The Secret Life of a Ping-Pong Wizard

by Henry Winkler

  Papa Pete cleared his throat and came to my defense. Thank goodness for Papa Pete.

  “You know, Stan,” he said, “some people are good at one game, other people are good at other games. I for one am good at bowling. Not so good at basketball. Maybe Hank should try his hand at some other games.”

  “Pete, that’s the problem here,” my dad said, putting his fork down, which he does when he’s having a Serious Talk. “Hank starts things and doesn’t finish. If he started soccer and signed up for the team, he’s made a commitment. He can’t let the team down.”

  “Dad, exactly how am I helping the team by sitting on the bench, polishing it with my butt?”

  “Don’t you think you’ll get to play, dear?” my mom asked.

  “I’m the worst one on my team, Mom. And the coach let me know that loud and clear.”

  “But isn’t playing soccer supposed to be about exercising and running around in the fresh air?” my mom said. “I think the point of playing a game is to play.”

  “If you’re Frankie it is. If you’re me, it’s about setting up the cones. On a good day, I bet I’ll get to carry the ball bag onto the field.”

  “Practice makes perfect, Hank,” my father said, looking me square in the face. “You keep going to practice and trying your best, and the coach will notice you. Coaches reward effort.”

  I wanted to tell him that I sit in Ms. Adolf’s class for six hours a day and that’s no fun. And then I go to soccer practice and get yelled at and that’s no fun. I wanted to tell him that I wasn’t having any fun, but my dad was already on to another topic, telling Emily how he was working the crossword puzzle with his left hand to exercise the other side of his brain.

  So I didn’t say anything. Then I heard something.

  Plop.

  The little chunk of tofu that Katherine had flung onto the window had slid down the window and landed with a plop on the floor. Cheerio, our wonderful pet dachshund, jumped into action, ran to the tofu, and lapped it up with glee. Then he let out a happy yip and started chasing his tail in a circle.

  Maybe I should be a dachshund. They seem to have a lot of fun.

  CHAPTER 10

  AFTER DINNER, I SAT on the floor of my room licking those little reinforcement circles and sticking them very, very carefully (did I mention carefully) over the three holes of every piece of loose-leaf paper we had bought for the new school year. While I was doing it, I noticed that my mind kept wandering to the Parade of Athletes. My brain wanted to think about that rather than think about gluing little circles onto little holes. That’s understandable. After all, it was a much more interesting topic. My brain knew what it was doing.

  I was thinking that maybe at the Parade of Athletes I’d demonstrate toe basketball, a game I made up where I flick my socks into the dirty clothes hamper with my toes. I wonder what Katie Sperling would think of that? Would she think that was cute? Or would she go for a real athlete like Frankie? Toe basketball was definitely a risk.

  I confess that, after a while, I got a little bored putting the reinforcements on. I’m not going to sit here and tell you I didn’t put a couple on my cheeks and nose and chin. They looked like Native American war paint, only the kind that comes from Staples. I even put a couple on Cheerio’s nose, which was cool because his nose was so wet, I didn’t have to lick them. They just stuck on easily.

  When my tongue got kind of dry, Cheerio helped me out. I’d hold one of the circles in my hand, Cheerio would give it a lick, and I’d put it in place. It’s not often that a dachshund can really help get a guy organized for school, and I’ll bet Cheerio felt pretty good about it.

  There was a knock on the door. I knew it was Papa Pete because he has a special knock that goes dah-dah-dah-dum. He says it’s the first four notes of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, which is his favorite symphony of all time. He keeps telling me we have to listen to all of it sometime so I can see what comes after those first four notes.

  “I just finished a rousing game of Yahtzee with Emily,” Papa Pete said.

  “Wow, how’d you get so lucky, Papa Pete?”

  “One fine day, you’re going to appreciate your sister.”

  “Today is probably not the day.”

  “Anyone I know here interested in a pickle snack?” Papa Pete asked.

  “What do you say, Cheerio?” I asked him. “Feel like a pickle?”

  Cheerio gave me a look. If dogs could talk, he would be saying, “I wouldn’t eat a pickle if it were the last thing on earth. But if you happen to have a piece of steak . . .”

