It’s been 10 days since I tripped over my own feet trying to pick up a loose ball on the pickleball court. The bump on my forehead’s still a bit sore and my shiner’s more lavender than purple but not nearly as bad as it was – or could have been. The pickler gods were watching over me. Or maybe I’m just very lucky. Talk about March coming in like a lion. It’s not often you witness someone doing a face-plant into a hard (read: concrete) tennis court, not the elegant grass of Wimbledon or forgiving clay of the French Open. Nope, I landed hard and fast on my head,…