Start Over. Rebuild. Swing Again.

April 30,2025

My dogs, my dogs…

It took me a week, but I can finally wrap my head around what that tournament meant—what it revealed.

Let’s not waste time dressing it up:
I wasn’t prepared.
Not mentally. Not physically. Not strategically.
And that’s what really hits—because the skill was never the issue.

I wasn’t locked in with myself. That’s the core of it.
I did the work for months… then I stopped.
I let go of the edge that made me dangerous.
And now? The only way back is to start completely over.

I Suck (But Not Like That)

Not in the sense of “I can’t play.” I can play. I can still throw hands with some of the best. But in the sense that I didn’t execute. I knew better. And I didn’t do better. My body couldn’t hold. My arm’s fried. No paddle felt right in my hands.

It’s not an excuse.
It’s just what happens when you stop feeding the system that keeps you sharp.

At one point, I walked around thinking I was the most dominant player in Houston—even after catching Ls from the actual top dogs. And that’s the kind of belief that matters.
That kind of internal fire doesn’t lie.
But belief alone ain’t enough if the work doesn’t back it up.

I let my environment shape me.
Instead of shaping it.

I Built a Game That’s Not Even Mine

This part hurts the most.
I’ve been playing a version of the game that’s not even mine.

I don’t want to dink for hours.
I don’t want to play some methodical, over-disciplined version of myself.
I’m a counter artist. A chaos conductor. Gonzo pickleball.

Let them swing. Let them throw heat.
Let them bring their rage at me like a wave.
And I’ll stand still in the eye of it—calm—just to throw it back with touch and violence.

That’s who I am.
That’s the game I built.
And I drifted from it.

Why?
Training. The wrong kind of training.
Moments meant to sharpen turned into moments that confused.
Now I don’t trust my movement. I don’t feel dominant.
That means it’s time.
Full rebuild.

So What’s the Plan?

Here’s the ugly truth: I have to act like I’ve never played before.
Start with the foundation. Build it from movement—not skill.

Get my legs back.
Rebuild the upper body.
Redesign the game plan.

And that redesign? It won’t be shallow.

I’ll be making detailed training cards for my new crew.
I’ll spell it all out:
– Attack my backhand like I’m a 2.0.
– Hit from my nipple to my shin.
– No tennis background. No magic reflexes.
Just make me uncomfortable until I force my body to respond again.

I need a dinker too—someone who lives in the monotony.
We’ll run 5-minute, 10-minute, 30-minute dink timers.
Over. And over. And over.
Loading in monotony. That’s the name of the game now.

This Game Lives in the Microseconds

The real confidence lives in the space between bounces.

Do I let it drop?
Do I take it early?
Do I hold, or pop, or rip?
Does that half-inch matter?

Yes.

Because that inch either gives them a putaway
—or lets you set up the next shot two feet better,
And that sets up your next move.

The game isn’t chaos.
It’s clarity inside the scramble.

So I’m training that again. From scratch.
Baseline to lower third.
Lower third to upper third.
Upper third to NVZ.
Pressure. Recovery. Stillness. Rip. Reset. Pop. Lob. Flip.
No steps skipped.

Clear Guidelines. Real Execution.

When we drill, it’s gonna be sharp:
– What’s the goal?
– What’s expected?
– What’s the trigger?
– What changes when the opponent’s lefty?
– What changes when they pivot, or don’t?

I’m building this like it’s the first time.
Because that’s the only way to honor what this game asks of you.

I’m diving into strategy like I’ve never known it before.
KPI’s. Fakeouts. Bait/counters.
Where the ball should go.
Where I want it to go.
What happens when I go off-script.

Build the Team. Build Myself. Again.

The team I had before? They’re gone.
So I’ll build a new one.

Same formula.
Pour into them.
Push them up.
Drag their games forward.
And in doing so—I pull mine back to life.

No shortcuts.

I’ll lift.
I’ll express strength again.
I’ll shock the system.
I’ll break down film.
I’ll break down my patterns.
And I’ll break past what comfort has done to me.

This Isn’t for Pickleball

That’s the thing.

This isn’t for pickleball.
Not really.
This is about health.
This is about clarity.
This is about showing up and dominating again—physically, mentally, spiritually.
If I’m not able to express that through the game, I don’t need the game.

But I believe I still can.
So this is the swing.

Start over. Rebuild. Swing again.
And if it doesn’t take?
Then it’s just a beautiful journey back to myself.

Let’s go.