The Secret Life of a Ping-Pong Wizard (5 page)

Before I could answer, my dad chimed in.

“I'm so proud of you, Hank, for going out for the soccer team. It's a great sport. I don't know if I ever told you, but I played it myself as a boy. As a matter of fact, I might even have my shin guards in the storage room in the basement. Want to borrow them?”

I don't know which was worse. The bad-breath tofu on my plate, or the idea of my father's moldy old shin guards on my legs.

“Thanks a lot, Dad, but Coach Gilroy told us to get a special kind of shin guard so we can all have the same kind.”

“Sounds like you're bonding with your coach,” my dad said, “which is very good, because he'll give you a lot of playing time. Coaches are people, and they have their favorites.”

“I might be his favorite, Dad, but my body is not,” I said, trying to let him down easy.

“What are you talking about, Hank? You're fast. I can see you dribbling down that field and kicking those goals.”

“Dad, all I can tell you is that my brain and my feet are not on the same field. My feet want to dribble, but my brain says no.”

“You just have to concentrate, that's all. Focus.”

There was that word again. Focus. Everyone tells me to focus all the time. That word makes me want to throw up. It's not like I don't try to focus. I try. I tell my brain to focus, and it runs the other way. Don't they know how bad it makes me feel that I can't do it?

Papa Pete cleared his throat and came to my defense. Thank goodness for Papa Pete.

“You know, Stan,” he said, “some people are good at one game, other people are good at other games. I for one am good at bowling. Not so good at basketball. Maybe Hank should try his hand at some other games.”

“Pete, that's the problem here,” my dad said, putting his fork down, which he does when he's having a Serious Talk. “Hank starts things and doesn't finish. If he started soccer and signed up for the team, he's made a commitment. He can't let the team down.”

“Dad, exactly how am I helping the team by sitting on the bench, polishing it with my butt?”

“Don't you think you'll get to play, dear?” my mom asked.

“I'm the worst one on my team, Mom. And the coach let me know that loud and clear.”

“But isn't playing soccer supposed to be about exercising and running around in the fresh air?” my mom said. “I think the point of playing a game is to play.”

“If you're Frankie it is. If you're me, it's about setting up the cones. On a good day, I bet I'll get to carry the ball bag onto the field.”

“Practice makes perfect, Hank,” my father said, looking me square in the face. “You keep going to practice and trying your best, and the coach will notice you. Coaches reward effort.”

I wanted to tell him that I sit in Ms. Adolf's class for six hours a day and that's no fun. And then I go to soccer practice and get yelled at and that's no fun. I wanted to tell him that I wasn't having any fun, but my dad was already on to another topic, telling Emily how he was working the crossword puzzle with his left hand to exercise the other side of his brain.

So I didn't say anything. Then I heard something.

The little chunk of tofu that Katherine had flung onto the window had slid down the window and landed with a plop on the floor. Cheerio, our wonderful pet dachshund, jumped into action, ran to the tofu, and lapped it up with glee. Then he let out a happy yip and started chasing his tail in a circle.

Maybe I should be a dachshund. They seem to have a lot of fun.

AFTER DINNER, I SAT on the floor of my room licking those little reinforcement circles and sticking them very, very carefully (did I mention carefully) over the three holes of every piece of loose-leaf paper we had bought for the new school year. While I was doing it, I noticed that my mind kept wandering to the Parade of Athletes. My brain wanted to think about that rather than think about gluing little circles onto little holes. That's understandable. After all, it was a much more interesting topic. My brain knew what it was doing.

I was thinking that maybe at the Parade of Athletes I'd demonstrate toe basketball, a game I made up where I flick my socks into the dirty clothes hamper with my toes. I wonder what Katie Sperling would think of that? Would she think that was cute? Or would she go for a real athlete like Frankie? Toe basketball was definitely a risk.

I confess that, after a while, I got a little bored putting the reinforcements on. I'm not going to sit here and tell you I didn't put a couple on my cheeks and nose and chin. They looked like Native American war paint, only the kind that comes from Staples. I even put a couple on Cheerio's nose, which was cool because his nose was so wet, I didn't have to lick them. They just stuck on easily.

