The Secret Life of a Ping-Pong Wizard (9 page)

“Better out than in,” Papa Pete said. “Let it rip.”

“I haven't even told Frankie or Ashley that I'm playing Ping-Pong,” I said. “I was going to, but now I don't want to.”

“Because you're ashamed?”

“Well, I kind of hinted around to Frankie that I was thinking of taking it up.”

“And?”

“And he compared it to his aunt Eleanor playing shuffleboard.”

“Frankie's your friend, Hankie. He'll learn to respect what you choose to do.”

“There's something else. I keep thinking that if I tell Ashley and Frankie, then they'll want to play, too.”

“And that wouldn't be fun?”

“It's just that they're both such good athletes. They'd pick up a paddle and be great and leave me in the dust. I'd like something that I'm good at all by myself.”

Papa Pete nodded but didn't say anything.

“Does it make me a terrible person for thinking these things?”

“No, it just makes you a person.”

“So would it be all right to keep my secret Ping-Pong life a secret for a while?”

“That's up to you, Hankie. My lips are sealed.”

By then, we had reached the Ping-Pong Emporium. Papa Pete held the door open for me. As I went inside, I was hit by a chorus of “Hi, Hank.” There they all were: Winston Chin, Sammy Chin, Maurice, and Niko, the guy in the wheelchair. They'd all remembered my name.

And not only that, they were asking if I wanted to play. They weren't telling me to take a knee and put on my game face and sit on the bench or wait my turn or set up the cones. They were just asking me to play.

I waved to them all, got out my paddle, and joined a rally going on at one of the tables.

Wow, suddenly I knew why everybody loves to play sports.

It's fun.

FOR THE NEXT WEEK AND A HALF, Papa Pete picked me up every day after school and we raced directly to the Ping-Pong Emporium. Okay, the truth is, we didn't race directly there, we stopped first at Harvey's to get a slice of pizza. But understand, this wasn't just your regular social slice of pizza. We were fueling up for a workout. When you play Ping-Pong, you need energy and focus and reflexes. It just so happens that pizza gives you all those things. And it tastes great, too.

As each day passed, I got better and better. I didn't notice it at first. I was just trying to hit the ball back and forth and feel like one of the guys. I played with Papa Pete and Sammy Chin. They were both so patient when I kept hitting the ball off the table. Everyone taught me something different. Mr. Chin, who said I could call him Winston, showed me footwork so I didn't keep getting my feet tangled up in a knot. And we worked on the Three Cs—concentration, control, and confidence. Maurice showed me how to hold the ball when you serve so your opponent can't see it coming. Niko taught me how to watch the ball so you can predict where it's going before it even gets there. He had to learn that early on since he plays from a wheelchair.

One day, and I can't tell you if it was the seventh or eighth day after I'd started playing, I suddenly realized that I was getting the rhythm of the game. I could just feel it. Ping-Pong is all about rhythm.

Ping.
Winston Chin hits the ball to me.
Pong.
It whizzes by my ear.

Ping.
He hits it again.
Pong.
I go for it, but all I see is air.

Ping.
Another ball whizzing toward me.

Pong.
I get a paddle on it but hit it into the net.

Ping.
Fast serve coming down my throat. I duck.

Pong.
I stick my paddle out and pray. The ball hits my paddle, clears the net, but goes long and bounces off the table next to us.

Ping.
Another serve, spinning toward me in mid-air.

Pong.
Oh yeah, I return it, smack down the middle.

Ping.
Sammy smashes a looping ball at me.

Pong.
My paddle and hand are in the right place at the right time. I hit a solid return. A thrill goes through me.

I had to learn different shots, and trust me, they're more complicated than they look. There's sidespin, topspin, backspin, the slam, the kill, the push, the loop. Papa Pete is the master of the topspin. When he hits it, the ball looks like it's going in five different directions. When I try to return them, they keep ricocheting off the edge of my paddle.

I don't always keep trying at things that are hard for me. Sometimes I give up. But I was loving Ping-Pong and I was determined to keep going until I got it.

Ping.
Papa Pete serves it up.

Pong.
I get my paddle up to block the ball. Miss.

Ping.
Another curveball coming straight at me.

Pong.
Got my paddle on it. Not a great shot, but it goes over the net.

Ping.
Here comes a killer serve. I didn't even see it coming.

Pong!
I lunge for it. Got it! Unbelievable! I return that serve.

I'm sweating, moving my feet like lightning. I bounce from foot to foot, shifting my weight so that no matter what direction the ball takes, I'll be there.

For weeks, I played full-out, heads-up, total-body Ping-Pong for two hours every day. It really took a lot of concentration. I never knew I had so much concentration. It's amazing what your brain can do when you put your mind to it.

It was for real, too. I'm sure the guys at the club weren't giving me a break. I was becoming a player. One of them.

I didn't mind that I had to practice all the time. As a matter of fact, I looked forward to it. It was making me feel great.

“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN, MAN? It's like you've disappeared,” Frankie said when he called me on the phone before dinner Thursday night.

“Here and there.”

“Don't ‘here and there' me, man. Something's up. You've been missing soccer practice. You didn't sign up for the Parade of Athletes. You're not at home when I call. What's going on?”

“I can't tell you,” I said.

“You can't tell me? When was the last time there was anything we couldn't tell each other?”

