America 250 road trip: A new mom discovers the old...

Illustration by ESPNApril 15, Bradley International AirportDear Nila, It's 5 a.m. and I'm lonely because I've never left you before. My heart is at home with you and Appa, but my soul needs -- and my job demands -- exploration. I remember other, long-ago early mornings. I wasn't that much older than you when I started waking up at 5 a.m. to watch India play Australia in cricket. I muted the TV inside my pink home in Coimbatore, Tamil Nadu, held the remote up to my mouth and pretended I was telling the story of the match to fans who loved the sport as much as me. "A marvelous straight drive! Sixeeeeeer!!!" A few years later, I watched a TV show called "The Newsroom" and the main character, a news anchor, gave a fiery speech at a school called Northwestern. "America is not the greatest country in the world," he said. I envisioned a country where we could be honest, where our opinions are valued. Where I could become the best journalist in the world. That's where I needed to be. My Appa (your Thatha) took a loan against the only land he owned to pay for my master's degree at Northwestern. I packed my two 23-kilogram suitcases and boarded an airplane that carried me 8,000 miles away from everything I knew about life. Even before I touched down, I worried about finding my place in America. Will I make friends? Will I be accepted with my thick South Indian accent? Will I like the food? But the thing I worried about most: Will America give me a chance? Will I be able to find a job and pay Thatha back so he doesn't lose his land? Eleven years later, 250 years into America's existence and seven months into yours, ESPN is sending me on an eight-day road trip. I'm traveling up the Atlantic coast seeking an answer to the one question I've spent the most time in this country thinking about. What makes something American? What makes you -- a child of an Indian immigrant mother and an American father -- American? What makes a sport American? You'll be in my heart every stop along the way, Nila! This is going to be so much fun, Nila! Fans of all ages and colors converge around the courts at the US Open Pickleball Championships at East Naples Community Park. Food trucks line the grounds. Bratwurst. Thai bowls. Pizza. A man wearing a cowboy hat and a red shirt sings in a corner. Lord, I was born a ramblin' man. Tryin' to make a livin' and doin' the best I can. I get a cup of Italian ice and walk around to see if I can learn how pickleball has become such an integral part of the American fabric. I meet a 72-year-old man named Bob Collins, whose wispy white hair falls on his forehead. His beige polo shirt looks a little too big on his thin body. He tells me he lost 45 pounds since he started playing pickleball three years ago. When I ask him why he plays, he looks me in the eye and says, "To prolong my life." Collins' friend, a 78-year-old woman named Pam Thompson, says, "I don't know what old people did before pickleball." To celebrate America's 250th anniversary, ESPN sent five writers (plus two dogs) across 10,000 miles and 21 states (plus D.C.) to experience the mystery and magic of sports. Monday: Evel Knievel lives. You just gotta know where to look. Alyssa Roenigk Tuesday: The greatest bet in sports history -- 157 years ago. Kent Babb Wednesday: It's a pickleball party and Vince Lombardi's ghost is invited! Aishwarya Kumar Thursday: Inside the fight for boxing's future. By Roberto José Andrade Franco Friday: Miracles, mirages and -- gulp -- UFOs. By Dotun Akintoye Home base: Your one-stop guide to writers' routes, postcards and more. America 250 I make my way to the pro players' lounge and meet Richard Livornese Jr., a nationally ranked 25-year-old who quit his full-time job to pursue a sport he stumbled into. Now he earns his living playing pickleball and traveling the world. He says he plays six hours every day. His opponent walks by as he's speaking with me. Livornese pauses, hugs the man he just beat and says, "You played incredibly today. I'm sad somebody had to lose." Nila, your great-aunt launched a company that does corporate training through pickleball. One of Appa's friends plays in a hypercompetitive league. But this is my first time attending an event, and it's diverse in ways I didn't imagine. White, brown, Black folks. You see families. And the 50-something tennis-player-turned-pickleball-nut who travels the country playing in tournaments. Then, there are players in their 80s, moving gingerly between serves. They give each other water bottles and yell, "Shake it off," when they see someone in a slump. Players hop off the court and get ice cream together. I've played racket sports my whole life, Nila, and pickleball feels the most democratic. Badminton, which I played competitively in India, is too niche. Tennis, which Appa introduced me to in West Hartford on one of our first dates, is too physically demanding. Table tennis, which Appa and I play with you in our arms, is too insular. It

America 250 road trip: A new mom discovers the old...

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