Ping Pong: The Rhythms of Life
I grew up playing ping pong. Ping pong is my sport. I can keep up with my grandchildren. Not win, but keep up. I’m delighted by the very sound of a bouncing ping pong ball tip-tapping across the table, sometimes fast and intense, other times slow and lazy. I’d recognize the hollow pinging and ponging sound of those bounces anywhere.
Our table resided on the third floor of our house. The ceiling was low and pitched, following the roofline. The table took up most of the space in the room. Its green color in sync with the green linoleum floor. If a ball was overhit and missed the table altogether, the sounds changed radically as it zigged and zagged, ricocheting off walls, the doors to my brothers’ tiny attic bedrooms, or a random piece of furniture no longer wanted in the main rooms of the house. A few quick tap tap taps on the floor, then the last tiny thud as it landed, finally still. An old wooden dresser with peeling yellow paint butted up against the low wall encircling the stairwell. Players or spectators might have to crawl under the dresser or between boxes to retrieve a loose ball so play could continue.
Only the hottest summer days in my hometown of St. Louis, Missouri, prohibited our ping pong matches. On those above 90-degree days, the room felt like a hot oven – but in all other seasons, we played. A lot. As middle schoolers, we found purpose by clambering noisily up the attic stairs, hoping to be the first to grab a paddle. And start the game. Extra kids might start a round of jacks on the smooth floor or stand on the sidelines, cheering, hooting, and adding commentary to those battling each other across the net with their green paddles whacking at the little white ball. Sideliners dove to retrieve bouncing balls and tossed them back into the game. Once or twice, a side game of Spin-The-Bottle was started over in the corner, but it never lasted long. Too much judgment and social pressure. Ping pong was way more fun.
After a while, we tired of ping pong. Time to head outside. The small ball was tucked safely beneath a paddle on the table, and everyone made their way in an adolescent clump of bodies down the stairs. The last to descend turned off the light and shut the door.
While ping pong is no longer a regular part of my daily life, it continues to inform my world. I’m happy bouncing from this to that. A fast walk around the neighborhood is great, especially when followed by a quiet retreat in my comfy corner chair with a good book. Unexpected events such as a stay-at-home order during a worldwide pandemic feel like the wild bouncing of the tiny ping pong ball hit off the table. The painful loss of a longtime friend brings an ache not unlike that felt after an unreturnable smashed ball zips past before I can flick my paddle. Yet, I carry on relishing memories of the good times we shared. And I might even smile, recalling my own perfectly placed smashes.
The inimitable sounds and crazy rhythms of ping pong remind me to breathe in the salty smell of spray from waves crashing onto the cliffs at high tide, but also to savor the powerful yet peaceful sound of tumbling stones that the same waves grab and carry from the cliff out to sea. They are all, in the end, simply rhythms of life.
