The Secret Life of a Ping-Pong Wizard (11 page)

“In case anyone is wondering, which I'm sure you are,” Joelle said when the applause had died down, “I designed this costume myself. It's called Black of Night with Red Flower.”

And in case you're wondering, which I'm sure you're not, it was a black leotard with a red flower on it.

I was amazed to see how many kids were good at some sport. Sarah Stern actually had a black belt in karate, which I think is excellent for a third-grader. Even Katie Sperling and Kim Paulson were impressive as they wrapped their legs around the climbing rope and shot to the ceiling to ring the bell. And Luke Whitman got his fingers out of his nose long enough to grab the rings and do an Iron Cross. You have to be pretty strong to pull that off.

“Look over there, Hankie,” Papa Pete said, tapping my hand again to get my attention. “Sam Chin is getting ready to play.”

I looked at the Ping-Pong table and saw Sam's dad, Winston, setting up a box for him to stand on. Sam was taking his paddle out of his case. He didn't look too happy. As a matter of fact, he looked downright scared.

I felt a little hand pulling at my shirt. “Hi, Hank. It's me.”

“Mason!” I said. “You're supposed to be down there, doing your soccer demonstration.”

“My mommy says it's after the inter-something. I forget the word.”

“Intermission.”

“Yeah, that word. Bye.”

He ran off and went back to his mother, who was sitting in the front row next to Sam Chin's mom. Mason made me smile. Every time I get to help him learn something, no matter how small—even if it's just a word—it makes me feel great.

I turned back to the gym floor. Frankie and Ashley and the other jock soccer players were kicking the ball around the cones, warming up for the dribbling and kicking and passing demonstrations.

“That's what you should be doing, Hank,” my dad said, pointing to them. “I still can't understand why you didn't sign up for tonight.”

“Let him be, Stan,” my mom whispered.

By now, Sam was standing on his box and Winston Chin had taken his place at the other side of the Ping-Pong table. He was going to rally with Sam.

But Sam just stood there, holding his paddle in one hand and the ball in the other. He looked out at all the people watching him, and I thought he was going to cry. He father went over to him and kneeled down to say something, but I couldn't make out what he was saying.

“Come on, you baby. It's only Ping-Pong,” a voice shouted from the front row of the bleachers.

I'll bet you can guess whose voice it was. You're right. Who else but Nick the Tick McKelty would harass a cute little kid who was scared to death?

Sam Chin looked over at McKelty. I could see his face start to scrunch up. He was trying hard not to cry. McKelty cupped his hands over his erupting volcano of a mouth.

“Hurry up, kid. No one wants to see Ping-Pong, anyway.”

Ms. Adolf got up and walked over to McKelty. She looked mad, and for the first time in my life, I was on her side.

Sam Chin couldn't hold it in anymore. When he heard McKelty's nasty remark, he burst into tears, jumped off his box, and ran to his mom's arms like a little duckling swimming to his mommy duck.

“Come with me,” Ms. Adolf said to McKelty. “Your evening is over.”

“You can't do that,” he answered her. “I'm a key man in the soccer demonstration.”

“Not tonight, you aren't. This is the Parade of Athletes. A true athlete possesses good sportsmanship. Now parade yourself right out of the gymnasium.”

There is no messing with Ms. Adolf when she gets that tone of voice. McKelty got up and shuffled out of the gym. We all cheered, every single one of us. Sam Chin didn't care that McKelty was gone. He was still sitting with his face buried in his mom's neck. Poor little guy.

Mr. Rock picked up the microphone for an announcement. He's so nice, I'm sure he didn't want everyone to be staring at Sam.

“I'm afraid we'll have to postpone the Ping-Pong demonstration for another evening,” he said.

“Unless there's someone else who'd like to show us his Ping-Pong moves,” said a voice from the floor. It was Ashley.

“Maybe there's another person here who's really good at Ping-Pong,” she went on. “Like, say, one of the fifth-graders.”

“Ashley, do you have someone specific in mind?” Mr. Rock asked her.

She looked up at me without moving her eyes. I shook my head at her without moving my head. When you've been close friends for as long as we have, you know how to communicate without saying a word or without making a move.

I knew that she knew the answer was no.

I wasn't playing any public Ping-Pong. And that's all there was to it.

AFTER INTERMISSION, it was soccer time. The little kids went up first. Mason did a kicking-for-accuracy drill that would have blown your mind. That little guy kicked twenty power shots right into the net: ten with his left foot and ten with his right. Not many five-year-olds can do that
and
draw a perfect Brooklyn Bridge in the sandbox, I can tell you that.

When he was done, I jumped to my feet and whistled. “Atta boy, Mason!” I hollered.

“Come down here, Hank!” he shouted. “It's fun.”

“The child has a point,” Papa Pete whispered to me. “Fun is fun.”

“We've already gone over this, Papa Pete. No, no, and no.”

Mason went over and sat down next to his mom in the front row. Sam Chin was still there. He wasn't exactly buried in his mom's neck anymore, but he was still clinging pretty hard to her.

I wondered if he was going to remember this night for the rest of his life. Probably. You never forget the really embarrassing moments. I still shudder remembering the night I burst out crying in the kindergarten talent show singing “This Land Is Your Land.” I ran into the coat closet and didn't come out until everyone else had gone home.

By the time Ashley and Frankie got up to do their demonstration, everyone was ready to see something spectacular. Let's face it. Who doesn't love to watch a great soccer player? They're fast and skillful and light on their feet. And, I have to tell you, two of the best ever are my good buddies, Frankie Townsend and Ashley Wong.

