John sat quietly and alone. The others knew to stay away lest his concentration be broken. Slowly and precisely he wrapped the tape around the handle of what he considered his weapon. Then a certain amount of chalk or rosin—exactly how he chose which was known only to him – to dust his hands and the handle. His focus was acute. He was ready.

A hint of mystery hung about John. He came from somewhere in the area of St. Paul but nobody knew quite where, exactly. They did not know, they had no idea, that the man—their hero—who was known to them as John Johnson was known back in that unknown place from which he had come as Yohnny Yonhson, the Scandinavian pronunciation persisting in that quiet place to which his family had immigrated almost two centuries ago.

But everyone knew—everyone—that his skill as a pickleball player was unsurpassed in the world of Southwest Florida condominium communities. He had rivals, of course, that Walter Pilarski guy from around Chicago, that snowbird from Quebec, Pierre Marceaux, who always played with a hat that read Je Me Souviens. There was Vito Marchetti who had moved from Boston’s North End to become a full time resident. And the New York duo, Hymie Goldstein, the former Hasidic from Brooklyn who had first moved to Del Rey on Florida’s east coast but after taking an adult education class at Florida Gulf Coast University decided to stay on the west coast, and Malik Jones from Harlem.

John, Marsh Landing’s very own, had beaten them all in the Southwest Florida Pickleball League championship tournament. Just one more match and he would be the champion who would be celebrated by a huge Marsh Landing party at Chen’s Buffet, taking advantage, of course, of the Early Bird prices.

It would be a challenge. His opponent in the final round, curiously enough representing Fountain Lakes, the community next to Marsh Landing, was Ivan Demitrov, known by some as “Ivan the Terrible,” by others as the “Vladivostok Villain.” Ivan showed no mercy on the pickleball court. He had used his uncannily accurate volley to disable one opponent by hitting him with a smash onto his prosthetic hip. Worse, many thought, was when he hit another right onto the victim’s implanted pacemaker sending the poor soul into a profound bradycardia. Both had recovered; a replacement hip for the one, a new pacemaker for the other, but each had retired from competitive pickleball, the PTSD too much to overcome.

Despite the stakes—a buffet of slightly warm and soy-soaked faux Chinese food for one, a bottle of diluted grain alcohol which had been decanted into a Grey Goose bottle for the other—the competition between communities was, though spirited, a friendly rivalry. Or so it was expected.

The match was hard fought and close, Ivan aggressive as always, John unflappable and controlled. Finally, match point. The game to be decided on the final volley.

“Out!”

“In!”

And so on. The disagreement spiraled. The two referees—there were always two in case of a sudden illness—likewise disagreed. The folks from Fountain Lakes began to yell and curse. The Marsh Landing folks responded. Tempers raged. Blood pressures mounted. Four people from Marsh Landing and three from Fountain Lakes took out their blood pressure monitors and began to scream. Somebody threw a bottle of Ensure. Chaos reigned.

The match was suspended. People headed back to their respective communities but not before threats were made.

A couple of days later a Marsh Landing resident, the always polite Maxine “Minnie” Mouse reported that she had learned by chance that morning during an AARP meeting (the exact way she learned was unsaid but “Minnie” had moved to Marsh Landing from upstate -The Villages – and was still taking Acylovir for something she had picked up there) that Fountain Lakes planned an assault on Marsh Landing. Revenge.

Marsh Landingers immediately began to prepare. Leadership was needed. There were a number of military veterans who lived in Marsh Landing, even some Greatest Generation folks, but all agreed that former LCDR Harvey S. was the best choice. There was no need to even ask why.

By the next day, the day of the expected invasion, Harvey had organized the defense into three corps. On the left was the Cane Corps, those folks who moved with the greatest alacrity with assistance. There were canes of all types, the classic wooden with the curved handle, the carved walking stick type, and the fearsome four posters.

On the right was the Walker Corps. This group had perhaps the greatest esprit de corps. Many had removed the split tennis balls from the front posts for greater speed and mobility. The ones with walkers that had a basket were at the very front.

And in the center was the Power Chair Corps. All had fully charged their batteries. A few had installed chains of twist ties around the wheels for what they expected would be improved traction.

And there was Harvey. He sat atop a borrowed power chair of the Dean Kamen variety, the kind that used some sort of gyroscopic means to climb stairs and to rise up so a seated person would be at eye level with somebody standing tall. And standing tall was what Harvey intended to do, to rise up so as to see the battlefield and to be an obvious target for the Fountain Lakes bullies. Bullies indeed. Not only was Fountain Lakes a large community with more residents but it was well known that Fountain Lakes had an inordinate number of renters.

The sun rose. Another beautiful day in Paradise. Harvey dispatched the three ladies in Marsh Landing who owned adult tricycles on a reconnaissance mission, reminding them that J. E. B. Stuart had likewise been a daring hero. He waited with anticipation for their return and grieved when just two returned. The third, he was told, had turned her trike over into a drainage ditch and would not return. She was okay, just shaken up, but had gone to the nearby consignment shop to recover on a very nice Canadian rocker. She hoped somebody would take her companion dog, a well behaved cockapoodle, for a walk later.

The intelligence the two remaining trikers brought back was crucial. The Fountain Lakers were assembled for an assault in a broad formation. That was just what Harvey needed to know.

Then, there they were! Coming through the gates at as rapid a pace as they could. The battle was on.

Harvey used Napoleonic tactics. He sent his forces straight at the center of the Fountain Lakes line. Overwhelming force concentrated at a single point. Then the Cane Corps and the Power Chair Corps turned to the left, outnumbering the right flank of the Fountain Lakes fighters while the Walker Corps turned to the right to fight a holding action against FL’s left flank.

Screaming like crazed seniors trying to get the last bus at Disney World and waving weapons fashioned from adult diapers and orthopedic shoes the Marsh Landingers fought bravely. Joe Dorsey unhooked his urine bag from his catheter and flung it into the face of a charging foe who sputtered a bit and turned and fled. So many similar acts of courage.

The right flank overcome, demoralized, defeated, in full retreat, the Marsh Landing warriors then all turned to the right where the Walker Corps had courageously held off the foe’s left flank. United now, they made short work of the remaining enemy.

Victory. But victory at a price. The well-maintained common areas were littered with the remnants of battle. A CPAP machine in pieces, an empty bottle with oblong blue Viagra pills scattered in the grass, a Spiriva inhaler split in two, the remains of a comfort height commode barely recognizable.

But no serious injuries. The community was safe. Harvey lowered the seat of his power chair and headed for the pool.

Harvey Silverman is a retired old coot and writes primarily for his own enjoyment. He winters at Marsh Landing in SW Florida.