Houston, We Have a Pickleball Problem

The $350 Paddle Tap

Somewhere along the way, pickleball became a game where people are afraid to touch paddles.

Think about that for a moment.

For years, one of the simplest traditions in pickleball was the paddle tap. After a great rally, a terrific shot, or a game, players acknowledged one another with a friendly tap of their paddles. Nobody thought twice about it.

Today? Some players would rather offer you the handle than risk scratching their precious paddle surface.

Apparently, when your paddle costs $350, friendship comes with a deductible.

We've got edge-guard tape, protective cases, premium surfaces, special coatings, and enough technology packed into these things that I'm surprised they don't require software updates.

And now we're afraid to tap them together.

That's when it hit me: Houston, we have a pickleball problem.

Not because pickleball is dying. Quite the opposite. Pickleball has become one of America's great recreational success stories. But between the expensive equipment, professional tours, rankings, exclusive clubs, and seemingly endless opportunities to separate players from their money, I think we're beginning to lose sight of what made it special in the first place.

It Started at a Christmas Party

In December 2017, I was at a Christmas party at my friend Steve's house. At some point, he asked, “Do you play pickleball?”

I looked at him like he had six heads.

Pickle what?

I'd never heard of it. Steve invited me out the following week, and almost immediately I fell in love.

Not just with the competition, although I've always loved competing. Not just with the exercise, although that was a bonus. It was the entire experience: the people, laughter, camaraderie, excitement, friendly trash talk. You could walk onto a court with strangers and twenty minutes later feel like you'd known them for years.

Here was a game that brought together people of different ages, backgrounds, and athletic abilities. In a world that increasingly finds reasons to divide us, pickleball offered a way to bring us together.

All you really needed was a paddle, a plastic ball with holes in it, and somewhere to play. That simplicity wasn't a weakness. It was pickleball's greatest strength.

TC, I Think I Made a Mistake

Around the time I started PICKLESTRONG in 2017, my good friend TC North gave me some advice: “You should get into pickleball paddles.”

I laughed. “TC, there are already five paddle manufacturers. Why would I get into such a crowded market?”

That was my impression of the industry then. A $99 paddle felt like a serious investment. I genuinely thought the market was crowded.

Fast-forward. USA Pickleball reported 1,225 new paddle approvals in 2024—more than three per day—and 476 newly registered manufacturers and brands that year. Approvals and registrations are not the same thing as successful, active businesses, but the sheer volume is remarkable.

Apparently, the world was experiencing a critical shortage of ways to hit a plastic ball with holes in it.

Today, premium paddles can cost $250, $300, or more. We debate carbon fiber, Kevlar, foam cores, honeycomb construction, surface grit, spin rates, sweet spots, and swing weights. Some innovations are real and useful. But let's not pretend every recreational player needs the latest $300 technological marvel.

Every time a manufacturer announces the next revolutionary paddle, I wonder what happened to the revolutionary paddle released six months earlier.

Meanwhile, affordable alternatives remind us that enjoying pickleball doesn't have to require a luxury purchase.

TC, if you're reading this, I owe you an apology. And possibly a commission.

The Great Pickleball Fashion Show

Paddles are only the beginning. Walk around a major tournament and you might wonder whether you've wandered into a sporting event, a luxury fashion exhibition, or a technology convention.

I've seen players carrying elaborate protective eyewear cases that look like they contain classified government documents. Inside? Sunglasses. Not nuclear launch codes. Sunglasses.

Premium eyewear companies have found an enthusiastic pickleball audience. Some eyewear configurations cost hundreds of dollars, and certain high-end packages can approach four figures. We've even got lensless protective frames marketed specifically to pickleball players.

Before the angry emails arrive: eye protection matters. A fast-moving pickleball can cause a serious eye injury. I'm making fun of luxury marketing and status competition, not the decision to protect your eyesight.

Still, I can appreciate the comedy of adults arriving at a public park dressed like they've been recruited for the next installment of The Incredibles.

