Wooster & Jeeves on Federer, Tennis & Pickleball

I was engrossed in the sporting pages with the concentration I normally reserve for the racing form. The U.S. Open had commenced.

I was pleased to see Jeeves deposit a fresh pot of coffee at my elbow.

“Jeeves,” I said, “I see young Sinner has pulled out of the U.S. Open altogether.”

“Indeed, sir. A most unfortunate development, as the gentleman has been forced to withdraw due to a persistent physical ailment.”

I set down the cup with a clatter.

“Dash it all, Jeeves! Do those two have a formal union agreement to take turns in the sickbay? Why is it that between them, some limb or the other seems to be out of commission all year round?”

“The statistical evidence would appear to support your observation, sir. In 2025, the gentlemen locked horns on no fewer than six occasions. In 2026, however, their paths have crossed but once, at the Monte Carlo Masters tournament.”

“Monte Carlo! Well, if you’re only going to meet once a year, you might as well choose somewhere picturesque. But it’s downright rotten for the paying customer, Jeeves! A chap buys a ticket expecting fireworks and the opportunity to lay down a friendly wager, as befits an English gentleman—not to read a physician’s report!”

“Unfortunately, injuries have become an occupational hazard of modern professional tennis, sir. The relentless tempo of the tour frequently exacts a heavy toll on the human anatomy.”

“Quite. Still, every cloud has a silver lining, Jeeves! I see old Federer is here too. That settles it—Federer versus Djokovic in the final! What are the bookmakers quoting? I’ve a good mind to lay down fifty quid on the outcome. It promises to be a high-octane clash, exactly what the doctor has ordered for the soul.”

“I fear there are two distinct impediments to the proposed fixture, sir.”

“Impediments, Jeeves? What on earth do you mean?”

“Mr. Djokovic was unexpectedly eliminated in the opening round, sir, while Mr. Federer’s appearance is confined strictly to an exhibition match alongside Mr. Roddick, Mr. Agassi, and Mr. McEnroe.”

“What! Djokovic out already?”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Well, it beats me why Federer isn’t in the main draw,” I scoffed. “The man played almost until the very end without so much as a twinge, and I don’t believe his shirt ever displayed a single drop of sweat. The chap could win five sets and still look as though he were posing for a collar advertisement! A fellow like that ought to step in whenever these young chaps start falling to bits.”

“A comforting thought, sir, though age inevitably claims the finest of athletes. However, while Mr. Federer, Mr. Roddick, and Mr. McEnroe have retired completely from professional competition, their contemporary, Mr. Andre Agassi, has ventured down a rather different path.”

“Has he, by Jove? Taken up golf, has he? Like old Nadal?” I brightened at the thought. “Nadal has taken up golf, right Jeeves?”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Nadal is indeed an accomplished golfer and has made his presence felt in several amateur tournaments.”

“Now that would be a draw, Jeeves! Agassi versus Nadal over eighteen holes for the silver cup—a clash of the titans on the fairway!”

“A thrilling concept, sir. Mr. Agassi, however, has not taken up the irons. His newfound pursuit lies in an entirely different racquet sport.”

“By Jove, Jeeves!” I exclaimed, a light dawning in the old grey matter. “Someone at the Drones was saying something about Agassi and his wife Steffi Graf getting mixed up with relishes, chutneys, and pickles! But there wasn’t a single word about any racquet sport. I naturally assumed they’d taken up commercial canning.”

“An understandable misinterpretation, sir. The sport in question is known as pickleball.”

“Pickleball!” I cried. “That’s the bird! Sounds suspiciously like a brawl in a pantry. Was it invented for cooks and chefs, Jeeves?”

“No, sir. Its origin goes back to the mid-1960s, on Bainbridge Island in America. A prominent family assembled on a badminton court to play, only to discover that the shuttlecock was missing.”

“Lost the bally bird, did they?”

“Indeed, sir. But rather than taking the expedient option of sending a footman to the ironmonger for a fresh shuttlecock, the host invented an entirely new sport using wooden table tennis bats and a perforated plastic sphere.”

“There you go!” I declared, tapping the table triumphantly. “That’s why America leads the world, Jeeves! An Englishman missing a shuttlecock sits in the garden, sips his gin and tonic, and gnashes his teeth at the butler. An American can’t find a plastic bird and re-engineers global athletics before tea!”

“A valid historical distinction, sir.”

“And who thought of the bally name, Jeeves? Was it the family cook?”

“Accounts vary, sir. One popular tradition claims it was named after the family’s cocker spaniel—a dog named Pickles.”

