The Secret Life of a Ping-Pong Wizard

by Henry Winkler

  Mr. Rock said Coach Gilroy would be wearing a green and white jersey. I looked around the field and spotted him talking to a few of the dads.

  I knew I was in trouble the minute I saw him. Coach Gilroy was a huge, muscular guy who was standing with his foot on one ball, and had three other balls tucked under his arm. He was a four-soccer-ball coach. All the other coaches on the field were holding just one. And listen to this: His soccer shorts were ironed with a crease down each leg. Who irons soccer shorts? Only a guy who’s crazy-serious about his soccer, that’s who.

  Oh boy, Hank. Get your game face on. Yeah, I would if I knew where it was.

  I have this thing about sports balls. They cause me lots and lots of problems. Except bowling balls. My grandfather, Papa Pete, is a champion bowler and he taught me his technique. On a good day, I can bowl two strikes in a row, which makes me feel unbelievably good. But other balls of the non-bowling type are really tricky. Last year, with a lot of help from Frankie and Papa Pete, I learned to pitch a softball. But that’s all I can do. I mean, I can’t field or hit or do any other softball-type stuff.

  See, I love sports. I’m just not good at them. In my sessions with Dr. Berger, she has explained that a lot of kids with learning differences don’t have good hand-eye coordination. That means that my eyes and my hands, or in this case my feet, are not talking to each other. Or if they are talking, they’re not listening to each other very well.

  “All right, players, take a knee,” Coach Gilroy said in a big voice that sounded like Darth Vader’s. He had come over and gathered up about twenty of us guys. As we huddled together, I smelled something rotten, like a fish with bad breath.

  Wait a minute. I know that smell. It’s McKelty breath!

  I looked around and, sure enough, there was Nick McKelty, taking a knee right next to me. First I had to get him in my class. And now he was on my soccer team. That was way too much McKelty time for me!

  There was nothing to do about it, so I settled down on one knee and tried to look like I was comfortable in that position. All I kept thinking about was why you had to be on one knee. Wouldn’t it be so much more comfortable to sit on your rump, which has built-in cushions? I guess it’s because “All right, players, take a rump,” doesn’t sound very sporty.

  “This is no-cut soccer,” Coach Gilroy began, “so as of now, all you men are on the team. You’re the Green Hornets. What are you?”

  “Green Hornets!” everyone shouted. His son Patrick, a tall kid with bright blond hair, was shouting the loudest.

  “I can’t hear you,” Coach Gilroy shouted back.

  “Green Hornets!” we shouted even louder.

  “What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?”

  “Green Hornets!” I shouted so loud, I thought my tonsils were going to fly out of my throat.

  “That’s more like it, men,” Coach Gilroy said. “Now listen up and listen good. What we’re going to do at tryouts is assess your skill level so I know how to play you. I’ll be watching each of you very carefully.”

  I am not liking the sound of this. Truth time: I am hating the sound of this.

  “Take a look around,” the coach said. “See the red and black team? They’re the Avengers. The gold and blue team? They’re the Earthquakes. The orange and white team? They’re the Thunder Clouds. We’re here for one purpose and one purpose only: to beat them all. Are you with me?”

  We all said yes.

  “That was a wimpy yes, men.”

  “Yes, sir,” we all shouted. Patrick was shouting so loud, his face was purple.

  Wow, this Coach Gilroy was one tough guy. I wondered what it was like living at his house. Patrick probably has to do push-ups before dinner, march in a straight line to bed and, before he falls asleep, shout good night in a really loud, manly voice.

  Coach Gilroy pointed at Frankie. “You, what’s your name?”

  “Frankie Townsend.”

  “Are you with me, Frankie Townsend?”

  “I’m with ya all the way,” Frankie answered. Oh man, that Frankie. He even sounded like an athlete.

  “You,” Coach Gilroy said, pointing his big, fleshy finger at me. “What’s your name?”

  “Hank Zipzer,” I said. “With a Z. Actually with two Zs.”

  “This isn’t a spelling contest, Zipzer. I’m here to know if you’re with me. Now, are you?”

  “Coach, if I were any more with you, I’d be attached to your shoe.”

  The other guys on the team started to laugh. I could hear Nick McKelty laughing louder than the rest, like a hippo snorting.

  “There’s always one,” Coach Gilroy said. “The funny guy. Okay, funny guy, let’s see if you dribble as well as you joke. On your feet.”

  Before I could even stand up, he passed me the ball his left foot was resting on. It hit me on the outside of the ankle, which isn’t exactly the first move you want to show your coach.

  I looked down at that ball and desperately tried to make friends.

  Come on, please, Mr. Ball. Just this once. Stick close to my foot.

  There was a line of orange cones set up in front of us.

  “All right, let me see you dribble that ball around each cone. Keep it sharp. Go!”

  I froze. It was as though he had said “Stand still and don’t move a muscle.” If he had only said that, I would have been perfect. I stood there like one of the bronze statues in the park.

  “Zip,” I heard Frankie say. “Breathe. Oxygen is power.”

  I took a deep breath.

