The Secret Life of a Ping-Pong Wizard (10 page)

“This I have to see,” I said, hurling myself across the room to the couch and landing half on the arm and half on the pillow—which, I might add, didn't feel too good on the old tush area.

“Excuse me,” Emily said. “Is anyone going to move over and make room for me?”

Emily is as skinny as Robert is, so she doesn't take up much space. I scrunched up on the couch and got as comfortable as a guy can be who's sitting arm to arm with his little sister.

“Hit it, Robert,” Frankie said. “Do your stuff.”

Robert cleared his throat.

“Good evening, ladies and gentleman.

Welcome to the Parade of Athletes. The word
athlete
derives from the ancient Greek and Latin words used to refer to someone who competed in public games. The earliest use of the word can be traced to—”

“Cut!” Ashley called out.

“What's wrong?” Robert asked.

“Everything, dude!” Frankie said. “I'm already asleep and the show hasn't even started.”

“I thought it was fascinating information,” Robert said.

“Yeah, if you're writing an encyclopedia,” Ashley said. “The people tomorrow night are coming to see sports, not to hear a lecture.”

“Maybe I'll lead off with a joke, then,” Robert said. “Actually, I have several highly entertaining ones.”

“We'll be the judge of that,” Frankie said.

“Here goes. Why is it so hot after a soccer game?”

“Why?” I called out.

“Because all the fans have gone home.”

Robert did his congested hyena laugh, and Emily burst into hysterics like she had just seen a naked clown. We just sat there with our jaws hanging open.

“Maybe you should start and end with ‘good evening, ladies and gentlemen,' ” Frankie said. “You do that really well.”

“I do?” Robert asked. “Do you really think so?”

We all agreed because we didn't want to have to listen to another one of his jokes.

“Wow,” Robert said, “I never knew five words could be so powerful.”

He spun on his heels, and walked out the door and down the hall toward the elevator. As he walked, we could hear him repeating those words, over and over, in all kinds of different voices.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, sounding like an English actor in one of those old movies my dad watches.

“Gentlemen and ladies, good evening,” he said, sounding like Robert's version of a hip-hop deejay—which, trust me, he will never ever be.

My sister, Emily, ran after him like a puppy dog following a bouncing ball. “Robert, however you say it, it sounds so dreamy,” she said.

We were quiet until we heard them get in the elevator. Then we burst out laughing.

“Do we want to talk about what just happened?” Ashley asked.

“There are no words that come to my mind,” Frankie said. “For the first time in my life, I am speechless.”

“Good,” I said, “because I have something important to tell you guys.”

“Like where you've been for the last ten days,” Frankie said.

“As a matter of fact, yeah.”

“So?” Frankie said. “Spill it, Zip.”

“I've been playing a new sport.”

“Does it involve a ball?” Ashley asked, starting to twirl her ponytail around her finger like she does when she's thinking. She loves guessing games.

“Sure.”

“Which one?” said Frankie. “Base, foot, soft, basket?”

“Not exactly any of those. A different kind of ball—white and smaller.”

“Golf!” Frankie said, and held up his hand to high-five me. “I've always wanted to hit a long drive like Tiger Woods. Where have you been playing?”

“Not on a golf course. Because it's not golf.”

“A small, white ball,” Ashley said, thinking out loud. “Not on a golf course. Can I ask you—is it lighter than a golf ball?”

“Yup.”

Ashley broke out into a huge smile. “Ping-Pong!” she yelled. “You're playing Ping-Pong!”

“Yes, I am, but could you keep your voice down about it? I don't want the whole building to know.”

“Why? What's the big whoop?” Frankie asked.

“Well, you know. Ping-Pong isn't exactly respected by the athletic community.”

“Zip, where'd you get that piece of info?” Frankie said.

“My dad told me.”

“I don't mean to be disrespectful, but Stan the Man's eyes are crossed.”

“You said it yourself, Frankie, that day on the yard with McKelty. Ping-Pong is a wimpy sport.”

“Zip, my man. I never said that.”

