Dorthy came into my life when we became bench buddies at the Summit in Grand Prairie, Texas. She was lovely and funny and I desperately needed a friend.
My husband Art and I had played volleyball together for over 25 years, every kind of play, beach doubles, grass including reverse coed, indoor gym tournaments & leagues, both coed and women's. We were living in absolutely beautiful South Orange County, California. Capistrano Beach was our go-to. Newport, Huntington, Laguna Beaches were available but 'Capo,' as we called it, was a perfect fit.
Hillary Anderson, Betsy Nutwell and Kristy Jimenez were my fav female doubles partners but I was blessed with a lot of volleyball partners.
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| Karch Kiraly, Volleyball Phenom |
But besides Karch hanging at 'our' beach, Karch was watching my partner, Kristy Jimenez, jump serving. It was awesome! Please, please know this. Running and jumping, playing in sand, covering an entire court, is kick-ass hard. My chic partner had a gargantuan jump serve, was very pretty, and Karch approved. How could Karch not? Kristy rocked her jump serve!
Kristy was unique. Her family was of Hispanic origins and her father was mayor of historic San Juan Capistrano, California. So her family was kinna' well known in our area, you know, the 'Capo' part of San Juan Capistrano. She had natural blonde hair and an olive skinned ethnic appeal. Her fiancé at that time, Moise, was a very handsome, dark, dark skinned tall man from Haiti.
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| 'Women's Talk,' by Kristy Jimenez |
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| I LOVE these women's expressions as they have women's talk |
When Kristy had art shows or showed her own art at art fairs, what she found was her art sold better if her fiancé interacted with the potential art patron than when pretty, blonde haired Kristy did. Intriguing, huh? They were ... offended at the more White looking girl, Kristy, the actual artist, but embraced Moise. I've had a few people visit my home and upon seeing my only Kristy piece, say, 'I've seen the original, it's much bigger.' Ahem.
On weekends we'd play at the beach all day, grab burgers and fries at In-And-Out Burger, then drive and play indoors at the Newport Gym, in Newport Beach ~ til 1am in the morning. (We all knew the man who had the gym keys.) Sometimes we'd do another burger stop, exhausted and tired at 1:15am. Really, does life get any better?
Our huge group of volleyball friends of course became family. Outside at the beach or park or at school grounds. From Cal State Fullerton or University Of Irvine, Cal State Northridge to University Of San Diego. We'd meet at innumerable beach side restaurants with exotic menus ordering drinks popular at the time, and, always chips and salsa. We'd also much more simply drink beer from bottles or chilled cans soaked in ice-filled coolers had we been eliminated early from a tournament, rooting for that day's tournament continuing challengers. You were almost guaranteed to be a popular blanket of friends if your ice chest was filled with beverages and sandwiches. After all, some of these college kids we played with were absolutely living between tournaments on Ramen Noodles. Boy, we were loud. Sometimes groups from competing areas were annoyed by our exuberance. Lord, it's almost impossible to express how fun these days were.
Those Were The Days
(Song By Gene Raskin)
"Once upon a time there was a tavern...Where we used to raise a glass or two...Remember how we laughed away the hours...And think of all the great things we would do.
Those were the days my friend...We thought they'd never end. We'd sing and dance forever and a day...We'd live the life we choose...We'd fight and never lose...For we were young and sure to have our way."
I worked out of the home, did interior design and also was homeschooling Sarahjoy so she could pursue her sport. But, I snuck in volleyball everywhere that I could. My girlfriend Stephanie Dougher had purchased a beach house (ooh la la!) so I also had private beach access offering a lot of women's play. We'd end up back at Steph's house for champagne brunch. (Oh, goodness, I wonder what the rest of the world is doing!)
Sometimes Sarahjoy'd join up with us after working with the horses, so we'd be beach clad joined by an equine-clad girl (and later, young woman) at the beach, gym, park ... hanging out.
Now, let me say, here. I'm a nice person, I mingle and make friends fairly easily, but Art, the 'love of my life,' my husband... hummmm... This was the joke among our volleyball friends:
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| Sarahjoy And 'Daddy Art' |
It never hurt my feelings, I knew what they meant. Art was fun, funny and absolutely the greatest person whom you never wanted to lose. But, alas we did. For my daughter who called Art Loya, her 'Daddy Art,' and for me, it's a forever loss. Art had daddy'd Sarahjoy to toughen her up, in everyday interactions using humor mostly, to be witty like him.