“I want to tell you, Frankie, but I can't right now. I . . . I . . . I . . . have to go talk to my dad.”

“Zip, be in the clubhouse after dinner. We're having a meeting.”

It wasn't entirely a lie that I had to go talk to my dad. He had dropped a bomb that Coach Gilroy had called to “discuss” my attendance at practice, and now my dad wanted to “discuss” the phone call with me. When grown-ups say they want to discuss something, it never means that they want to discuss something fun, like the Mets' batting order or what flavor birthday cake you want. In my house,
discuss
means trouble is right behind.

“Sit down, Hank, I want to have a discussion,” my dad said after I hung up the phone and went into the living room. “The coach called to see if you're feeling better. He thought you were sick.”

“I'm not sick.”

“Apparently you haven't been attending practice on a regular basis.”

“Yeah, Dad, I've been meaning to discuss that with you.”

“I'm right here, Hank. Discuss away.”

“Well, the greatest thing has happened, Dad. I've found a new sport, and I think I'm going to be good at it.”

“Wait, now you're going to play two sports?”

“Not exactly, Dad. You know how you always say that if you want to be really good at something, you have to concentrate on it? See, I've taken those words very seriously. Very, very seriously.”

“And exactly what is this ‘it' you're concentrating on?”

“Ping-Pong.” I must have said it softly, which I do when I'm not sure I want to be saying something at all. In fact, I said the words so softly, I'm not sure I could even hear them myself.

“I don't think I heard you correctly,” my dad said.

I cleared my throat, clenched my fist, and shouted out the truth.

“Ping-Pong. I've been playing Ping-Pong at Papa Pete's club, and Dad, I really think I'm getting good at it.”

“And did it ever occur to you that you have a responsibility to Coach Gilroy and your soccer team? That you're letting them down?”

“Not exactly, Dad. The bench is doing just fine without my butt on it.”

“I'm disappointed in you, Hank.”

There it was. The awful
D
word. But why? Why would he be disappointed? I didn't have to wait long to find out.

“My disappointment has several facets to it,” my dad began.

Oh boy, he isn't just regular disappointed. He's several-faceted disappointed. This isn't looking good
.

“First of all, you have essentially quit the soccer team without discussing it with your family.”

“Second,” my dad went on, “you have been irresponsible to Coach Gilroy and your team-mates in not letting them know your plans.”

“Third, while Ping-Pong is a nice backyard pastime, I certainly don't consider it a sport. It doesn't command the respect of the athletic community.”

“So, Hank, what do you have to say for yourself?” my dad asked.

“I just thought I was having a wonderful time doing something fun,” I said. “I didn't know it would make you so upset.”

“Well, now you know. That's what discussions are for.”

There was a long silence. It was obvious that my dad was waiting for me to say something.

“I'm waiting,” he said. As if I hadn't noticed.

“I guess you want me to give soccer another try.” I was talking really softly again.

“The thought has occurred to me. And I know that decision will make you feel good about yourself.”

Which self is that? Whatever self it is, I've certainly never met it
.

“Your sister mentioned that tomorrow night is the Parade of Athletes at school,” my dad said. “I understand some of your friends are preparing to demonstrate their soccer skills. That sounds like fun.”

“I'd like you to join in, Hank.”

What I was thinking was—
he's my father, and I'm his son. How can our feelings about the same subject be so far apart?

But what I said was, “I can't, Dad. I already missed the sign-ups.”

“That's too bad,” he said.

I WAS QUIET ALL THROUGH DINNER. Emily was chattering about how she got 100 percent on both her spelling test and her geography quiz.

“Hank, why aren't you participating in the family conversation?” my mom asked, noticing my silence.

“Fine,” I said, and turned to Emily. “Don't you ever get anything but one hundred percents?”

“Sure, I do,” Emily answered. “I got one hundred and ten percent on my math test. Extra credit for the bonus problem.”

That was a conversation ender if ever I heard one. I shoved another bite of my tofurkey taco in my mouth.

After dinner, I went down to the clubhouse to meet Frankie and Ashley. Our clubhouse is in a storage room in the basement, and it's a place where we can talk and be alone.

When I walked in, Frankie and Ashley were sitting on the old couch we keep there. Before I could say a word, they both pointed to something behind the door.

“Beware! We are not alone,” Ashley said.

I peeked around the door to find Robert Upchurch standing there, all dressed up in a baby blue tuxedo. He looked like one of those skinny blue Popsicles you get from the ice-cream truck, only with a ruffled shirt and a bow tie.

“Don't tell me, Robert. It's Halloween, and you're trying on your Dork Man costume,” I said.

“For your information, Hank, I'm rehearsing.”

“He's trying out to be the little man on top of a wedding cake,” Frankie said. We all cracked up.

“Very funny.” Robert snorted with his goofy laugh that sounds like a hyena with a cold. “Actually, I am practicing to be an emcee.”

Emily walked into the clubhouse, uninvited as usual.

“Robert has been selected as the master of ceremonies for the Parade of Athletes,” she said.

“Selected!” Frankie laughed. “Nobody else applied for the job.”

“Robert, just do your routine,” Ashley said.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “I thought we were having a meeting.”

“The meeting has been postponed,” Ashley said. “Robert needs to try out his opening remarks for tomorrow night on us.”