Paul's Boutique

3-Minute Rule

Sometimes on the weekends, I like to take a ride over to my dad's house. He lives over in the next town, and on a good day it's only a half-hour trip. I'll shove a change or two of clothes in my backpack, slide my glove over the handlebars, and trek out. There are a lot of cousins in the neighborhood, so there's likely always a game goin' on...and I almost feel like I've got more friends there than at home, because I'm not actin' like I've gotta impress anyone too much.

But the biggest villain in baseball is the unexpected rain storm...especially when ballin' is what your summer is predicated on. It's easy to play through a little sprinkle, but once the infield turns to mud it's neither safe nor enjoyable. And that's not saying anything about the hardcore athletes trying to be flashy with their aluminum bats once the thunder and lightning starts rollin' in.

So when the plans change, one of two things happen: we go to cousin Eric's house, order a pizza and play Michigan Rummy (I found a game kit in my dad's attic, and all of us had mayonnaise or peanut butter jars of pennies, for just such an occasion); or my little sister and I will head over to the Boys And Girls Club (full gym, vending machines, game room with a tv seemingly locked on MTV as the burnt-out stoner on the dirty old couch crashes hoping for some metal band everyone's heard of, but no one else listens to).

I've got some friends there too...the regulars. