Cornhole. Pickleball. What is America’s obsession with innuendo-named sports?
[This is an edited re-post from a prior Substack post on September 18, 2025.]
I suppose it all started with the Hacky Sack. At least, for my generation it did, which is at the far end of Gen X, nearly a Boomer. After all… what male doesn’t want to stand in a circle and kick some other dude’s bean-bag? Yeah. I went there.
Sure, we grew up on Jarts and Frisbee, but the former was outlawed because too many stupid kids were going to school with gravity missiles in their skulls; and the latter re-branded itself to attempt to become a “sport.” When at the park or lake, instead of “accidentally” tossing the Frisbee near the group of girls as an ice-breaker, nerds tried to turn it into the action-packed, exciting game of golf, but with “discs.” In the mid-80s, my brother and I would go play our own version at the big vacant field next to the nearby elementary school. We called it “frolf,” (as in Frisbee-Golf.) I really think we should’ve trademarked it.
Anyhow… enter the aforementioned sack. I took drafting as an elective the last two years of high school, which is where I was introduced to the concept of kicking a small, pliable, bead-filled leather bag around in a circle. You see, Mr. …..? I’m not positive of his last name. (First name = Wally. That much I’m sure of. I could’ve sworn his last name was White. But I can’t sit here without smirking as I realize how ridiculous it must seem to read I had a teacher named Heisenberg Walter White in high school. But the kids with no manners called him by his first name, Wally.)
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Anyway, Wally was somewhere between 60 and Methuselah, quite a bit scatter-brained, and had about as much control over the students as I do over my wife when we pass a kettle corn vendor. (“Only $75 for a LARGE bag?! What a steal!”) There were a couple of weeks where the six or seven us got pretty good. I learned a “hack” was when everyone in the circle had kicked it at least once. Then in the next decade, hack suddenly became the name for that thing Matthew Broderick did in War Games in the early 80s. More recently it means a shortcut. Pop culture is weird.
The summer after high school, some of us would hang at the community pool and play in the shade of an oak. Like the Frisbee of the 70s, we eventually figured out to “accidentally” kick it near a group of the fairer sex. (Gaggle? Flock? Litter? What do girls come in? (Group names, you perverts! Do you think I would tee up a softball “that’s what she said” innuendo for you this early into the article?) (Murder… that’s the ticket. Like crows, a group of girls in the 80s were a Murder. Especially to the nice guys’ wallets.))
What brought all this up is my aching left Achilles’ tendon. No, I’m not claiming it is an old Hacky Sack injury. (But I DO wonder what percentage the V.A. would give me for it… 🤔) Which causes me to ponder: would Achilles play Hacky Sack? Or Frolf? I’m going with yes. It would be imperative as a stress reliever from all that time slaying Trojans… The HUMAN kind! C’mon, pervs! Stick with me here! He also had to deal emotionally with the strain of killing Hector before oddly becoming his best friend ten minutes post mortem. All I know is that Brad Pitt Achilles had most likely plowed thru a LOT of Trojans in his prime. The kind with “special reservoir tips,” that is.
Back on track. I played a poor man’s version of Pickleball while in Maryland in July, in my buddy’s driveway. Not even a game, with rules or a net, or lines on the ground. Just us and our wives whacking the little plastic ball back and forth. The swings reminded me of racquetball, which once upon a time, I wasn’t half bad at. So I ran. A LOT more than a fat guy with horrible knees should. I had to razzle-dazzle everyone with my hustle and prowess with the old “hit-the-ball-without-looking-after-it-has-gotten-past-you” move.
We played twice. And my damn Achilles’ tendon hasn’t stopped hurting since. A couple of weeks ago, I did what everyone does when they have a new medical condition or ailment—looked it up on YouTube. Then ChapGPT. Apparently, the vast majority of Achilles’ tendon and heel issues are sports related.
“Hmmphhh!” I laughed. “Me! A sports injury!” Then I remembered the cheetah-like sprints and gazelle-like movements in Chuck’s driveway two months ago… Swinging the small racket like John McEnroe had taken one of Forrest Gump’s Ping-Pong paddles to Tatum O’Neal’s booty, which the kids refer to as a 🍑. “Ah-HAAAAAA!!!!”
Could a 56-year-old man get a sportsball injury from this new craze (which is totally NOT tennis played with whiffle balls on a smaller court?) I had to know more.
