In the glow of afternoon sun, where laughter echoes and joy swells,
On the courts where champions rise, a silence drapes like a heavy spell.
The rhythmic thud of paddles ceased, as hearts felt the tremors of grief,
For a pillar of strength, a guiding hand, has slipped into eternal sleep.
Mike Johns, a name revered, a spirit woven into the game,
With laughter that sparkled brighter than the shimmering court,
He taught us to unite in play, to rally with resilience,
In every serve, every volley, a lesson tucked in sport.
Through nettles and nets, the pickleball family stands,
United in sorrow, extending warm, gentle hands.
For Ben, the rising star, with talent that knows no bounds,
Heart heavy as a paddle, carrying the love that surrounds.
Oftentimes he cheered from the sidelines, pride swelling in his chest,
For the son who dances with finesse, with a fighter’s spirit he’s blessed.
Together they shared dreams, painted in strokes of bright hope,
Now the shadows loom, some walls of solace to cope.
A community gathers, each player wearing sorrow’s hue,
For in every rallying call lives a bond that steadfast grew.
Amidst the painted lines of care, the unbroken ties of love,
A reminder that even in loss, we can rise, and we must, from above.
We remember Mike’s laughter, echoing through the air,
A legacy of kindness, woven in each match, in every pair.
As pickleball courts become a tapestry of shared heartache,
We offer thoughts, a tribute—warm wishes, as hearts ache.
In memory, we play, each match a dance of tribute,
For Mike, who taught us passions, love, and never to dispute.
Through every serve and every game, we carry him in our stride,
And in our hearts forevermore, his spirit will abide.
So here, on this sacred ground, where dreams and sorrow blend,
We hold the Johns family close, in community, we mend.
In the grief we feel today, our love, like a serve, will fly,
For Mike has left us too soon, yet his spirit will always rise high.
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