I have been thinking a lot about loneliness lately, mostly because the CDC keeps calling it an epidemic. They say one out of every three seniors struggles with loneliness, and that chronic isolation increases the risk of heart disease, dementia, stroke, depression, and early death. It is as dangerous as smoking 15 cigarettes a day. When I read that, I felt a little shock of recognition. Not because I feel lonely all the time, but because I can see how easily it could happen. It does not arrive with a dramatic moment. It creeps in quietly when routines shrink and days lose their shape. Kids move away, friends and spouses pass away, and soon it’s just you. Alone.
That is why my daily ritual at Green River Park that we call The Dawg, has become so important. I do not have a dog, but I go anyway. Every morning, I see the same amiliar faces. Six or seven days a week, I head to the Dawg for my daily game. This place has become my anchor point, one of the small social rituals that keep me connected to the world. A love for pickleball is what we all have in common. I don’t know their last names, but I know how they serve and their first names.
At Green River Park, the conversations are simple. Someone comments on the weather. Someone mentions a grandkid. Someone talks about the Red Sox. These tiny exchanges matter more than they seem. They remind me that I am part of something. They interrupt the quiet that can grow too large if you let it. They are my daily defense against the epidemic the CDC keeps warning us about. If you want to understand the scale of it, you can look up senior loneliness and see how widespread it is.
The pickleball courts are where I see Gabe, who is 84 and plays with us every day. He moves slower than he used to, but he never misses a morning. Watching him play is a reminder that showing up is half the battle.
Then there is Barb, who brings her old dog to the courts. The dog does not run anymore. It settles under the picnic table like a wise old spectator, content to watch the rest of us chase the ball around. And there is Charlene, who arrives each morning in a different outfit and brings a speaker to play dance tunes while we play. She often dances between points. She is the spark plug of the courts, the one who reminds us that joy is a choice you can make every day. She often corrects me with the right score, which I an others appreciate.
These people are not just part of my routine. They are part of my health plan, even if none of us call it that. Regular social interaction can reduce the health risks of isolation, and I believe it. I feel better on the days I show up. I feel more grounded, more connected, more alive. I often think its the best part of the day, and it’s downhill from here.
What I love most is how these parks and courts create community without trying. No one signs up. No one organizes anything. People just show up, and over time the routine becomes a kind of social glue. You start to know who will be there on Tuesdays, who needs a little extra encouragement, who is recovering from surgery, who is caring for a spouse, I often think about the seniors who do not have this.
People who stay home because it feels easier. People who slowly lose the habit of going out. People who do not have a reason to leave the house in the morning. They are the ones the CDC is talking about. They are the ones who slip into the quiet without noticing. They are the ones who need a place like the Dawg Park even if they do not have a dog.
Maybe that is the real lesson. Community does not always look like a meeting, a club, or a scheduled event like church. Sometimes it looks like Gabe swinging a paddle at 85. Sometimes it looks like Barb’s old dog sleeping under the picnic table. Sometimes it looks like Charlene dancing on the court at eight in the morning. Sometimes it looks like a short conversation about nothing that somehow makes the whole day feel better.
My pickleball game is important because it reminds me that I am part of something. It reminds me that loneliness is not inevitable. It is something you can push back against, one morning at a time.
Max Hartshorne writes a blog about theater, travel, and more on Substack at https://maxdeerfield.substack.com/?utm_campaign=profile&utm_medium=profile-page. He lives in South Deerfield.