“I have always maintained, Jeeves, that nothing good comes of teaching a dog to fetch. I suppose they kept shouting ‘Pickles! Ball!’ at the poor beast, and before anyone realized, the sport had a name.”

“The possibility cannot be ruled out, sir.”

“I must say, Jeeves, their imagination in naming the sport fell remarkably short of the ingenuity they showed in inventing it.”

“Indeed, sir. However, the founder’s wife maintained that the name derived from the rowing term ‘pickle boat,’ which refers to a vessel crewed by leftover oarsmen.”

“Leftover oarsmen? How does surplus headcount come into this, Jeeves?”

“The analogy is explained by the remnants of badminton, tennis, and table tennis being used for the sport, sir.”

“I prefer the hound version, Jeeves. A dog making off with a ball is an understandable calamity; a floating basket of reject oarsmen is depressing.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Still, hound or no hound, Jeeves—you aren’t seriously telling me a fellow who won Wimbledon is actually spending his golden years in this pickle-business? I can’t get rid of the image of Agassi hurling jars of gherkins back and forth across a lawn, hoping Steffi Graf catches them without shattering the glass!”

“By no means, sir. The sport does not entail the tossing or catching of glass receptacles containing preserved vegetables. The sport involves exchanges across the net using lightweight composite paddles and a perforated plastic sphere, sir.”

“Ah.”

“Mr. Agassi and his wife, Mrs. Graf, commenced playing this sport as a casual pastime during the pandemic, but over the years have become devoted to the pursuit.”

“Good Lord!” I stared at him. “So you’re saying Graf and Agassi are actually good at this preserve business, Jeeves? Not just swatting a ball about the back garden to settle a heavy Sunday tea?”

“Not at all, sir. Mr. Agassi and Mrs. Graf have achieved notable success in high-profile televised events, most notably the Pickleball Slam. Mr. Agassi has won the singles title four years in a row, and he and Mrs. Graf won the doubles in 2024 and 2025.”

“A ‘Pickle Slam’!” I shuddered. “The image refuses to go away, Jeeves. Are you sure the slam does not refer to a tragic collision at the grocer’s?”

“I am sure, sir.”

“But Jeeves, why on earth did someone feel the need to invent a sport tailored specifically for chaps whose knees have lost their spring?”

“That is a widespread misconception, sir. The sport has seen an extraordinary surge in global popularity. While it remains particularly attractive to senior enthusiasts, increasing numbers of young adults in their twenties and thirties have taken it up with considerable enthusiasm.”

“Well, blow me down,” I said, taking a thoughtful sip. “You’re telling me dynamic young fellows are willingly abandoning proper tennis to dash about playing pickle-whatever?”

“Precisely, sir.”

“Next you’ll tell me the Drones Club is carving up the tennis lawns into kitchens, larders, and pantries.”

“Your foresight is remarkable, sir. I understand a proposal was recently submitted to paint lines across Tennis Court 2—converting it into two pickleball enclosures—while lowering the net on Badminton Court A to accommodate the trend.”

My breath caught in the Wooster windpipe.

“Who proposed this abomination, Jeeves?”

“Mr. Bingo Little spoke with great passion in favour of the motion, sir.”

“Good heavens! The world is spinning on its axis, Jeeves. Right then—break it down for the lay mind. What actually happens on this pickle court?”

“It is played on a court of badminton dimensions,” Jeeves explained, “utilizing solid paddles and a hollow plastic sphere with holes in it.”

“A ball full of holes? You mean a perforated sphere?”

“Precisely, sir.”

“Dash it all, Jeeves! A wooden pat and a ball full of holes! It sounds like playing cricket with a butter knife and a colander! Why on earth would a fellow who has conquered Centre Court step down to hit a hollow toy?”

“The appeal lies in its rapid tactical exchanges, sir,” Jeeves explained patiently. “However, accomplished tennis veterans frequently encounter unexpected hurdles when attempting the transition. Mr. Agassi himself found that years of playing tennis had left him with certain habits which were not particularly helpful.”

“Such as?”

“Hitting the ball too hard, sir.”

“Too hard? I thought that was the whole point!”

“Not in pickleball, sir. A full-blooded tennis stroke is quite likely to send the ball sailing beyond the court.”

“So a chap actually has to restrain himself from giving the bally thing a proper wallop?”

“Precisely, sir. Strategy relies heavily upon delicate touch, soft lofted strokes known as ‘dinks.’”

“You mean Drinks!”

“No, sir—dinks. Dinking is considered the highest form of pickleball artistry.”

“They must have got the spelling wrong on the menu. What other strategies are employed, Jeeves?”