  “Cheerio’s not in the mood, but I’ll join you,” I said to Papa Pete.

  We headed out to the balcony off our living room, and Papa Pete produced a brown paper bag with two pickles in it. Seriously, I think this was one of my favorite times of the week. Correction. Of the month. We pulled up two folding aluminum beach chairs we keep out there. They look completely out of place on a tenth-floor balcony in the middle of New York City. But Papa Pete and I, we don’t care.

  It was a warm night, what my mom calls Indian Summer. I don’t think that has anything to do with Indians. I think it means that the warm days of summer last longer than they should. The sun was setting, and I craned my neck to peek around the apartment building next door. I could see a little slice of the Hudson River turning magenta in the sunset. Well, a little slice might be too big. It was a tiny sliver. But still, it was our view, and I loved it.

  We could hear the traffic ten floors below moving up and down Broadway, people going home from work or out to dinner or just sitting in taxis waiting for the traffic to unsnarl. The cars looked like Matchbox cars from that high up, and the people walking up and down Broadway looked like Lego people. Not exactly like my favorite Lego guy who is the pirate with two swords in his hand, though. You walk up and down Broadway with two swords in your hands and you’re going to have a long conversation with the New York City police.

  “So what’s it going to be?” Papa Pete asked, reaching into his brown bag. “The usual garlic dill—or if you’re feeling adventuresome, why not try a sweet gherkin?”

  “I’m up for an adventure,” I said. “But, Papa Pete, if I don’t like the gherkin, will you trade it for the garlic dill?”

  “Of course I will. I never met a pickle I didn’t like. The same goes for grandsons.”

  Papa Pete handed me a pickle and a napkin that I used to wrap the bottom end of it so it wouldn’t squirt pickle juice all over my shorts. I took a bite.

  “Trade,” I said, sticking the sweet pickle out toward Papa Pete.

  “I give you credit for trying something new,” Papa Pete said, handing me his garlic dill. “You never know unless you try.”

  I took a bite of the garlic dill. Oh yeah, now that’s what my mouth was looking for. It made my taste buds jump off my tongue and scream, “Hallelujah.”

  “So that was some conversation we had at dinner about soccer,” Papa Pete said. “Doesn’t sound like you’re enjoying yourself.”

  “I’ll keep at it, I guess,” I said. “Dad wants me to stick with it.”

  “Sports are supposed to be fun,” Papa Pete said.

  “Not when your coach is hollering at you to do things you can’t do.”

  “That certainly doesn’t sound like much fun to me,” Papa Pete said. “I just joined an indoor Ping-Pong club on Eighty-first and West End. Why don’t you come with me sometime and give it a try?”

  “Ping-Pong? That’s a weird sport.”

  “What’s weird about it? You hold the paddle. You hit the ball.”

  “It’s a game old people play in the backyard. In socks and brown leather sandals.”

  “Not so fast, Hankie my boy. All kinds of people play. Old and young. Fat and thin. Short and tall. Wide and narrow. Black and white. Beige and red.”

  “I get it, Papa Pete.”

  “Good. Come with me tomorrow after school.”

  “I have soccer practice.”

  “Fine, I’ll pick y
ou up after practice and we’ll walk over.”

  “What if I don’t like it?”

  “Then we’ll trade. You’ll give me back the Ping-Pong, and I’ll give you back your soccer. Just like the pickle.”

  “No questions asked?”

  “No questions asked.”

  Papa Pete took a bite of his pickle, and I took a bite of mine. All you could hear was the crunch, crunch, crunching of us eating our pickles. We were exactly in unison. It was a perfect moment. Until we heard a scratch, scratch, scratching of claws on the glass door that leads to the balcony. We turned around and saw Katherine the Ugly trying to get the door open.

  “The lizard wants to join us,” Papa Pete said.

  He and I shot each other a look, then turned around and continued munching on our pickles. We were unison on that decision too.

  Katherine stays inside, thank you very much.

  CHAPTER 11

  THE NEXT DAY, I got up in the morning, had some oatmeal with raisins and brown sugar, and went to school.

