“I cannot dink!” I shouted in frustration, bursting into laughter.

The coach, Malaysia’s top-ranked pickleball player, shook her head, trying to suppress a smile.

The entire class chuckled as I stood there, paddle in hand, completely baffled by a shot that looked so simple yet felt impossible.

Dinking (a soft, controlled shot at the net) is a fundamental skill in pickleball. But for someone like me, coming from a tennis background, it was an absolute nightmare.

I wanted to drop-shot like Carlos Alcaraz, but my dinks were either sky-high gifts for my opponent or sad little attempts that barely made it over the net.

My pickleball journey started this Chinese New Year when I played singles for two days straight with my KL friend.

I thought I had an advantage—my tennis strokes transferred well, I could move around the court, and hey, I wasn’t too bad at hand-eye coordination.

But something felt off.

My swings were too big, my footwork too excessive, and the slower pace of pickleball made me feel like I am old.

Determined to improve, I signed up for a group coaching session on 11 February.
That’s when I discovered my coaches was Malaysia’s top pickleball players.

What a blessing!

Until the moment the coach asked about my playing experience.

I whispered, “Less than five times.”

The entire class turned and stared at me like I had just walked into a cemetery.

Still, I started in the intermediate class, where they taught me forehand, backhand, and volleys. I held my own, picked up valuable techniques, and thought, “Ok, I got this.”

Feeling confident (perhaps a little too confident), I joined the advanced class the next day.

That’s when reality slapped me in the face. The drills were intense, the pace was faster, and I was struggling just to keep up. Then came the dreaded dink drill.

“Less power, more control,” the coach reminded me. Easier said than done!

My muscle memory screamed for big backswings and aggressive shots. My feet automatically went into split-step mode, preparing for a fast-paced rally that never came.

And my instinct? Smash the ball, not gently tap it over.

Then came the reset drill—a nightmare. In tennis, the “no-man’s land” is a dangerous place.

Here in pickleball, I hamtam kau kau in tennis if my opponet stand on dead zone. My coach yelled, “Soft hands! Just tap the ball!”

Soft hands? My hands were trained for power, not to play nice.

Despite the struggle, the experience was incredibly rewarding.

I realized that pickleball isn’t just tennis on a smaller court. It’s a different game with its own rhythm, strategy, and skills.

The biggest lesson? Unlearning my tennis habits and embracing the art of patience and precision.

I still cannot dink perfectly. But at least now, I know why. And that’s progress.