“Control of an area adjacent to the net, sir, known in pickleball parlance as ‘the kitchen.’”

I sat bolt upright, nearly dislodging the toast rack.

“Jeeves, are you sure the owners of the hound Pickles were not in the restaurant business?”

“The details of the founder’s profession are not publicly available, sir.”

“I am convinced they were cooks and chefs, Jeeves! So you are saying Andre Agassi and Steffi Graf are conducting their sporting affairs in a scullery?”

“‘The kitchen’ is the popular title assigned to the Non-Volley Zone, sir. It is an area adjacent to the net from where a player is strictly forbidden from striking the ball out of the air.”

“I will be good at it, Jeeves! I have never been to the kitchen. So you are saying volleying is forbidden in this cooking area?”

“Yes, sir. Should even the brim of a gentleman’s straw boater fall into the kitchen during a volley, a fault is declared.”

“Golly, Jeeves! A chap could lose an international championship because his hat blew off into the pantry!”

“The regulations are uncompromising, sir.”

“Well, it beats me,” I said, shaking my head. “Though tennis itself was never entirely sane in the dictionary department, was it?”

“The nomenclature of lawn tennis does reflect certain historical eccentricities, sir.”

“Eccentricities? It’s complete stark-raving madness! You start a game with nothing, and instead of saying ‘zero’, the umpire shouts ‘Love all’! What has romantic devotion or a Sunday sermon invoking love for all mankind got to do with a tennis match, Jeeves?”

“The prevailing theory suggests an origin in the French l’œuf, meaning an egg, sir—which resembles ‘love’ in pronunciation—a reference to the oval shape of a zero on the scoreboard.”

“See! Kitchen again! And then there is ‘Deuce’! I say deuce when I curse after dropping my collar stud under the wardrobe, Jeeves.”

“The terms evolved over several centuries from medieval court tennis, sir.”

“I dare say. But at least ‘Lawn Tennis’ sounds dignified, Jeeves! It suggests gentlemen in white flannels sipping lemonade under an oak tree. But ‘Pickleball’! ‘Dinking’! ‘The Kitchen’! It sounds as though the athletes have abandoned the playing fields and taken up residence with the cook!”

“The shift in terminology is certainly pronounced, sir.”

“Dinking in a kitchen,” I muttered, staring gloomily into my marmalade. “The world is off its chump, Jeeves. What’s next? World rankings for tea-stirring?”

“I consider that an unlikely eventuality, sir.”

“Is there an actual organization behind this, or is it just suburban chaps having a lark on Saturdays?”

“The sport has organized itself with extraordinary speed, sir. There are now governing bodies such as the Global Pickleball Federation, professional circuits like the PPA Tour.”

“And rankings too?”

“Yes, sir. The Pickleball World Rankings is a direct imitation of the ATP and WTA frameworks in tennis.”

“You mean to say there are official world rankings for this pantry business?”

“There are indeed, sir. Furthermore, the sport’s international bodies have ambitions of eventually securing pickleball a place in the Olympic Games.”

My jaw dropped, nearly taking my collar stud with it.

“The Olympics, Jeeves?”

“That is the aspiration, sir.”

A sudden, blinding flash of hope illuminated the Wooster cranium.

“Say Jeeves! If the Olympic chaps are opening their doors to pursuits designed by chefs and cooks, what about the Bread-Roll Throwing at the Drones? You will recall I took second place in the Handicap Roll-Hurling Contest last year. If we get the application in smartly, I could be standing on an Olympic podium, wearing a laurel wreath and bringing home Gold for Great Britain with a stale brioche!”

“I fear the likelihood of such an outcome is exceedingly remote, sir. The International Olympic Committee tends to favor athletic disciplines with established international governance rather than informal club pastimes involving bakery products.”

I stared into my marmalade, letting out a heavy, long-drawn-out sigh of a chap who has seen his country’s heritage trampled underfoot.

“That is downright rotten, Jeeves! It’s blatant discrimination against British pastry! Why should one food-related pastime get the Olympic stamp of approval while another is left out in the cold? If a chap can earn an Olympic Gold Medal for dinking in a kitchen, it is dashed unfair that a fellow who can pin a waiter at twenty paces with a dinner roll is denied his patriotic glory!”

“The distinction may appear subtle, sir, but the athletic authorities remain firm on the matter.”