“You compared it to your aunt Eleanor playing shuffleboard.”

“Last I checked, you're not my aunt Eleanor. I'm sure a paddle looks very different in your hands, Hank Man.”

“Are you going to demonstrate Ping-Pong tomorrow night at the Parade of Athletes?” Ashley asked.

“No way! Nick McKelty will take me apart piece by piece.”

“Who cares what that moron thinks?” Frankie said. “If he thinks at all.”

“Yeah, he's just a snaggletoothed idiot,” Ashley agreed.

“I hear he's doing some really cool soccer drills at the Parade of Athletes,” I said. “Like dribbling through cones with his hands tied behind his back.”

“You don't
need
your hands in soccer,” Ashley said. “McKelty just comes up with things to make himself look cooler than he is.”

“Yeah, you've got more talent than he does in your two front teeth.”

“True, I
am
good at chewing,” I said. Frankie and Ashley cracked up at that, and I did too.

“Anyway, do me a favor, guys,” I said. “Let's keep my Ping-Pong career just between us. I really don't want McKelty to know.”

“For how long?” Ashley asked.

“Until I say you can say,” I said.

We put our hands out in front of us, one on top of the other, and yelled out “Magik 3” to seal the deal. That's the name of our magic act that we've had for over a year now. We take our Magik 3 oaths very seriously.

It was getting late, and we all had homework to finish. Actually, I had homework to
start
and finish. Because of my learning challenges, I'm not exactly fast in the homework department. Or in any department involving books, paper, pencils, erasers, words, letters, or numbers. I could go on, but I think you get the idea.

We left the clubhouse and hurried to the elevator.

“Hey, Hank,” Ashley whispered as she pushed the up button. “Do you think it will be longer than a month? I've never kept a secret more than thirty-one days.”

“Hard to say, Ash,” I answered. “But I'm counting on you.”

The elevator door opened, and my mom came out carrying a basket of dirty clothes to take to the laundry room down the hall. Cheerio was with her. When he saw me, he came running over and let a Ping-Pong ball drop out of his mouth in front of my feet. It rolled down the hall, clicking and clacking as it bounced along the linoleum floor.

“Ashley and I are cool with your secret,” Frankie said. “But it looks like your dog's a blabbermouth.”

Cheerio wagged his tail and started running in circles. He may not be able to keep a secret, but he sure is cute.

“GOOD EVENING, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,” Robert said, clutching the microphone in his bony little fingers. “Welcome to the Parade of Athletes.”

He was holding the mike so tight that you could see his white knuckles all the way in the bleachers, where my mom and dad and Papa Pete and I were sitting.

Our gym was packed with parents, teachers, aunts, uncles, older sisters, younger brothers—all there to cheer on their favorite athlete. The kids who were participating were warming up on the gym floor, wearing shorts and blue and green T-shirts that said PS 87. I, on the other hand, was sitting in between my mom and dad, not warming up, and not wearing athletic clothes.

I have to admit, I was feeling pretty bad about my decision not to participate in the Parade of Athletes. I just couldn't risk the embarrassment of showing my lousy hand-eye, hand-foot, foot-knee, eye-elbow coordination to everyone.

Papa Pete leaned across my mom and put his big hand on my knee. “Hankie, there's Sam Chin warming up with his dad,” he said. “Maybe it's not too late for you to sign up for the Ping-Pong demonstration.”

“Papa Pete! Please! Don't say the P. P. word in public.”

“What's wrong with saying Ping-Pong? Hankie, I was just trying to . . .”

Before he could finish, he was drowned out by Robert tapping on the microphone.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he repeated. “I'd like to start the festivities with a little joke.”

“I've selected a joke with a sporting theme,” Robert said.

“Just do the joke already, idiot!” McKelty yelled from his place on the floor where he was warming up for his soccer drill.

“Okay, here goes,” Robert said. “Why can't you play basketball with pigs?”

“Because they stink, like you!” McKelty yelled. No one laughed but him.