  The main thing I have to say about the fifth grade is that it’s just like fourth grade, only harder. The vocabulary words are longer. The math problems are longer. The recesses are shorter.

  I’d tell you more about the fifth grade, but if it is so mind-numbing for me, I can just imagine what it would be for you.

  So let’s just say this chapter is finished.

  CHAPTER 12

  AFTER SCHOOL I WENT TO soccer practice. I tried kicking. I tried kicking and running at the same time. I tried dribbling the ball around the cones.

  I fell down.

  I got yelled at by Coach Gilroy.

  I got up and I sat on the bench.

  I continued to sit on the bench until my butt fell asleep and had dreams of actually being able to play. It never woke up.

  Soccer practice was no fun at all.

  So let’s just say this chapter is finished too.

  CHAPTER 13

  YOU’D BETTER BELIEVE that after a day like that, I wasn’t too thrilled about joining Papa Pete for a visit to his Ping-Pong club. Papa Pete, who always knows what I’m feeling without me having to say it, understood that I was not exactly enthusiastic, so he offered me a bribe to improve my mood.

  “What’ll it be, Hankie? A root-beer float at McKelty’s Roll ’N Bowl, or a hot dog off Amir’s cart?”

  “How about both?”

  “Both is not an option. You have to save room for one of your mother’s delicious dinners.”

  Papa Pete laughed as we turned the corner onto Broadway. We headed up the block toward where Amir parks his hot-dog cart, dodging the crowds of people coming out of the subway. I was pretty sweaty—not from soccer practice, because bench warming does not work up perspiration, but from hurrying to keep up with Papa Pete. Even though he’s sixty-nine years old, Papa Pete keeps up quite a pace. He always says, as long as you’re walking, you’ve got to walk like you’re going somewhere.

  And we were going somewhere: to Amir’s hot-dog cart, which was right past the subway station on 79th and Broadway. Amir waved to us as we came up. I was smiling already, just taking in the smells of those boiling frankfurters mixed with the brown mustard and relish. My mouth started to water like it was Niagara Falls.

  “The usual,” Papa Pete said to Amir. “One for me, and one for my grandson here.”

  Amir handed me my hot dog first. He knows that I like the regular dog with everything on it but the onions. I took my first bite real slowly, biting down and listening for the snap of the hot-dog skin that releases the wave of flavors into my mouth. Snap! There it goes. Hot-dog spices filled my mouth, then the brown mustard with a hint of relish. Man oh man, there is nothing like a snappy mustard-relish dog on the streets of New York City to help you forget a lousy day. I felt sorry for every kid who wasn’t eating one. Wait a minute, that’s not exactly true: I didn’t feel sorry for Nick McKelty, because he’s a big, obnoxious tick, but . . .

  Wait a minute, Hank. How’d McKelty get in your mind? Get him out of there. He’s ruining your hot dog. Oh, yeah . . . that’s better.

  I did feel bad for every other kid in the world, minus Nick McKelty, who wasn’t enjoying that delicious sidewalk frankfurter.

  Papa Pete ate his hot dog in three bites like he always does: front, middle, and end, wiping his big mustache for dribbles of mustard or bun crumbs.

  “How’s the old handlebars, Hankie?” he said. “Anything hanging off them?”

  “You’re all clear,” I answered. Papa Pete made me promise a long time ago that if he ever had anything hanging off his handlebar mustache, I’d tell him right away. It’s a big responsibility, but I love it that he trusts me to do it.

  I walked and ate at the same time, and by the time I reached the last bite, we were at the corner of 81st and Broadway. We turned left as I stuffed the last piece of hot dog into my mouth. I like to leave a little bit of the frankfurter hanging out of the end of the bun so I can save the best bite for last.

  “Here’s the place,” Papa Pete said, pointing to a stairway that led down into a subterranean storefront door.

  “There’s no sign,” I noticed. Of course there wasn’t. I mean, what’s a sign above a Ping-Pong club going to say, the All-Night Ping-Pong Emporium? Who wants to be seen going into that?