  “Good, now dribble.”

  “Okay, Zipzer with a Z, what are you waiting for? The grass to grow?”

  I took off, keeping the ball close to my feet by tapping it ever so lightly, first with one foot, then the other. I wanted to control the ball. The last thing I wanted was for the ball to take off without me.

  Good, Hank. You’re around the first cone. Okay, this isn’t going so badly. Just slowly.

  I was proud of myself. Apparently, Coach Gilroy wasn’t.

  “Could you go any slower, funny guy? The polar ice cap could melt by the time you’ve gotten around two cones.”

  The team laughed. I could hear McKelty laughing the loudest, naturally.

  Don’t look up, Hank. And don’t listen. You need to concentrate. One foot, then the other. One cone, then the next. Focus. Concentrate.

  All of a sudden I heard the blast of a whistle from somewhere across the field. Before I could stop my head, it had turned almost by itself, following the sound of the whistle. My feet, however, were moving in the opposite direction. Bam! I tripped over the ball, fell on the cone, and landed facedown in the grass. I was eye to eye with a line of ants carrying a leaf to their anthill. I wished I could join them. Carrying is something I can do.

  “You’ve got to learn to focus, Zipzer,” Coach Gilroy said.

  “If I could, I would, sir,” I said.

  “Are you being a smart aleck?”

  “No, sir. Focusing is one of my problems.”

  “Well, you’d better fix that if you want any playing time on this team,” he said. “Now get over yourself, and get to the back of the line.”

  I was never so relieved to go to the back of the line. It was safe there.

  “Who thinks he can show Zipzer how it’s done?”

  Of course, one hand shot up in the air. It was Nick McKelty’s.

  “What’s your name?” Coach Gilroy asked him.

  “Nick McKelty,” he said. “But you can call me Striker. See this foot? It only knows how to kick goals.”

  “You’ve got a lot of confidence, McKelty.”

  “You would, too, if you were trained by the uncle of the first cousin of Brazil’s soccer team’s cook. I got connections, big-time.”

  “Good for you,” Coach Gilroy said. “Let’s see if you can connect your foot to the ball.”

  Nick the Tick placed the ball in between his size-twelve feet. He kicked the ball and took off toward the first cone, but instead of
going around it, he knocked it down like a bowling pin.

  “The object is to go around the cones, McKelty, not through them,” Coach Gilroy shouted.

  McKelty was as graceful as an elephant on ice skates. He knocked down every single cone, his big, floppy feet kicking up clumps of grass and mud as he went down the line. It was ugly. But, as usual, McKelty was proud of himself. The guy has no idea what a clodhopper he is.

  “How’d you like that, Coach?” he grinned when he was finally finished.

  “I didn’t,” Coach Gilroy said. “What do I have here? All the rejects from the girls’ team?”

  That was a nasty remark. I thought of Ashley and what a great soccer player she was. Coach Gilroy should only be so lucky to get a girl player like Ashley.

  “Is there anyone who can handle a ball?” I heard him say.

  Matthew Barbarosa raised his hand. “I volunteer Frankie Townsend,” he said. “He’s good at everything in and out of the classroom.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” Coach Gilroy said. “Hey, Zipzer, set up the cones so Townsend can take a try.”

  Set up the cones? Oh yeah, now there’s something I can do. And I can do it fast too.

  Frankie got up and bent over to touch his toes, which is all he needs to do to warm up. Coach Gilroy tossed him a ball, which Frankie caught on his knee and let drop in between his feet. With almost no effort at all, he dribbled the ball in and out of the orange cones, making sharp little turns and keeping low to the ground. When he reached the last cone, he turned the ball around and came back down the line, taking half as much time to do both as I did to complete one.

  Everyone applauded. Even Ashley’s mom, Dr. Wong, had looked up from her reading to watch Frankie. He was something to see.

  Coach Gilroy nodded his head and wrote something down on his clipboard. It probably said something like, “That Townsend kid is great.”

  I wonder what he wrote about me on his clipboard. Probably something like, “That Zipzer kid is great at setting up cones.”

  Which, when I think about it, is pretty much my best soccer skill.

  For the rest of the practice, Coach Gilroy gave us a long motivational speech about how we were no longer individuals but part of a winning team. And he must have pointed out at least six times that there is no “I” in “team.”

  As for me, I was trying to concentrate on what he was saying, but other things just kept rolling around in my mind.

  CHAPTER 8

  TEN THINGS THAT ROLL AROUND IN YOUR MIND WHEN YOUR COACH IS MAKING A MOTIVATIONAL SPEECH

  1. I wonder what’s for dinner. Whatever it is, I hope it involves French fries.

  2. If French fries could talk, would they have a French accent?

  3. If I had two tongues, would I still be able to whistle?

  4. I wonder if red ants are really red, or are they just sunburned?

  5. What would people look like if they had ankles where their knees are and knees where their ankles are?

  6. What’s the point of hair growing in your nose? Is it supposed to keep the inside of your nose warm?

  7. Will they ever change the name of New York City to Old York City? I mean, it’s not really so new anymore.

  8. If pickles were blue, would I still like to eat them?

  9. What if balls were square, would they still—“Zipzer, did you hear anything I said?”

  “Oh yes, Coach Gilroy. Every word. And it is so interesting.”