Art Loya was the charming 14-year old boy who my older brother brought home from school to swim in our family's pool. I was probably 9 or 10 at the time. Since I was an excellent, very competitive swimmer, I challenged Art (and every boy that showed up at our home) to race. (I was clueless.) Art Loya of course turned me down, flat, and pushed me into the pool.
When Art and I met up again, through my other brother, many years later, both Art and I were divorced. He was now a charming, handsome man and a ... volleyball player.
I played just about every sport, was on most of my local high school's girls varsity teams. Tennis was my favorite. But Art didn't love tennis but he did love volleyball. So volleyball it became, even though as a woman being only 5'4" it wasn't my ideal sport, but I worked through it. And damn, we had fun.
But years had passed. I was now, alone. The days of playing beach volleyball, in exceptional moments like perfect 70-degree weather in Southern Cal, on days like New Years Day, (in a bikini, for me) were over. Who was I without Art?
Art died of a heart attack. I'd relocated to the Dallas/Fort Worth area of Texas, among no friends, having moved me and everything I owned to be near my only child, my very clean and sober (thank God) now, adult daughter and her fiancé.
And, now from that same song, now I heard:
"Just tonight I stood before the tavern...Nothing seemed the way it used to be...In the glass I saw a strange reflection...Was that lonely woman really me."
I was trying. I'd found a gym, the Summit, for 50 & over, in Texas and was excited to swim laps, in the Olympic sized pool, reminiscent of my days as a Southern California swim team member. But it grew lonely, lap after lap, 5, 10, 20, however laps many, across the huge pool. 'Was that lonely woman really me,' was in fact me.
For some reason I'd never taken a tour of the huge facility, always came into the indoor pool entrance and out, the same pool entrance. The Summit was a new $23 million dollar, 60,000 sf facility.
However, one time I mistakenly exited through a previously unknown door of the center's large spa la la and bathroom area, and, viola! Good Lord! A huge beautiful gym with crowds of people playing and watching ... a really weird game. I was dumbstruck. What. Is. This. Game? Uuum, pickleball.
Ok, this is what pickleball looks like.
~ It looks like tennis, but on a smaller court
~ It looks like tennis, but the 'rackets' are shrunk
~ Because of pickleball rules and strategy all four players are quickly up to the net with these weird, shrunken paddles
~ When you're up at the net, the game now looks and feels like ping pong, but more deadly, and, like your standing on top of a ping pong table!
~ It just looks and sounds like huge fun!
It also looked e-a-s-y. These wild people playing this weird game, running, attacking the opponents were all over 50!
I asked if I could try it and was instantly humiliated beyond words. But I also knew unlike volleyball, pickleball was more of a match for my small 5'4" female body.
That's when I found Dorthy, on the bench. I plopped there.
Dorthy was recovering from shoulder surgery, so was kinna caught in my curious, 'who-am-I-now' search. Initially she answered alot of my questions.
She was the best. Then she became my friend. Dorthy and I had 'women's talk.'
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| Dorthy And Curlee McDonley |
Maybe. Maybe, I thought, I can play a sport again. (Inside, I kinna' knew I'd be good at it.) Smile.
Dorthy McDonley. Dorthy and her husband Curlee lived on the same street when they were in grade school in Arkansas, they're lifelong besties. Curlee is a solidly built, very athletic man. Dorthy is not so typically athletic looking like her husband.
Everybody
Needs A
Cheerleader.
They're both terribly-wonderfully sweet, giving people. But Dorthy and I became stuck. She has the best laugh and she gave and gave and gave. Dorthy helped me make new friends and her Christianity was real and I needed it. Later most especially when I started teaching, Dorthy was my biggest cheerleader. Cheerleaders are important.
Recreational play at the Summit became friendships that became tournaments all around Dallas/Forth Worth area and medals. And more friends and pride in a brand new 'unheard of' sport. And eventually I was rallied to start teaching pickleball along with my 'Sensei' Jay Lateko and good friend Nancy Reisner, all levels of play. I had a soft spot and especially loved helping beginning players learn to love the game.
Jay (my favorite male partner) and I and a robust group of players would drink beer and toast to the winning day's play. (For the record, Dorthy and Curlee only drank soda or ice water.) We'd analyze our day's play as seriously as if we were solving the world's problems.
And ... one night among these very friends, I heard that song, again, and I smiled happily..... among new friends.
That song, again:
"Those were the days my friend...We thought they'd never end. We'd sing and dance forever and a day...We'd live the life we choose...We'd fight and never lose...For we were young and sure to have our way."
