“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 toward the door, where a certain large, snaggletoothed, bad-breathed bully was still looking in.
“Just remember the Three Cs,” Winston said. “Concentrate. Control. Confidence.”
The crowd got quiet as he picked up a paddle and went to his side of the table 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 paddle 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 around 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 mom 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 mom said.
“Me too,” my dad said. “You played very well, son. Ping-Pong is quite a sport.”
Wait a minute. Did he say sport? Yes, he did. Stan Zipzer, I think you’re trying to tell me something.
“Dad,” I said, “does this mean that now I can finally quit soccer?”
“Like I’ve always said, Hank, I think concentrating on one sport is a fine way to go.”
That was close enough for me! I started to cheer too.
So long, Coach Gilroy. I won’t be taking a knee for your team anymore!
So long, Game Face. I won’t be needing you anymore, either!
Papa Pete could see how happy I was. He threw his big hairy arm around me and shook my shoulder like I was a teddy bear.
“What does everyone say to a root-beer float?” he said. “On me.”
“I say that sounds great,” I answered at the top of my lungs. I was so happy to be part of the Parade of Athletes, after all. And to think I almost didn’t let myself be part of this great moment. I’ll never do a thing like that again.
As we all walked out of the gym—my mom and dad, Frankie and Ashley, Emily and Robert and Papa Pete—I saw Nick McKelty standing in the hall by himself.
“Hey, Zipzer,” he said.
“Yeah?”
He looked at me a long time. Then he spoke.
I’ll bet you think that big lug congratulated me for playing a great game. Well, you’re wrong.
“I still think Ping-Pong’s for subhumans,” he said.
“That’s your problem, McKelty,” I said.
And together with my family and friends, we went out to celebrate that I finally found the right sport for me.
The Secret Life of a Ping-Pong Wizard Page 9