I'm waiting for someone to roll onto the court with a $350 paddle, $1,000 eyewear system, titanium carrying case, and personal film crew—only to lose 11–4 to a retired schoolteacher in an eight-year-old T-shirt.

There's nothing wrong with enjoying premium equipment. The problem begins when equipment stops being something we use to play and becomes something we use to establish status.

What's Your DUPR? And Should I Be Impressed?

There was a time when someone walked onto a pickleball court and the first question was, “Want to play?”

Now, in certain circles, it's “What's your DUPR?”

DUPR—the Dynamic Universal Pickleball Rating—has a legitimate purpose: measuring ability and helping players find competitive matches. I support that. But a useful rating system can become a social hierarchy with decimal points.

A 4.2 is welcome. A 3.7 might as well have shown up wearing a scarlet letter.

At some venues I've seen players obsess over ratings, opponents, roster eligibility, and kitchen violations as if the fate of civilization depends on someone's toe crossing a painted line. Rating manipulation is a concern addressed by rating-system rules; that doesn't mean every rumor about it is true.

At this rate, I wouldn't be surprised if someone tried to hire international hackers to turn their 3.6 into a 4.5.

We're grown adults chasing a plastic ball with holes in it around a little court.

I love competition. I respect excellent players and enjoy challenging matches. But there's a difference between taking the game seriously and taking ourselves too seriously.

And to be clear, I don't see much of this at my regular public-park games. That's part of why I keep going back.

The $255 Reality Check

Let's talk about tournament fees.

Under the published 2026 U.S. Open schedule, one amateur doubles event could cost $230 in base registration-related charges: a $150 player credential, a $35 referee-and-technology charge, and a $45 event fee. An additional $25 insurance option brings that to $255. Parking was listed at $10 per day. Travel, lodging, meals, and equipment are extra.

For someone eliminated after two matches, $230 works out to $115 per match before insurance and parking. With optional insurance, that's $127.50 per match.

Of course, major tournaments have real expenses. Staffing, facilities, technology, insurance, logistics, and officiating aren't free. I understand that.

But we should ask an uncomfortable question: Are we pricing ordinary players out of the events they helped make successful?

The U.S. Open moved to refereeing every match in 2025. Some players welcome that. I respect referees and their contributions. Personally, I'm not convinced every amateur match needs that level of officiating, particularly when tournaments already struggle with schedules and delays.

More structure doesn't automatically mean a better recreational experience. And when participation gets more expensive, it's fair to ask whether we're improving the experience for players or building a more elaborate—and costly—event.

From Woodstock to Coachella

This one is personal.

For years, the U.S. Open in Naples felt like Woodstock to me. Not because of the mud, music, or questionable fashion choices—although pickleball has certainly had some of those.

It was the people.

Every April, players traveled to Naples from around the country and world. You saw familiar faces, renewed friendships, and caught up with people you hadn't seen in a year. It felt like a family reunion.

I remember one gentleman who always seemed to have an endless supply of those tiny airplane-sized bottles of Fireball cinnamon whiskey. I still don't know where he kept them all. He was friendly, generous, and seemed to know everybody. He wasn't there trying to sell anything. He was simply part of the experience.

I remember longtime coaches and friends from Charleston, people I looked forward to seeing year after year. Some of those familiar faces were missing when I attended more recently. I don't know everyone's reasons. Life changes; people move on. But I missed them.

And the atmosphere felt different.

What once seemed like a giant reunion increasingly felt like a polished commercial spectacle. Woodstock had become Coachella.

The branding was bigger, premium experiences more elaborate, equipment more expensive. Championship-court experiences increasingly featured ticketed seating and hospitality. To be fair, the U.S. Open still offers free spectator access to many other courts. It is not an entirely ticket-only event.

Premium seating and hospitality aren't inherently wrong. But I wonder whether, as we create ever-more-expensive ways to experience pickleball, the ordinary player starts to feel less central to the celebration.