  I heard the room before I saw it. Ping, then pong. Ping. Pong. Ping. Pong. Multiply that times twelve, which was the number of Ping-Pong tables in the large, well-lit room, and you’ll have the sound that filled my ears as we walked in.

  At each table there were two people hitting the ball back and forth to each other. And when I say hitting, I mean smacking it. Ping-Pong balls were shooting across the nets like cannonballs.

  Boy, was I surprised. I have to admit, I never knew the game was so fast.

  And while I’m at it, let me admit another thing: I expected all the people in there to be really old, like forty-eight or fifty-one. But when I looked around, I was stunned by who was playing there. At the first table, a huge man with dreadlocks flying all over the place was playing a woman in white shorts. Her hand moved so fast, you couldn’t even see it holding on to the paddle.

  “That’s Wei Chang,” Papa Pete whispered. “She played in the 1996 Olympics for China.”

  At another table, there was a large, hairy man with an accent that sounded like Count Dracula’s playing another hairy man wearing a baseball cap. They were playing fast and furiously. And here’s the amazing thing: The guy in the baseball cap was in a wheelchair. That’s right, you heard me. He’d pop a wheelie in order to get to the corner of the table to get the ball. And when he hit the ball, it had a wicked spin.

  There were all kinds of people playing, and a few others sitting in folding chairs watching. At the table on the very end, I noticed a tall Asian man playing a little kid. And when I say little, I mean, standing on a box little.

  Wait a minute. I know that little kid.

  It was Sam Chin, Mason’s friend from kindergarten.

  “Hey, Sam,” I hollered. “It’s me, Hank!”

  “Shhhhh,” Papa Pete whispered. “You never distract a player in the middle of a game.”

  Wow, these Ping-Pong people take their game very seriously.

  “But I know him,” I told Papa Pete. “He goes to my school.”

  “His father is the head teacher and owner of the club,” Papa Pete said, pointing to the tall man rallying with Sam. “He’s internationally ranked.”

  “Wow,” I said. “He must be really good.”

  Before Papa Pete could answer, the tall man put his paddle on top of the Ping-Pong ball to keep it from rolling off the table and walked over to where we were standing. “Hello, Pete,” he said. “And this is . . . ?”

  “My grandson, Hank.”

  “Welcome to the club, Hank,” he said. “My name is Winston Chin.” He shook my hand. He had a big hand. Mine got lost in it.

  “I see you’re a soccer player,” Mr. Chin said, looking at the cleats I had sl
ung over my shoulder.

  “Oh, yeah,” I said. “I’ve been known to kick the ball a ways.”

  “We have many good athletes here,” Mr. Chin said.

  The people in there didn’t exactly look like athletes. I mean, you didn’t see a lot of big muscles or sweaty headbands or expensive tennis shoes. And certainly no big-muscled guys in ironed soccer shorts. They looked like regular people in street clothes, only with Ping-Pong paddles in their hands.

  “I go to school with Sam,” I said. “At PS 87.”

  “Come over and hit with him,” Mr. Chin said. “You can use my paddle and I’ll give you a few pointers.”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “I’m not really into patio sports. I’m more of an outdoorsy, grassy sports kind of guy.”

  “We don’t consider table tennis a patio sport here,” Mr. Chin said. “It’s highly competitive. It’s a sport that requires the reflexes of the bobcat, the speed of the cheetah, and the craftiness of the fox.”

  “Wow, that’s a lot of animals,” I laughed.

  “They should play this at the zoo.”

  I cracked myself up. I thought my joke was hysterical. When I stopped laughing, I noticed that Mr. Chin had never started. Even Papa Pete didn’t crack a smile. Whoops, I guess I put my foot right in my mouth, tennis shoe and all.

  “Okay,” I said, feeling bad that perhaps I had insulted Mr. Chin and his club. “I’ll give it a try.”

  I followed Mr. Chin to the table where Sam was still standing on his box waiting for me.

  Great. I’m about to play a patio sport with a three-foot-tall kindergartner standing on a box, no less. The only good thing about this is that Nick McKelty isn’t here to see me.

  Thank goodness for small favors.

  CHAPTER 14

  TEN REASONS I AM GOING TO HATE PLAYING PING-PONG