By Cherry M. Roxas 

Often, what starts as a talent or hobby eventually becomes our passion. We willingly spend time on it and find joy in doing it repeatedly — it serves as both our comfort zone and a source of stress relief. But sometimes, there are things we try out of mere curiosity, and unexpectedly, we grow to love them as time goes by.

That’s exactly what Ma’am Maria Kristina Wingkee, our HR Business Partner Manager, experienced when she discovered the sport of pickleball. An advocate of wellness, she found unexpected joy and passion in the game.

I didn’t go looking for pickleball—if anything, it found me.

Like many people, I first heard about it through a passing conversation. “It’s like tennis, but easier.” “My friends are obsessed.” “It’s all the rage now.” I didn’t think much of it. To be honest, the name itself sounded a little silly. Pickleball? It didn’t scream athleticism or intensity—it sounded like something you might play with kids in a backyard.

But that all changed the first time I picked up a paddle.

The First Game: Humble Beginnings

It was a casual Saturday morning when a friend invited me to a local park in Paranaque. “Come try pickleball,” he said. “You’ll love it.” I was hesitant—I hadn’t played a racket sport for a few months. But I agreed, mostly for the social aspect and a bit of fresh air.

We arrived at the courts, and to my surprise, they were buzzing with energy. There were players of all ages—some wearing sweatbands and knee braces, others in gym shorts and sneakers, laughing between points. The courts were smaller than tennis courts, the paddles were solid, and the balls looked like wiffleballs.

When I finally stepped onto the court, I didn’t expect much from myself. But after a few simple instructions and a few dinks over the net, something shifted. I was hooked—not because I was good (I wasn’t), but because I was having fun. That simple. Fun that felt natural, unforced, and shared.

The Learning Curve: Humbling but Addictive

Pickleball has this unique charm—it’s incredibly accessible but deceptively complex. On the surface, it’s easy to pick up. Within a few minutes, most beginners can serve, return, and rally. But as you play more, you realize just how much nuance there is: footwork, positioning, strategy, shot selection.

The infamous “kitchen” (the no-volley zone) adds a layer of intrigue. The soft game—known as “dinking”—requires finesse and patience. Slamming every shot doesn’t work here. It’s not about brute force. It’s about placement, timing, and awareness. The more I played, the more I appreciated that balance between quick reflexes and smart decision-making.

I started watching videos. I learned about third-shot drops, stacking strategies, and when to drive versus dink. What began as a casual pastime was slowly becoming a passion project.

Perhaps the most unexpected joy of pickleball was the community.

I’ve met people from all walks of life through this sport—retirees who used to play tennis, teenagers with sharp reflexes, working parents just trying to stay active. Age, background, skill level—it doesn’t matter. On the court, everyone’s just a player trying to get better and enjoy the game.

The social aspect is unmatched. You rotate partners, play pickup games, and before long, you’re chatting with strangers who quickly become friends. There’s a rhythm to it: a few games, some light teasing, maybe a water break under the shade, and back again for more. I’ve laughed harder on the pickleball court than in most other parts of my week.

If you’ve been curious about pickleball but haven’t taken the plunge, I wholeheartedly encourage you to give it a shot. It might not change your life in a single game, but it will have an impact. You’ll move your body. You’ll share a few laughs. You’ll learn something new.

And who knows? You might fall in love with it like I did—one dink, one serve, one unforgettable rally at a time.

Because at the end of the day, it’s not just about the game. It’s about the people, the joy, and the feeling that you’ve found something you didn’t even know you were missing.

– Maria Kristina R. Wingkee

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