When my tongue got kind of dry, Cheerio helped me out. I'd hold one of the circles in my hand, Cheerio would give it a lick, and I'd put it in place. It's not often that a dachshund can really help get a guy organized for school, and I'll bet Cheerio felt pretty good about it.

There was a knock on the door. I knew it was Papa Pete because he has a special knock that goes
dah-dah-dah-dum
. He says it's the first four notes of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony, which is his favorite symphony of all time. He keeps telling me we have to listen to all of it sometime so I can see what comes after those first four notes.

“I just finished a rousing game of Yahtzee with Emily,” Papa Pete said.

“Wow, how'd you get so lucky, Papa Pete?”

“One fine day, you're going to appreciate your sister.”

“Today is probably not the day.”

“Anyone I know here interested in a pickle snack?” Papa Pete asked.

“What do you say, Cheerio?” I asked him. “Feel like a pickle?”

Cheerio gave me a look. If dogs could talk, he would be saying, “I wouldn't eat a pickle if it were the last thing on earth. But if you happen to have a piece of steak . . .”

“Cheerio's not in the mood, but I'll join you,” I said to Papa Pete.

We headed out to the balcony off our living room, and Papa Pete produced a brown paper bag with two pickles in it. Seriously, I think this was one of my favorite times of the week. Correction. Of the month. We pulled up two folding aluminum beach chairs we keep out there. They look completely out of place on a tenth-floor balcony in the middle of New York City. But Papa Pete and I, we don't care.

It was a warm night, what my mom calls Indian Summer. I don't think that has anything to do with Indians. I think it means that the warm days of summer last longer than they should. The sun was setting, and I craned my neck to peek around the apartment building next door. I could see a little slice of the Hudson River turning magenta in the sunset. Well, a little slice might be too big. It was a tiny sliver. But still, it was our view, and I loved it.

We could hear the traffic ten floors below moving up and down Broadway, people going home from work or out to dinner or just sitting in taxis waiting for the traffic to unsnarl. The cars looked like Matchbox cars from that high up, and the people walking up and down Broadway looked like Lego people. Not exactly like my favorite Lego guy who is the pirate with two swords in his hand, though. You walk up and down Broadway with two swords in your hands and you're going to have a long conversation with the New York City police.

“So what's it going to be?” Papa Pete asked, reaching into his brown bag. “The usual garlic dill—or if you're feeling adventuresome, why not try a sweet gherkin?”

“I'm up for an adventure,” I said. “But, Papa Pete, if I don't like the gherkin, will you trade it for the garlic dill?”

“Of course I will. I never met a pickle I didn't like. The same goes for grandsons.”

Papa Pete handed me a pickle and a napkin that I used to wrap the bottom end of it so it wouldn't squirt pickle juice all over my shorts. I took a bite.

“Trade,” I said, sticking the sweet pickle out toward Papa Pete.

“I give you credit for trying something new,” Papa Pete said, handing me his garlic dill. “You never know unless you try.”

I took a bite of the garlic dill. Oh yeah, now that's what my mouth was looking for. It made my taste buds jump off my tongue and scream, “Hallelujah.”

“So that was some conversation we had at dinner about soccer,” Papa Pete said. “Doesn't sound like you're enjoying yourself.”

“I'll keep at it, I guess,” I said. “Dad wants me to stick with it.”

“Sports are supposed to be fun,” Papa Pete said.

“Not when your coach is hollering at you to do things you can't do.”

“That certainly doesn't sound like much fun to me,” Papa Pete said. “I just joined an indoor Ping-Pong club on Eighty-first and West End. Why don't you come with me sometime and give it a try?”

“Ping-Pong? That's a weird sport.”

“What's weird about it? You hold the paddle. You hit the ball.”

“It's a game old people play in the backyard. In socks and brown leather sandals.”

