roaring breath grew slower now.

At last he smashed with furious cry—

The ball flew long and kissed the sky.

The court fell still.

The hare then spoke

A kindly word, a playful joke:

“O King of Power, strong and proud,

Your swings could wake the mountain cloud.

But courts, like wells in stories told,

Reflect the haste of hearts too bold.

For strength alone may win a few,

Yet wisdom wins the long match through.

The ball obeys not rage or shout—

It favors those who think it out.”

The lion blinked, then gave a grin.

“Perhaps,” he said, “you have a win.”

So now upon that sunny ground

Where paddles sing their popping sound,

The lion smashes when he may—

But sometimes dinks the wiser way.

And if you stroll past courts one day

Where rallies dance and players play,

You might recall that ancient tale

Where strength and cunning tipped the scale:

Not every roar should rule the game—

A patient mind can do the same. 🏓