The founders helped create something that felt like the world's biggest pickleball party. I hope we never forget who that party was originally for.

When Everybody Wants a Piece of the Pie

Pickleball's growth has been extraordinary. The Sports & Fitness Industry Association estimated 24.3 million U.S. participants in 2025, up from 4.2 million in 2020—roughly 479% growth.

Numbers like that attract entrepreneurs, investors, sponsors, manufacturers, professional leagues, and facility developers. As they should.

But participation growth and business profitability are two different things. A sport can thrive while individual companies serving it struggle.

The Picklr's corporate franchisor filed for Chapter 11 protection in October 2026 amid financial pressures associated with rapid expansion. That doesn't mean indoor pickleball is doomed; clubs can succeed, and many players genuinely value climate-controlled courts and organized play. It does remind us that enthusiasm alone doesn't pay leases, utilities, and payroll.

The public park has one enormous competitive advantage. It's a public park. No sales presentation required.

The Million-Dollar Question: How Much More Can Pickleball Cost?

At what point does enough become enough?

A $350 paddle. Eyewear costing hundreds. Amateur tournament registration exceeding $250. Indoor memberships, court fees, lessons, certifications, premium experiences.

Somewhere another manufacturer is probably developing a $400 paddle that promises to change your life. I'm beginning to wonder whether the next model will come with heated seats and a financing department.

But seriously: Where does this end?

Golf and tennis have established premium markets. People spend serious money on clubs, rackets, memberships, and lessons. Yet both also offer lower-cost ways to participate. Pickleball's particular magic was that inexpensive equipment and spontaneous public play weren't just an alternative—they were central to its identity.

Consider the paddle industry. One independent October 2026 analysis of the USA Pickleball approval database identified more than 1,300 distinct brand names. That isn't a count of thriving paddle companies, and many names may be inactive. That's precisely the point: How many brands can build durable businesses selling variations of essentially the same product?

How many revolutionary breakthroughs can we have before we run out of revolutions? How many $300 paddles does the average recreational player need? Three? Five? Twelve? A separate paddle for Mondays?

And what happens when people decide last year's paddle is still perfectly capable of hitting a plastic ball over a 34-inch-high net?

Tournaments face limits too. There is only so much an ordinary amateur can spend, especially when registration is merely the beginning.

Indoor facilities face a different equation. Rent doesn't disappear because it's raining. The electric bill doesn't disappear because nobody booked Court 6. Payroll doesn't disappear because members decided to play outdoors.

If a player pays $25 each time they play and goes five times a week, that's $6,500 over 52 weeks—before equipment or tournaments. That's an illustration, not an average membership price. But it shows why a business can't assume every passionate player will become a premium customer.

I suspect we'll see a correction—not necessarily in participation, but in some of the prices, business models, expectations, and valuations surrounding the game. Some companies will thrive. Others will discount, merge, change direction, or disappear. I can't predict the timing or severity.

A rapidly growing sport does not automatically create a profitable business for everyone who enters it.

The irony is that pickleball's long-term future may depend less on how expensive we can make it and more on how accessible we can keep it. The greatest business opportunity may not be convincing a million people to buy a $350 paddle. It may be ensuring that millions more people can afford to fall in love with the game.

I'm a Capitalist. I'm Also in the Pickleball Business.

Before anyone accuses me of biting the hand that feeds me, let me get something out of the way.

I'm a capitalist. I'm also the founder of PICKLESTRONG, a pickleball apparel and lifestyle brand I started in 2017. I sell merchandise. I want my business to succeed. I believe entrepreneurs deserve to earn money from their ideas, investments, risks, and hard work.

When I started PICKLESTRONG, the pickleball apparel world was tiny. I knew of only a couple of other dedicated brands, including Pickleball Rocks and a name I remember as Pickle Boat. I had no idea how big this sport—or its business—would become.

Nearly nine years later, PICKLESTRONG is still here. We were building a brand around the game before its explosive mainstream growth, before every other week seemed to bring another new paddle, another investment pitch, and another company promising to revolutionize pickleball.