  CHAPTER 9

  WHEN YOU’VE HAD A BAD DAY at school, followed by a bad day at soccer tryouts, I think you should at least be able to come home and enjoy a great dinner. Say, a juicy burger, some crispy fries drenched in ketchup, maybe a big frothy chocolate milkshake. Finish with a dessert that leaves whipped cream all over your face—like banana cream pie or black cherry Jell-O. Yeah, that’s a great bandage on a bad day.

  In my house, there is no such thing as a hamburger and fries dinner. My mom runs the Crunchy Pickle deli, which when Papa Pete ran it served great food. But when my mom took it over, she promised to bring deli meats into what she calls “the realm of healthy eating.” So in my house, we have healthy dinners that alternate between the realms of taste-free and taste-bad.

  “Come to the table, everyone,” my mom called that night. “Dinner’s ready.”

  I leaped like a gazelle out of my desk chair, down the hall, across the living room, and into my dining room chair. My mom was just coming out of the kitchen carrying a platter that was steaming.

  “Hope you don’t mind being guinea pigs,” she said. “It’s a new recipe.”

  A new recipe? Oh, boy. She hasn’t even gotten the old ones right yet.

  Even though I tried to keep a straight face, my dad must have seen my nose twitch because he shot me one of his Stern Dad looks.

  “Hank, your mother is being adventuresome,” he said. “Replace that smirk with a smile.”

  Sure, that’s easy for him to say. He wasn’t counting on dinner to be the highlight of a very, very bad day. And besides, we all know that he keeps a stash of Baby Ruths in his nightstand to make up for adventuresome dinners.

  “What have you cooked up, my darling daughter?” Papa Pete asked. My grandpa was there for dinner, which is a good thing because he’s a very fun guy.

  “Maybe it’s better if we don’t know,” I said. My dad shot me another look.

  “Hank, you have to learn to be supportive of other people’s creativity,” Emily said in her Miss Know It All voice, which by the way, is her only voice. My mom did look pretty excited to present her new dish, and I decided to put on my most positive attitude.

  “Okay, Mom, tell us all about it,” I said. “Spare no details.”

  “This is a festival of tofu,” my mom said, gesturing to the plate that was filled with a beige, watery mess. “I’ve done three different preparations, including braised tofu with curried mango, shredded tofu with strained prunes, and steamed tofu in its natural juices.”

  Let me just say right now for the record, its natural juices smelled like McKelty’s bad breath.

  “So Emily, since you’re so supportive of creativity, let’s see you take the first helping.” I gave her a big smile and passed the platter to her.

  “Oh, I just remembered,” she stammered. “I had a big snack at Robert’s house before dinner, and wow, am I full.”

  “Maybe Katherine would like some,” my mom said. “She always enjoys my cooking.”

  Katherine, the queen of the pet iguanas, usually sits on Emily’s shoulder during our family dinners because my sister can’t stand to be apart from reptiles for even a second.

  My mom put a helping of the steamed tofu in its natural juices on Emily’s plate. Katherine’s long, grey tongue shot out of her mouth and snatched up a chunk of it. I thought she was going to swallow it, but suddenly, she flicked her tongue sideways and shot the tofu chunk against the window behind me. It stuck like it had suction cups.

  I glanced over at Papa Pete and saw him biting his lower lip, the one that you can barely see because of his bushy mustache. He always does that when he wants to laugh but isn’t supposed to.

  “Emily, you know we don’t tolerate throwing food at the table,” my dad said. “Would you please remove the lizard and take her back to your room.”

  “She has a name, Dad, and you know it very well,” Emily said.

  “Yeah, Dad,” I chimed in. “It’s Big Kathy, the food slinger.”

  I could see Emily starting to get steaming mad. In fact, she looked like the steaming tofu, with smoke coming out of her ears.

  “Everyone, settle down,” my mom said. “No one has even tried the tofu yet. Give it a chance.”

  She dished up a big glob of it to all of us. Papa Pete took the first bite because he’s brave and he’s nice too. He tried the shredded tofu with strained prunes. He rolled it around in his mouth for a while, then took a big gulp of water to help it slide as quickly as possible down his throat.

  “That is so
mething my mouth has never experienced before,” he said. “And it was quite an experience. Yes, it was.”

  The rest of the family dug in. I put a chunk of tofu on my fork, but I didn’t have the guts to pop it in my mouth. Papa Pete caught my eye. “Just push it around on the plate,” he whispered. “I brought your favorite snack for later.”

  I knew exactly what it was. A giant, crunchy dill pickle.

  “So, Hank, tell us all how soccer tryouts went,” my mom said as she chomped down on a big bite of her braised tofu with curried mango. There’s nothing she loves better than having a family dinner with lots of conversation. I have never understood why sitting around a table talking is so much fun for adults, but I know it is.

  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?