“A bitter pill,” I muttered. “A deeply bitter pill. Say, I have another thought, Jeeves.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Much as I abhor the gruesome prospect of stepping into a scullery, do you think I ought to take up the paddle myself and secure Olympic glory for Great Britain in this pickle-business? After all, I am no stranger to the athletic arena. I play a spanking game of squash at the Drones, and my golf handicap is widely discussed in club circles. Besides, you said yourself that Agassi and Steffi Graf only picked up the game during the pandemic and were winning championships in no time once they unlearned proper tennis. If a chap like Agassi can unlearn his game, a fellow who has never burdened himself with excessive tennis muscle memory ought to master the kitchen before autumn!”

“While your versatility is beyond question, sir, I feel bound to point out that Olympic preparation entails a somewhat rigorous regimen.”

“Such as?”

“International contenders are routinely required to rise at four o’clock in the morning for roadwork, followed by five hours of intensive drilling in the Non-Volley Zone and strict adherence to a diet of raw eggs and steamed spinach.”

I sat bolt upright, frozen with unadulterated horror.

“Four in the morning, Jeeves?”

“Precisely, sir.”

“Before sunrise? While the world is still pitch black?”

“Indeed, sir. And the steamed spinach is compulsory.”

“Good Lord!” I shuddered, wiping a drop of cold sweat from the cranium. “The idea is instantly dismissed! A Wooster does not rise before eleven unless the building is on fire! Very well then—if I am forced to delegate the burden of international glory, we must turn to my second-favorite sportsman in the world, ranking directly behind myself.”

“To whom do you refer, sir?”

“Roger Federer, Jeeves! The very man. You said he was present at the U.S. Open.”

“Indeed, sir. Mr. Federer was formally inducted into the International Tennis Hall of Fame at Newport only this weekend—a most moving occasion, replete with distinguished figures from the tennis world.”

“A tear-jerker of the first order, Jeeves! The great chap was dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief, wasn’t he? Half the tennis royalty in attendance were sniffling into their neckties. But put two and two together, Jeeves! They’re crying tears over him in Newport as if he were ready for the museum, when the chap has a magnificent second act staring him in the face!”

“Second act, sir?”

“Yes, Jeeves! Roger Federer is universally admitted to be the monarch of the court. He’s won Wimbledon eight times. He’s got the French, the Australian, the U.S. Open—the whole gleaming bag of tricks! But there is one thing, Jeeves—one single, solitary prize—that the great chap never managed to secure in his singles career!”

Jeeves offered a subtle, knowledgeable incline of the head. “If I am not mistaken, sir, you refer to the Olympic Gold Medal in individual play.”

“Precisely! He got a silver in London, didn’t he?”

“Indeed, sir, losing to Mr. Andy Murray in the 2012 final. Though he did secure a Gold Medal for Switzerland in the doubles event alongside Mr. Stan Wawrinka at Beijing in 2008.”

“Doubles doesn’t satisfy a chap’s soul, Jeeves! A titan wants the Singles Gold hanging round his neck! So here is the Wooster Master Plan. Federer picks up the paddle! He masters the subtle art of the dink! He takes command of the kitchen! He enters the next Olympic Games as the Swiss Pickleball Champion, wipes the floor with the opposition, and claims the one trophy that has eluded him!”

I looked at him, feeling every inch the statesman who has just delivered a stroke-of-genius plan to a beleaguered world. Switzerland, I thought, would likely confer its highest honor upon me—or at the very least, name a mountain after Bertram Wooster. Jeeves, however, merely shimmered in his quiet way and offered a gentle, measured response.

“A most intriguing strategy, sir. However, I suspect Mr. Federer may feel his enduring reputation in lawn tennis requires no further validation in the Non-Volley Zone.”

“Nonsense, Jeeves! A true champion is always ready for a fresh challenge. I’ve a good mind to drop him a line at his Swiss chalet. ‘My dear Roger,’ I shall write, ‘put away the stringed rackets. Grab a composite paddle, step into the kitchen, and bring home the gold for Switzerland!’ What do you think of that?”

“I am sure Mr. Federer would give your correspondence all the consideration it deserves, sir,” Jeeves replied, his face a picture of serene, impenetrable politeness. “In the meantime, sir, might I suggest I remove the breakfast tray? I fear the coffee has grown somewhat cold during our excursion into athletic gastronomy.”

I leaned back in the armchair, feeling the warm glow of a chap who has solved a major international crisis before eleven o’clock in the morning.

“Do so, Jeeves,” I said blithely. “And keep the pickle jar off the sideboard. I wouldn’t want to risk a fault in the kitchen before lunch.”

“Very good, sir,” said Jeeves, and drifted silently away toward the kitchen.

Wooster & Jeeves On… is an occasional companion to my regular Chronicles from Mehra World. If you enjoyed this exchange, you may enjoy Arvind Mehra’s adventures too.

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