A few months ago, my friend Julia picked up tennis. I’ll admit, I was a little disappointed she chose it over pickleball, but I figured it was only a matter of time before I got her onto a pickleball court.

Instead, she doubled down.

Julia didn’t just dabble, she dove in. She joined a local league, worked her way up to the advanced group, played in a few tournaments, and even developed the arm muscles to show for it.

So when the French Open finals rolled around, it made perfect sense that she’d be glued to the action. On Sunday, she invited me to her tennis group’s watch party.

The twist? It was being held at a pickleball facility.

Not one of those hybrid clubs where pickleball is squeezed onto leftover tennis courts. This place was dedicated entirely to pickleball—immaculate, too. Three pristine indoor courts, four more outside, community paddles ready to go, and Orlando Squeeze merch lining the pro shop.

And yet, somehow, a local tennis group chose this exact place to host their French Open watch party.

A peculiar choice, to say the least.

The moment I walked in, I felt at ease because of the familiar pop, pop, pop of a pickleball echoing through the facility. But something was off. That morning, the courts weren’t filled with pickleball regulars. They were packed with tennis players, decked out with tennis ball keychains, sleek racket bags, and graphic tees covered in love puns.

Julia and a few of her friends admitted they’d never even played pickleball before. And yet, here we all were. It felt inevitable: they were going to step onto the smaller court and see what this whole pickleball thing was about.

I happily took on the role of guide, walking them through the rules and positioning. Like every first-timer, they were confused by the quirks and mildly devastated to learn there’s no overhead serve. But after a few dinks, curiosity turned into momentum and they wanted to play a game.

It took all of two points for their competitive instincts to kick in.

There were a few whiffs as they adjusted to the lighter ball and different bounce, but it didn’t matter. They were laughing, chirping, and ripping surprisingly clean drives. You could see it immediately: if they stuck with it, they’d be a problem.

And the best part? It wasn’t just our court. Everywhere I looked, tennis players were having the same reaction—smiling, competing, fully bought in. It was genuinely fun to watch.

By the end of it, Julia and her friends turned to me and asked the only question that mattered:

“So… when are we playing again?”

They’re still playing tennis, by the way. They didn’t toss their rackets, cancel their tournaments, or suddenly swear allegiance to pickleball.

But something shifted.

They found a real appreciation for pickleball, and more importantly, they had fun. And at its core, that’s what this game is all about.

If a tennis group can host a French Open watch party at a pickleball facility, then maybe this supposed feud between tennis and pickleball isn’t so real after all.

At least not around here.

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