Who knew.
Who knew: I could have new 'best days.'
Dorthy and I mulled over tons of subjects, there on that hard, wooden bench rooting the play in front of us, from growing old and pushing that particular envelope, to just cookin' greens. One subject in particular hangs in my mind.
I walked up and Dorthy was in deep conversation with a few people. Seeing me, she said, "Patricia, how would you describe Curlee or me to someone?"
Ok, if I'm describing Curlee, someone who people at the gym here have at least seen, I'd say, "Curlee is a great A-level pickleball player, married to Dorthy, Black, totally built, a brick shit house."
Dorthy said, "Now, see, I'd preferred you said, African-American," and she turned back to the small group. And that was all that she ever said about it.
At the time I thought instantly that I thought I said Black rather than African-American because it was more efficient, it was just easier, faster to say.
I've decided I did it due to ignorance. For instance, my first husband, Mr. Christian Man, was half Cuban. My beautiful mother in law was born in Cuba, met an American army man on vacation to Florida & married him. Soon after she was never allowed to go back to Cuba because Fidel Castro had taken over the island including her family's farm. Restrictions felt severe to this young woman.
On the very night Mr. Christian Man introduced me to this beautiful olive skinned woman, she thought it important to advise me that not all Cubans are dark skinned that in fact many Cubans are fair skinned, and in fact many are blondes.
Okay. I was very young, didn't know much about Cuba, but I believed her. She's 'the boss,' knows more about Cuba than me! Ahahaha! Of course!
Over the years, I've met darker skinned people from various and numerous countries and developed a habit not to always inquire their heritage but simply made friends. Which became a reference of simply using the term Black.
I'm still pondering the issue. When/how does one inquire about country origin of birth upon meeting and developing friendships.
Back to my friend Dorthy who was very good at communication. Now her husband Curlee is an exceptionally good pickleball player. But...who knew? DORTHY's good! Dorthy, once healed from shoulder surgery, also is an exceptionally good player. I sat on the bench with her forever and she never told me how good she was! Sneak!
No southern accent, but definitely from the south, Dorthy's last name is McDonley.
It's of Scottish ancestry I have learned from Google search. I don't know if she knows the history of the name, well, Curlee's, I assume. I'm not sure how to ask her because it is deep conversation that of course here in the US it could and probably does mean some slave African-American connection with a McDonley.
How did my McDonley Texas African-American friends get the name McDonley?
In mid 2020 I had to face the music though. I'd been disappointing my exceptional partner/trainer Jay and not being totally forthcoming. In training sessions with Jay and I only, I knew my body was failing. Not just aging failing me. I vividly remember Jay blaming my falling on the court during exhaustive hard foot work training as 'you simply have poor foot work.' Good gawd. I should have told him, Jay, my ankles, 100% of the time, feel like someone took a sledgehammer to them. Since my neck, back and ankles were always feeling 'beaten by a sledgehammer,' it was hard to discern, ok. It's not that you're not trying hard enough, you know, hope is always real. My body'd never failed me before. And, my good friend Dorthy was on the phone, on the sidelines, promoting me to take over new gym and area pb training opportunities.
I finally wrote in a very popular 'Pickleball Forum,' the following:
This one is hard but not controversial.
Over the past couple of years, after being diagnosed with severe osteoarthritis, degenerative bone disease and having observed players in their late 60's, 70's, 80's, including tournament winning PB players, I've quietly said to myself, that won't be me.
(I shared with my PB community that) I recently had to retire. Yes, it's sad. I'm an athlete, even though I'm 64. I've always been an athlete, how do you not?
I still read the PB forum posts and I love the spirit of the sport. My absolute favorite part of PB was teaching newbies the glories and annoyances of the game. My newby classes overflowed, people just observing the game, people like me, wanted to learn. Even people who just were only able to audit my classes. The demand was strong: I made it wonderfully fun. PB was a bridge from a very painful loss to new 'good ole days!' I wanted to build a bridge for anyone in need of one.
My heartfelt wish to this community: take time occasionally to help the newby. Everyone of us was once a newby. And especially if you're new and lonely, I hope you meet your Dorthy.
_______________________________
Comment by Dorthy McDonley:
"Recently a sweet precious and priceless friend said she had written about me. I thought, who me? LOL. Caring Patricia did so. Not only did she write about me she included my husband also. What we love about Patricia. She took time out for the new pickleball players. Put her heart and soul into them! We love and miss our Patricia!"
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