When we were young we had a ping pong table in our basement. I have no clue when we got it, as it always sat at the side of the basement, blocking the view of the basement from the stairs. There was only a small gap between it and the ceiling when it was put away and our cats used to stand on just the right step to watch us as we played down there. But, every once in a while the table would be put down and we could play.
Any chance I got I would play. I would play friends, my sisters, my father, or just put the one side up and play by myself. I was pretty good in my own mind and could usually beat most of my opponents. I couldn’t do top spins or shots that would make the ball basically drop dead on the table, but I had a good serve and control of the table. I always envisioned myself as the champion of the basement. Then, one day my Poppa came to visit.
I think I was about ten years old, or maybe a year or two older. I’m not sure. The table was down and my grandparents were there to see us for some occasion or another. I remember playing ping-pong in the basement with one of my friends and my Poppa came down to see what I was doing. I was a little cocky in the game and thought that if my Poppa and my father had come down to see me play, I might as well put on a little bit of a ping pong clinic. I hit my best shots, got in my sneaky just over the net into the far corner serve and beat my friend pretty easily. That was when Poppa asked if he could play me.
I remember thinking that this was a seventy year old man I was playing and I should maybe be nice to him. I also had my self-imagined championship to defend, so I served him one of, what in my mind was, my killer serves. Barely even moving his arm he sent the ball right back past me before I even knew what happened. He smiled at me the way he always did with his permanently tanned skin, smile lines around his eyes and his silver pencil-thin moustache, and said with that Bristol accent that never wavered, ‘Try again Mathew.’
I got down into position, lined up the shot and hit the table at the perfect angle to just catch the corner of the table. He moved like a cat, sending it back to me and a small rally ensued until I tried to hit him with a power shot, which ended up being returned at light speed. I swear the ball could have been imprinted into the wall behind me. I looked at him and he just smiled. I looked at my father sitting on the stairs and he had a bigger smile on his face. I looked back at Poppa and said, ‘You know how to play?’ and all I got in return was a nod of the head and that Poppa smile.
The rest of the game was like the savage beating of a young cocky fighter by the old, weathered master in a classic kung fu movie. When I think back on it now I would dare say he had some Chinese blood in his veins with those serious ping-pong, kung fu, Jedi moves he was dishing out.
As we played, or better yet, as he whooped my ass, he would tell me stories of how when he was in the war in England sometimes all there was to do was play ping-pong. He practiced and played and practiced some more until he was one of the best in the British Royal Air Force. He told me he played people all over the place, from many different countries during World War II and beat most of them. He even tried to teach me some of his moves.
I remember the lesson on putting the top spin on the ball to make it hit and shoot past your opponent faster. He showed just how to do it and let me try. I tried and tried and got it so that it was noticeable that I was doing it. He then went to the other end of the table and fed me the ball to shoot it back with the top spin. I fired a few back to him and he said it was good, but I had to be careful that if the other person does return it it would come back even faster. Confident in my new skill I fired him a good one and the next thing I knew the ball was bouncing off my chest with the speed and accuracy of a sniper. He hit it back so hard it felt more like a golf ball hitting me than a little ping pong ball.
I remember both of their smiles, Poppa’s as he let me think I was doing well, then surprising me with some fancy Jedi shot that would be gone before I saw it coming, and the smile of my father sitting on the stairs, entertained by his seventy year old father giving his ten year old son a lesson in ping pong he would never forget.
I asked my dad if he wanted to play Poppa and he just laughed and said he wasn’t that dumb. My mother and grandmother came down at that time and immediately I told them how good Poppa was at ping-pong and how cool it was. My mother was excited that I was excited, and my Nannie told my Poppa to be good and be easy on me. He said, with that smile I learned later on in life meant that something devious was going through his head, ‘Of course, we’re just having fun.’
And as the women walked back up the stairs, Poppa asked me if I was ready. I turned to face him and before I knew it, a ping pong ball ricocheted off my forehead and both my seventy year old grandfather and my forty year old father laughed hysterically at ten year old me.
I picked up the ball and just looked at him; this strong old British man, almost always in some sort of a brown suit, with silver hair and a smile that could ease even the most savage beast. He looked so innocent, but I was quickly learning it was just a cover. I kept my eyes on him when I served the ball and it was then I realized that the man on the other side of the table was so much more than just my grandfather. I was playing ping pong with my own, personal Jedi. He was Obi Wan Kenobi with a ping-pong paddle…
Damn, I never realized how much Poppa looked like Alec Guinness!