Ashley did a kicking demonstration that was awesome. She set up five basketballs so each one was balanced on an orange cone of a different height. Then she kicked the soccer ball at each cone. If she hit it squarely, she'd knock the basketball down. If she didn't, the basketball would remain on the cone.

“First, I'll kick from fifteen feet away,” she announced to the crowd.

She did, and she knocked down all five basketballs, one after another.

“Now I'll kick from thirty feet away,” she said.

“Impossible,” whispered my dad.

“Show them, Ashweena,” I called out. She gave me a thumbs-up and took aim. I held my breath as she kicked. One, two, three, four, five. All five basketballs went flying off their cones.

Next it was Frankie's turn. He was demonstrating his dribbling and passing technique. First he dribbled around a long row of cones in less than ten seconds, ending with a perfect pass to Ashley. Then he did the same thing, but this time he dribbled only with his right foot. Do you have any idea how hard that is?

For his grand finale, he dribbled around the row of cones using only his left foot, and he finished off with a perfect aereial shot into the goal net.

Talk about your standing ovations! Everyone was on their feet. I was jumping around so much that I almost didn't feel the little hand tugging on the back of my shirt.

I thought it was Mason again, but it wasn't. It was Sam Chin. “I'll play if you'll play,” he said to me.

“What?” I asked. It was hard to hear him with all the noise. I bent down closer. “What are you talking about, Sam?”

“I got scared. Mason said you're scared too. Maybe we won't be so scared together.”

I knew how important it was for Sam to go back onto the floor and play. I always wished that I had come out of the cloakroom and finished my song way back in kindergarten. At least I would have known that I could do it. To this very day, when I hear “This Land Is Your Land,” I get sick to my stomach.

“You're a big boy, Sam. You can go by yourself and play with your dad.”

“No, I can't.”

Sam Chin gave my hand a tug. “Let's play Ping-Pong, Hank. You're good.”

I looked over at Papa Pete. I looked at that room full of people. I looked at the double doors to the gym and saw Nick McKelty's eyes peering into the room, watching everything that was going on.

I looked at Sam Chin. How could I say no to that face? “Sure, why not?” I said.

PING!
SAM CHIN HIT A FAST SERVE down the middle of the table.

Pong.
I returned it, smooth as glass.

Ping!
Sam sent me a topspin return.

Pong!
I answered it with my own backhand spin.

We rallied for five minutes in that gym. Back and forth, steady and even, in a rhythmic groove. Sam standing on his box, me bouncing in my Nikes. When we finished, everyone in the gym was on their feet, clapping.

Sam turned to the crowd and took absolutely, positively the cutest bow you've ever seen. That kid had a smile on his face that was as big as the sun. When he ran to his mom, this time he didn't bury his face in her neck. Nope. This time, he pumped his arms over his head and danced around like a wild man.

Way to go, Sam Chin,
I thought as I waved at the crowd and hummed a little bit of “This Land Is Your Land.”

“Do you want to show them some of your moves?” Winston Chin said to me over the roar of the crowd.

“I wouldn't mind showing
him
a thing or two,” I said, looking toward the door, where a certain large, snaggletoothed, bad-breathed bully was still looking in.

“Just remember the Three Cs,” Winston said. “Concentrate. Control. Confidence.”

The crowd got quiet as he picked up a paddle and went to his side of the table and I took my side. He served the first ball. It came fast, cutting a wide angle across the table.
Concentrate, Hank
. I took a big lunge and hit a looping return shot.

“That's it, Hank,” Winston said. “The reflexes of the bobcat.”

He fired another shot at me. His shots only came in three speeds: fast, really fast, and faster than that.
Control, Hank.
I wanted to slam it, but I knew if I did, it would fly off the table. So I took a breath, then raced to the ball and held out my paddle to block it.

“Good, Hank,” Winston said. “The speed of the cheetah.”

The next ball came at me with so much backspin, it looked like it was going in two directions at once.
Confidence, Hank.
I knew I had to wait for the ball, to follow its twisting path before hitting it. I crouched, waited, then returned it with my own special backspin.

“Yes, Hank,” Winston said. “The craftiness of the fox!”

Let me just say—and I really, really don't mean to brag—it was the best match I'd ever played in my whole life.

Everyone at the Parade of Athletes that night had a great time watching us play, but I'll be straight with you. The one who had the best time of all was me.

When the match was over, a lot of the people in the gym crowded around me, cheering like I was a star athlete or something.

“Hank, you're a Ping-Pong wizard,” Ashley said, throwing her arms around me.

“Where'd you learn to do that, dude?” Frankie asked.

“Here and there,” I said, smiling.

“Wow, you're good, Zip.”

“I could improve.”

“Right, and my name's Bernice.”

My mom and dad and Papa Pete came down from the bleachers to slap me on the back and shake my hand and hug me all at once.

“I'm so proud of you, honey,” my mom said.

“Me too,” my dad said. “You played very well, son. Ping-Pong is quite a sport.”

“Dad,” I said, “does this mean that now I can finally quit soccer?”

“Like I've always said, Hank, I think concentrating on one sport is a fine way to go.”

That was close enough for me! I started to cheer too.

Papa Pete could see how happy I was. He threw his big hairy arm around me and shook my shoulder like I was a teddy bear.

“What does everyone say to a root-beer float?” he said. “On me.”

“I say that sounds great,” I answered at the top of my lungs. I was so happy to be part of the Parade of Athletes, after all. And to think I almost didn't let myself be part of this great moment. I'll never do a thing like that again.

As we all walked out of the gym—my mom and dad, Frankie and Ashley, Emily and Robert and Papa Pete—I saw Nick McKelty standing in the hall by himself.