I didn’t start PICKLESTRONG because a consultant showed me a chart of projected market growth. I started it because I loved the game and the community around it. That history doesn’t make me the final authority on the industry, but it does mean I’ve watched the changes from both sides of the net—as a player and as a small-business owner.

That community has also given us opportunities to do more than sell apparel. Over the years, PICKLESTRONG has collaborated with the LIVESTRONG Foundation on charitable pickleball fundraising events, donating all profits from those events to support people affected by cancer. We're now in discussions about bringing another fundraiser to Naples, Florida. Nothing is scheduled yet, but I hope we can make it happen.

Those events matter to me because they capture what I loved about pickleball from the beginning: people showing up for one another. Playing, laughing, building friendships, and occasionally turning a game into something that makes a difference beyond the court.

Yes, I recognize the irony of criticizing commercialization on a website that sells pickleball products.

But there's a difference between making money because people love something and making money by convincing people that what they already have is no longer good enough.

There's a difference between offering someone a product they might enjoy and creating an environment where they feel they must buy it to belong.

And there's a difference between growing a sport and changing its culture so dramatically that longtime participants begin to feel left behind.

That standard applies to my business too.

I'm not against premium paddles, professional athletes, coaches, tournaments, or private clubs. I'm against allowing the business of pickleball to crowd out the people and values that made it worth investing in.

Two Worlds, One Game

I believe pickleball now exists in two increasingly different worlds.

There's the world of premium clubs, expensive equipment, rankings, professional aspirations, organized tournaments, and exclusive experiences.

And there's the world I still love most: the public park.

Most days, you'll find me at Veterans Community Park in Naples, Florida. We show up, play, compete, and laugh. There's trash talk, encouragement, the occasional disagreement over a line call, and plenty of terrible shots that somehow turn into winning points. Then we move on to the next game.

For the most part, nobody needs your DUPR before deciding whether you're worth talking to. Nobody needs a résumé. Nobody cares whether your paddle cost $75 or $350.

I've loved tennis too, and have enormous respect for the athleticism and skill required to play it well. But recreational pickleball often has a different energy. Laughter comes from every direction. People cheer for opponents. Strangers become friends. It's noisy, social, wonderfully imperfect—and fun.

You can wake up on a Tuesday, grab your paddle, head to a public park, put your paddle in the rack, and join a game with people you've never met. No membership committee. No initiation fee. No expensive reservation. No requirement that your rating end in the correct decimal.

Just an opportunity to play.

That's remarkable. And it's something worth protecting.

The Game Worth Protecting

I'm not asking professional pickleball to disappear. I'm not saying tournaments shouldn't have referees, manufacturers shouldn't innovate, or private clubs shouldn't charge for services.

I'm asking for perspective.

Let's invest in public courts. Keep amateur tournaments within reach. Recognize that expensive equipment is a choice, not a requirement. Use ratings to organize competitive games, not create social hierarchies. Value teachers for their ability to teach. And remember that recreational players aren't an inconvenience standing in the way of professional pickleball.

They're the reason the entire industry exists.

In a world divided by politics, age, income, and beliefs, pickleball offers something rare: a place where those differences can disappear for a while. Where people can laugh, compete, encourage one another, build friendships, and improve their physical and mental well-being.

Tomorrow morning, somewhere in America, someone will wake up, grab a paddle, and head to a public park.

They won't need a membership. They won't need a professional ranking. They won't need a $350 paddle or sunglasses that cost more than their car payment.

They'll put their paddle in the rack, wait their turn, and join three people they may never have met.

They'll compete. They'll laugh. They'll probably argue over a line call or two. Someone will hit an unbelievable shot, and everyone will cheer.

And when the game ends, they'll tap paddles.

At least, I hope they will.

Because that's the pickleball I fell in love with. And that's the pickleball worth protecting.

Houston, we have a pickleball problem.

But I still believe we can fix it.