And he shall be called Pong . . .

When I see two skilled ping pong players going at it, it’s a bit of a shock. From whatever angle, from whatever outside outsider vantage point, the ball always seems to be moving faster than I would be able to handle. That is, until I’m actually playing one of those guys. From the player’s point of view, you can see little clues that help predict the ball’s flight and these clues are registered instantaneously. Reaction, reaction, reaction. The mind is blank and the body is attentive. I really like that state. It’s surprisingly relaxing.

Last Friday, I watched the L.E.S. cup at a local community theater. There must have been around 150 people there. The DJ was playing good songs and there was a full bar to the side of the space. I had gotten eliminated from the tournament earlier in the week but I had great time. As I mentioned in an earlier post, I’ve been playing at a design space called Pong.

I’ve gotten to know the owner and the regulars who play there. Overall, a great group. Everybody is a little nerdy about ping pong and, for the most part except for the guy, second from the left, there’s genuine sportsmanship.

I was reminded of playing ping pong the past few months from two emails two friends forwarded to me. One was an op-ed piece in the NY Times written by Joshua Ferris, the guy who wrote “Then We Came to An End.” When I read it, I thought to myself, “He understands.” The piece chronicles his time during the spring of 2000 in Chicago. The city had announced plans for the “Summer of Ping Pong,” in which the city would set up tables all around town, in the Field Museum and the Public Library and in many plazas and hotels, and anyone could pick up a paddle and play.

I was determined to spend every lunch hour that summer in the sun trading serves, and accordingly went around the office searching out other Ping-Pong enthusiasts. What I found instead was a lot of ridicule. Some people thought the Summer of Ping-Pong unappealing and small-minded; others considered it just plain stupid. Most were indifferent.

Only one guy wanted to play. His name was Jeff, and he was an art director I didn’t know too well. He had a shaved head and something of a severe, I-will-kill-you-dead expression when you caused him to turn away from his computer. He was the first person I was afraid of on my first day. I asked him if he wanted to join me for Ping-Pong and wasn’t sure how I felt when he said yes.

At the start of summer the city gave out pocket-sized brochures listing the locations of all the tables. The table closest to our office was in the basement of a big chain hotel. Jeff and I walked down Michigan Avenue, and five minutes later we were in the middle of a game.

Jeff was the better player, but not so much better that our games were boring blowouts. He probably won every two out of three. We must have played a hundred matches. And we were competitive, making sliced-throat expressions with the paddle before a serve and falling to our knees with glee or dismay after a long volley.

As our games began to intensify, we didn’t want to waste any time commuting, so we kept walking to the same hotel, took the elevator down and played in a windowless, carpeted room with lighting even more dismal than that of our office. The table in this particular hotel had the advantage of always being empty — either because nobody knew of it, or nobody wanted to be inside.

It was summer, after all. Who in their right minds wants to be hanging out underground? Jeff and I could have easily played in Daley Plaza, or in the shadow of the famous water tower, but something greater proved the stronger draw. The season’s main attraction, the felicities of the sun, dimmed in the light of our competition and our growing friendliness. We couldn’t wait to get to a table, so we never once played outside. Summer’s surface pleasures were trumped by a human connection.

Odd to think that it took a Ping-Pong table to make two guys who passed each other in the hallways do more than simply nod a head in the other’s direction.

I think it’s fair to say many Chicagoans considered the Summer of Ping-Pong a failure. But without it, I wouldn’t have spent any time with this scary-looking dude, wouldn’t have known that he had a wife and a kid, and wouldn’t have heard his personal lore about how he came to love Ping-Pong. It was something he’d grown up with, as I had. It was a family thing.

That’s what makes me think now that we sort of adopted each other for two months that summer. Playing ping pong with Jeff I found, in perhaps a narrow but wholly unexpected way, a kindred spirit who kept me company, who embedded for me in the middle of the workday a little gem of anticipation, and who helped to remind me, in the day-to-day enactment of adult responsibility, how enchanting an hour of play can be.

The human connection and the fact that ping pong, to Ferris, started as a family thing. Joshua Ferris understands. He understands what is truly dope about ping pong.

The second email was from some blog discussing the rise of ping pong in berlin. Here's an excerpt:

Actually, the current cult of the ping pong is more than a fashion statement or fad. It's also a subculture that has combined hip with social consciousness and artistic aesthetic. The way the game is played reflects a larger philosophy: living honestly, openly, and culturally (i.e., something of a "life is art" motif). These bars and platzs are often venues for rousing ping pong parties. Stop by for a look at this unique counterculture, or join a match yourself. If you didn't pack your own paddle, try renting a schläger (paddle) and bälle (balls) from the bar.

The matches for the tournament were great. Pupa won the whole thing. He's 24 has two kids, the ball boys for the event, and has the nastiest serves. He was a bit nervous initially. I saw him out in the hall after the first game and he was telling me how he needed to calm down. His prize was a white jacket with a pong patch. It was hilarious seeing him pose and cool to see how proud he was as he was getting his picture taken with his kids.


The absolute highlight of the evening was watching the 77 year-old in the yellow pants play. His name is Marty Reisman

He is a 5 time U.S. Champion and winner of 23 National and International titles. He was wearing sunglasses the whole time. Usually, people who wear sunglasses at night are either blind or assholes, but Marty gets a pass. He had amazing reflexes. The money moment was when he played a professional player from Japan. It was an epic battle and the japanese player was playing his heart out. Marty won the first game by a few points. And, for the second game, the Japanese player was down by fewer points than in the first one. He hits an inside-out cross court shot and Marty hits the ball baseline behind his back. The japanese player barely returns it and Marty slams it back to win the game. Imagine 150 people in shocked silence and then erupting in ecstasy as what just happened registers. It was a life experience. Absolutely ridiculous.