GAMES PEOPLE PLAY
SW Missouri 1956
Sitting atop a hill in a small sleepy village in the Ozark sat a two story brick house. Here lived the family that would have the greatest influence on my awakening to the cultural side of life.
Not bright, I was lucky to have three friends that were way mucho smarter. A bond between the four of us that would span a lifetime.
My days were filled with knowledge by association.
My family was poor, and I was acutely aware of our economic disadvantage, resulting in my being an introvert during high school days.
The domicile that housed my friend was the center of a new world, as my friend’s mother shared her knowledge, culture, history, and life lessons. She was a German lady who had married an American Army Major.
Her expressed memories opened doors to occurrences: opera (Turandot), classical (Mahler), games, hobbies, foods, subjects that I had never before encountered. She was a fountain of information spilling knowledge over the lip of the basin. I was a sponge and soaked it up.
Most houses in the community had a basement. This house had a basement. In this basement was a ping pong table.
Many hours were spent here enjoying the physicality and mental challenge the small, white celluloid sphere introduced to me. Paddle and ball with a shaker of cognizance .
He was good. Damn good.
It became my passion to defeat him on his home turf and pin on myself a small smattering of pride and respect.
Never happened.
I did win one game in the years we played. But, it was appallingly obvious that he had thrown the game. He knew it. I knew it.
Fast forward 44 years.
CHINA
2006. ZHANJIANG.
Regardless, being second best wasn’t all that bad. I was never as good as he, but my game improved considerably.
All those agonizing defeats, sleepless nights, irreparable damage to my self esteem, destruction to my confidence, ego and will power, had to be assuaged on a daily basis have at last begun to serve me.
I live in a twenty-two story (I am on the twenty second floor) building and each floor has a table for the tenants. Tables are everywhere.
Now that I reside in the land of Ping Pong, my years of apprenticeship under my high school friend are paying handsome dividends! I have an exceptional forehand and a more than adequate backhand. My “slams” are accurate about 70% of the time. Surprisingly, my reflexes and agility for someone afflicted with old age, suffice. Remember, I haven’ played a game of table tennis in, perhaps, forty-five years.
For the most part, I’m playing teenagers in the fifteen to seventeen age group (boys) and as of this writing, I remain unbeaten. I deign to play women and children.
These guys are shocked. It’s their (unofficial) National Sport and I intimidate, dominate and decimate them! My victories are total and complete. There is no margin for error on their part. I give no quarter. I am opportunistic, calculating, calm, cool and devastating. Attack! Attack! Nearly everyone of my returns is a slam. There is no passivity in my game. Too, I think, compounding their profound consternation is the fact that I am left handed. They seem to over look this fact and invariably serve or volley to my forehand which is where their returns go to die! They can’t handle my powerful serves. My forehand (awesome) and backhand (incomparable) returns are the stuff that Champions are made of… I am the MAN.
What fun. These guys sing my praise to anyone that will listen. I’m a hero! (In this building, at least) After decades of languishing in anonymity, I have at last, burst upon the scene to fulfill my rightful destiny and ascend to the lofty, self proclaimed position of “The King of Pong!” Ha!
Hark, is that a heralded Angel I hear? But, alack and alas, all good things must end. After about an hour, I’m suckin’ air babe! I can’t get enough H2o in the pipes. Probably, I ought not to drink more than one or two of the 22 ounce beers before I begin the games? My opponents probably don’t appreciate all the belches and farts.