Me: “Why do they call it Pickleball?”
Google AI: “Pickleball is called pickleball because the sport’s creator, Joel Pritchard…”
Me: <Gets up to let the cat in across the house>
Google AI: “…boat crews which were made up of leftover rowers from other crews…”
Me: <Goes pee. In the bathroom.>
Google AI: “… misconception about the dog’s name. It was the dog who was named after the sport, NOT….”
Me: <Takes a nap. Then a “deuce.” 💩 Also in the bathroom.>
Google AI: “…but seriously—you’re just rude. Are you even listening to me?”
Me: <YAAAAWWWwwwwnnnnnnn>…. “Yes. It was a great nap. Er, I mean—what’s wrong?”
Google AI: “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. EVERYthing is fine.”
They say pickleball is America’s fastest growing sport. Which I believe, because courts are popping up all over the country, usually in the unused parking lots of employment agencies.
Chuck is also the guy who introduced us to Cornhole. He made me a custom set of boards. I mean, he went all out. He didn’t use nominal lumber and thin plywood. He custom cut boards into true 2” X 4” and used thick plywood, painted in the old colors of my gun club. Freshly lacquered, he bought two sets of bags and flew the whole thing across the country when they visited us one year. Those suckers probably weigh close to 30 pounds each. And the crazy foo’ wrapped ‘em in cardboard and checked them onto his plane. Or maybe he checked Sandy and let the Cornhole board use the seat as an “emotional support drinking game.” I can’t remember. All I know is that it was a huge pleasant surprise. I don’t even like taking luggage to the airport. If I suddenly get to be 6’ 5” tall and bulging with muscles, I will “Jack Reacher” my travel by taking only a toothbrush. Goals, as they say.
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But I don’t know what I did to deserve such good friends. And we only use those boards when we have a summer BBQ for our few friends, about every other year.
But it got me wondering. When kids text—and by kids, I mean anyone under 40—would they type out the name of the games? Or simply use emojis? Here’s how I imagine it (plus translations for us old farts.)
Kid 1: 🌽 🕳️? (“Pardon the interruption. Would you enjoy playing a game of cornhole with me some time soon?”)
Kid 2: ⏰? 📖 ✅ 🍉⊙ 💍 401 (“What time? I have to study for my mid-term in Displaced Indigenous Nipple Piercings 401”)
K1: 3 some 🍺 🍆 🪩? (“Three O’Clock, if that works for you. Bring some beer. Would you rather play pickleball?”)
K2:
K1, after an awkward 2 minutes: 🎤 (“Hello? Is this thing on? Anyone there?”)
K2: WTF? (“What the Franklin did you just ask me?”)
K1: Is this thing on?
K2: No. Before that…
K1: Ohh… I said 3pm. Bring some beer. Wanna play pickleball instead?
K2: Bruh… (“Brother. You got Rizz . But you be trippin’”) [(My dearest friend. You have charisma. But your emojis are a bit… shall we say… off…)]
K2: I thought you wanted to get drunk, go dancing, and have a threesome… And NOT the Cool Kind… LOL The disco ball was a weird choice…
K1: LOL
K2: Seriously. Why the 🍆 for a pickle?
K1: I don’t have a pickle emoji… 🥒 Unless you count sliced cucumbers. And when I was a kid, riding in the car, and we would hit a big dip at the bottom of a steep hill, I’d get what my mom called “a tickle in my pickle.” So I just thought….
K2:
K1:
K2:
K1: But since you brought it up……. [“That’s what she said.”]
K2: NO! WTF wrong witchu??? (“No. But thank you.”)
K1: ???? (“Whatever do you mean? You know—with all due respect.”)
K2: You know what I meant! I don’t wanna see your 🍆 in a 3-some. Let alone accidentally ‘cross swords’ with it. ⚔️
K1: Duuuudddeee…. What-evs… (“LOL… ‘Accidentally’ 🤣 My friend, there’s a lot of leeway in college…”)
I’d love to get filthy rich inventing the next big tailgating game vaguely named after a private bodypart. You take watermelons and cantaloupes and you try to slap them past the defenders. I would cleverly call it “Melon Slappin’.” And I know exactly what my dad would’ve said had my brother and I gotten caught inventing this game. We did, after all, get caught playing “knee-soccer” in the house on multiple rainy occasions.
“Quit yer grab assin’!”
