The World's Greatest Underachiever Is the Ping-Pong Wizard

by Henry Winkler

  Papa Pete leaned across my mum and put his big hand on my knee. “Hankie, there’s Sam Chin warming up with his dad,” he said. “Maybe it’s not too late for you to sign up for the Ping-Pong demonstration.”

  “Papa Pete! Please! Don’t say the P. P. word in public.”

  “What’s wrong with saying Ping-Pong? Hankie, I was just trying to—”

  Before he could finish, he was drowned out by Robert tapping on the microphone.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he repeated. “I’d like to start the festivities with a little joke.”

  No, Robert! Don’t do it! Don’t do it!

  “I’ve selected a joke with a sporting theme,” Robert said.

  “Just do the joke already, idiot!” McKelty yelled from his place on the floor where he was warming up for his football drill.

  “OK, here goes,” Robert said. “Why can’t you play basketball with pigs?”

  “Because they stink, like you!” McKelty yelled. No one laughed but him.

  McKelty’s dad got up from the stands, went over to Nick and had a little heart-to-heart with him.

  Good. It’s time somebody put that jerk in his place.

  “The reason you can’t play basketball with pigs,” Robert said, “is because they HOG the ball.”

  The only person who laughed was my sister Emily. The rest of the people in the gym were dead silent. If I were Robert, I would have run away to Mongolia to live with wild camels and never come back to PS 87. But not Robert. He hung in there.

  “Maybe you didn’t get it,” he said. “I can do it again.”

  “Thank you, that will be quite enough, Robert,” I heard Ms Adolf say.

  Where was she? I didn’t see her anywhere. And then I did.

  Oh, my crazy eyes, tell me I’m not seeing what I’m seeing.

  But I was. There was Ms Adolf, all decked out in her fencing gear. No joke. She had on a jacket that looked like a bulletproof vest (it was grey, of course), a full mask with a mesh face that looked like a screen door, short trousers with buttons at the knees and tights like George Washington always wore in pictures. And she was carrying a long silver sword. She looked like Blackbeard the Pirate. Except she was in grey and didn’t have a beard, so I guess she looked like Grey Bun the Pirate.

  “To begin the festivities, I am about to give a brief display of my advance-and-retreat thrusting technique,” Ms Adolf said through her screen-door mask.

  “You go, girlfriend,” I heard Frankie call out.

  “Without further ado, I will demonstrate the lunge, the thrust and the parry,” she said.

  And without further ado, whatever ado is, she leaped on to the rubber mat that ran alongside the bleachers and started lunging forwards, forwards, forwards – then retreating backwards, backwards, backwards. She looked like a crazed musketeer.

  “Wow,” Papa Pete said. “She’s got some command of the blade. Is she married?”

  “Are you kidding, Papa Pete?” I said, whipping my head in his direction so fast, it nearly took off.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Thank goodness. You scared me for a minute.”

  When she was all thrusted out, Ms Adolf pulled off her mask, held it under her arm and saluted the crowd with her sword. “Thank you, friends of the foil,” she said.

  The audience sat there in silence at first, then Papa Pete started to applaud. Soon, everyone joined in, and Ms Adolf took another bow. As quickly as she was up, she was down – back on the bench reserved for the teachers.

  Before anyone could stop him, Robert grabbed the microphone again. “Maybe I should present another comedy moment,” he suggested.

  “No!” all the kids shouted.

  “All right, then, I’ll save it until after the interval.” Boy, that Robert. He doesn’t take a hint.

  After that, the evening really took off. There was equipment of all kinds spread out over the gym floor: a trampoline, a line of football cones and a goal net, a portable basketball hoop, a pummel horse, and a mat for gymnastics and karate. Two rings and a long rope hung from the ceiling.

  I noticed that a Ping-Pong table had been set up right in the middle of the gym floor. Just looking at it made me itch to play, but I was determined not to. Any Ping-Pong embarrassment was going to be between me and my pals at the Ping-Pong Emporium.

  The Parade of Athletes began. Christopher Hook did backflips, front flips, seat drops and a fantastic double twist on the trampoline. He was terrific for a third-grader. Actually, he was terrific for an any-grader.

  A lot of kids shot baskets. A whole team of girls did a slam-dunk demonstration on one of those toy plastic basketball hoops. The big surprise during the fifth-grade demonstration was Heather Payne, who turned out to be a short, blond, girl-type version of Michael Jordan. I mean, wow, she had a sky hook. Who would’ve guessed that underneath all that perfect penmanship and straight As there was a hoop star waiting to be born.

  Another huge surprise was that Joelle Adwin was able to detach herself from her phone long enough to actually do a gymnastics routine. At least, I think that’s what it was. The official name of what she did is rhythmic gymnastics. It involves a stick with colourful ribbons tied to it and a lot of hopping around on the mat.

  To be totally honest, it didn’t look like a real sport to me. But since I know that’s exactly how a lot of people feel about Ping-Pong, and since I know it is a truly difficult sport, I decided to give Joelle all the credit she deserved. When she twirled her last twirl, I stood up and applauded until my hands tingled. Even McKelty turned round and looked at me like I had lost my mind.

  That’s OK, Mister. You wouldn’t understand us athletes who choose unusual sports.

  “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 that so many kids were good at 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 round 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 bat out of its 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 football demonstration.”

  “My mummy says it’s after the intersomething. I forget the word.”

  “Interval.”

  “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 mum. 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. Frankie and Ashley and the other footballers were kicking the ball round the cones, warming up for the dribbling and kicking and passing demonstrations.

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

  “Let him be, Stan,” my mum whispered.

  I ask you, where would we kids be without mums?

  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.

  OK, serve it up, Sam. Show them how the game is played.

&
nbsp; But Sam just stood there, holding his bat 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. His father went over to him and knelt 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 audience.

  I’ll bet you can guess whose voice it was. You’re right. Who except 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 any more. When he heard McKelty’s nasty remark, he burst into tears, jumped off his box and ran into his mum’s arms like a little duckling swimming to his mummy 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 football demonstration.”

  “Not tonight, you’re not. 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 mum’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 until 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.

  Ashweena, we talked about this. DON’T YOU DARE.

  “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 Ping-Pong in public. And that’s all there was to it.

  After the break, it was football 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 sandpit, I can tell you that.

  When he’d finished, 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 mum in the front row. Sam Chin was still there. He wasn’t exactly buried in his mum’s neck any more, 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 footballer? They’re fast and skilful 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 football 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 round 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 round the row of cones using only his left foot, and he finished off with a perfect aerial 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.”

  Oh, wow. This is big.

  I knew how important it was for Sam to go back on to the floor and play. I’ve 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’d 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 mum, 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 towards the door, where a certain large, snaggle-toothed, bad-breathed bully was still looking in.

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

  The crowd grew quiet as he picked up a bat and went to his side of the tab
le 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.

  Ping!

  “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 bat to block it.

  Pong!

  “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.

  Ping!

  “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 round 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 mum 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 mum said.

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