Ping. Fast serve coming down my throat. I duck.
Pong. I stick my bat out and pray. The ball hits my bat, clears the net, but goes long and bounces off the table next to us.
Ping. Another serve, spinning towards me in mid-air.
Pong. Oh yeah, I return it, smack down the middle.
Ping. Sammy smashes a looping ball at me.
Pong. My bat 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 ricochetting off the edge of my bat.
I’ve got to figure this out. Concentration. Control. Confidence. Here it comes. You can hit! No you can’t – you’ve just hit it into the net.
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 bat up to block the ball. Miss.
Ping. Another curveball coming straight at me.
Pong. Got my bat 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.
Look at you, Hank. Weeks ago you didn’t even know how to hold your bat. And now you’re holding your own.
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 practise all the time. As a matter of fact, I looked forward to it. It was making me feel great.
Ping. Pong. Ping. Pong. Ping. Pong. Ping. Pong.
Look at me, world.
I’m pinging and ponging!
“Where have you been, man? It’s like you’ve disappeared,” Frankie said when he called me on the phone before dinner on Thursday night.
“Here and there.”
“Don’t ‘here and there’ me, man. Something’s up. You’ve been missing football 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 a complete lie that I had to go and talk to my dad. He had dropped a bomb that Coach Gilroy had called to “discuss” my attendance at practise, 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 type of 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’d hung up the phone and gone 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 football 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 football team without discussing it with your family.”
Why can’t I pick my own sport without discussing it with the whole family? I mean, Katherine is a member of our family. Is that beady-eyed reptile supposed to tell me how to spend my sporting time?
“Second,” my dad went on, “you have been irresponsible to Coach Gilroy and your teammates in not letting them know your plans.”
Irresponsible? Coach Gilroy is so glad not to have me anywhere near his field, he’s probably been jumping up and down so much that his boots have got stuck in the grass. I bet the only way he can get off the field is to untie his shoes and leave them there.
“Third, while Ping-Pong is a nice back garden pastime, I certainly don’t consider it a sport. It doesn’t command the respect of the athletic community.”
It commands my respect. Isn’t that what matters?
“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 football another try.” I was talking really softly again.
“The thought had 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 football skills. That sounds like fun.”
Fun? Getting up in front of the whole school and making a fool of myself? Wow, that does sound 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’ve already missed the sign-ups.”
“That’s too bad,” he said.
I don’t think so. I couldn’t have been more relieved.
I was quiet all through dinner. Emily was chattering about how she’d got 100 per cent on both her spelling test and her geography quiz.
“Hank, why are
n’t you participating in the family conversation?” my mum asked, noticing my silence.
“Fine.” I turned to Emily. “Don’t you ever get anything but one hundred per cents?”
“Sure, I do,” Emily answered. “I got one hundred and ten per cent on my maths 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 into 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 sofa 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 round 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 van, 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, I’m rehearsing.”
“He’s auditioning for the part of 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 practising being the master of ceremonies.”
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.”
“This I have to see,” I said, hurling myself across the room to the sofa and landing half on the arm and half on the pillow – which, I might add, didn’t feel too good on the old butt 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 sofa 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 football match?”
“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 of the door and down the hall towards the lift. As he walked, we could hear him repeating those words, over and over again, 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 DJ – 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 into the lift. Then we burst out laughing.
“Do we want to talk about what just happened?” Ashley asked.
“There are no words that come to 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 round 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 in the playground 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 time I checked, you’re not my aunt Eleanor. I’m sure a bat 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 snaggle-toothed idiot,” Ashley agreed.
“I hear he’s doing some really cool football 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 football,” 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 favour, 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 ca
n 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 difficulties, I’m not exactly fast in the homework department. Or in any department involving books, paper, pencils, rubbers, words, letters, or numbers. I could go on, but I think you get the idea.
We left the clubhouse and hurried to the lift.
“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 for more than thirty-one days.”
“Hard to say, Ash,” I answered. “But I’m counting on you.”
The lift door opened, and my mum 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 lino 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 mum 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 favourite 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 mum and dad, not warming up, and not wearing athletic clothes.
Wait. I do have my Mets sweatshirt on. I wonder if that counts?
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.
The World's Greatest Underachiever Is the Ping-Pong Wizard Page 7