McKelty's dad got up from the stands, went over to Nick, and had a little heart-to-heart with him.

“The reason you can't play basketball with pigs,” Robert said, “is because they HOG the ball.”

The only person who laughed was my sister Emily. The rest of the people in the gym were dead silent. If I were Robert, I would have run away to Mongolia to live with wild camels and never come back to PS 87. But not Robert. He hung in there.

“Maybe you didn't get it,” he said. “I can do it again.”

“Thank you, that will be quite enough, Robert,” I heard Ms. Adolf say.

Where was she? I didn't see her anywhere. And then I did.

But I was. There was Ms. Adolf, all decked out in her fencing gear. No joke. She had on a jacket that looked like a bulletproof vest (it was grey, of course), a full mask with a mesh face that looked like a screen door, short pants with buttons at the knees, and tights like George Washington always wore in pictures. And she was carrying a long silver sword. She looked like Blackbeard the Pirate. Except she was in grey and didn't have a beard, so I guess she looked like Grey Bun the Pirate.

“To begin the festivities, I am about to give a brief display of my advance-and-retreat thrusting technique,” Ms. Adolf said through her screen-door mask.

“You go, girlfriend,” I heard Frankie call out.

“Without further ado, I will demonstrate the lunge, the thrust, and the parry,” she said.

And without further ado, whatever ado is, she leaped onto the rubber mat that ran alongside the bleachers and starting lunging forward, forward, forward—then retreating backward, backward, backward. She looked like a crazed musketeer.

“Wow,” Papa Pete said. “She's got some command of the blade. Is she married?”

“Are you kidding, Papa Pete?” I said, whipping my head in his direction so fast, it nearly took off.

“Yes, I am.”

“Thank goodness. You scared me for a minute.”

When she was all thrusted out, Ms. Adolf pulled off her mask, held it under her arm, and saluted the crowd with her sword. “Thank you, friends of the foil,” she said.

The audience sat there in silence at first, then Papa Pete started to applaud. Soon, everyone joined in, and Ms. Adolf took another bow. As quickly as she was up, she was down—back on the bench reserved for the teachers.

Before anyone could stop him, Robert grabbed the microphone again. “Maybe I should present another comedy moment,” he suggested.

“No!” all the kids shouted.

“All right, then, I'll save it for after intermission.” Boy, that Robert. He doesn't take a hint.

After that, the evening really took off. There was equipment of all kinds spread out over the gym floor: a trampoline, a line of soccer cones and a goal net, a portable basketball hoop, a pummel horse and a mat for gymnastics and karate. Two rings and a long rope hung from the ceiling.

I noticed that a Ping-Pong table had been set up right in the middle of the gym floor. Just looking at it made me itch to play, but I was determined not to. Any Ping-Pong embarrassment was going to be between me and my pals at the Ping-Pong Emporium.

The Parade of Athletes began. Christopher Hook did backflips, front flips, seat drops, and a fantastic double twist on the trampoline. He was terrific for a third-grader. Actually, he was terrific for an any-grader.

A lot of kids shot baskets. A whole team of girls did a slam-dunk demonstration on one of those toy plastic basketball hoops. The big surprise during the fifth-grade demonstration was Heather Payne, who turned out to be a short, blond, girl-type version of Michael Jordan. I mean, wow, she had a sky hook. Who would've guessed that underneath all that perfect penmanship and straight As there was a hoop star waiting to be born.

Another huge surprise was that Joelle Adwin was able to detach herself from her cell phone long enough to actually do a gymnastics routine. At least, I think that's what it was. The official name of what she did is rhythmic gymnastics. It involves a stick with colorful ribbons tied to it and a lot of hopping around on the mat.

To be totally honest, it didn't look like a real sport to me. But since I
know
that's exactly how a lot of people feel about Ping-Pong, and since I
know
it is a truly difficult sport, I decided to give Joelle all the credit she deserved. When she twirled her last twirl, I stood up and applauded until my hands tingled. Even McKelty turned around and gave me a look like I had lost my mind.