“Not so fast, Hankie my boy. All kinds of people play. Old and young. Fat and thin. Short and tall. Wide and narrow. Black and white. Beige and red.”

“I get it, Papa Pete.”

“Good. Come with me tomorrow after school.”

“I have soccer practice.”

“Fine, I'll pick you up after practice and we'll walk over.”

“What if I don't like it?”

“Then we'll trade. You'll give me back the Ping-Pong, and I'll give you back your soccer. Just like the pickle.”

“No questions asked?”

“No questions asked.”

Papa Pete took a bite of his pickle, and I took a bite of mine. All you could hear was the crunch, crunch, crunching of us eating our pickles. We were exactly in unison. It was a perfect moment. Until we heard a scratch, scratch, scratching of claws on the glass door that leads to the balcony. We turned around and saw Katherine the Ugly trying to get the door open.

“The lizard wants to join us,” Papa Pete said.

He and I shot each other a look, then turned around and continued munching on our pickles. We were unison on that decision too.

Katherine stays inside, thank you very much.

THE NEXT DAY, I got up in the morning, had some oatmeal with raisins and brown sugar, and went to school.

The main thing I have to say about the fifth grade is that it's just like fourth grade, only harder. The vocabulary words are longer. The math problems are longer. The recesses are shorter.

I'd tell you more about the fifth grade, but if it is so mind-numbing for me, I can just imagine what it would be for you.

So let's just say this chapter is finished.

AFTER SCHOOL I WENT TO soccer practice. I tried kicking. I tried kicking and running at the same time. I tried dribbling the ball around the cones.

I fell down.

I got yelled at by Coach Gilroy.

I got up and I sat on the bench.

I continued to sit on the bench until my butt fell asleep and had dreams of actually being able to play. It never woke up.

Soccer practice was no fun at all.

So let's just say this chapter is finished too.

YOU'D BETTER BELIEVE that after a day like that, I wasn't too thrilled about joining Papa Pete for a visit to his Ping-Pong club. Papa Pete, who always knows what I'm feeling without me having to say it, understood that I was not exactly enthusiastic, so he offered me a bribe to improve my mood.

“What'll it be, Hankie? A root-beer float at McKelty's Roll 'N Bowl, or a hot dog off Amir's cart?”

“How about both?”

“Both is not an option. You have to save room for one of your mother's delicious dinners.”

Papa Pete laughed as we turned the corner onto Broadway. We headed up the block toward where Amir parks his hot-dog cart, dodging the crowds of people coming out of the subway. I was pretty sweaty—not from soccer practice, because bench warming does not work up perspiration, but from hurrying to keep up with Papa Pete. Even though he's sixty-nine years old, Papa Pete keeps up quite a pace. He always says, as long as you're walking, you've got to walk like you're going somewhere.

And we were going somewhere: to Amir's hot-dog cart, which was right past the subway station on 79th and Broadway. Amir waved to us as we came up. I was smiling already, just taking in the smells of those boiling frankfurters mixed with the brown mustard and relish. My mouth started to water like it was Niagara Falls.

“The usual,” Papa Pete said to Amir. “One for me, and one for my grandson here.”

Amir handed me my hot dog first. He knows that I like the regular dog with everything on it but the onions. I took my first bite real slowly, biting down and listening for the snap of the hot-dog skin that releases the wave of flavors into my mouth.
Snap!
There it goes. Hot-dog spices filled my mouth, then the brown mustard with a hint of relish. Man oh man, there is nothing like a snappy mustard-relish dog on the streets of New York City to help you forget a lousy day. I felt sorry for every kid who wasn't eating one. Wait a minute, that's not exactly true: I didn't feel sorry for Nick McKelty, because he's a big, obnoxious tick, but . . .

Wait a minute, Hank. How'd McKelty get in your mind? Get him out of there. He's ruining your hot dog. Oh, yeah . . . that's better
.

I did feel bad for every other kid in the world, minus Nick McKelty, who wasn't enjoying that delicious sidewalk frankfurter.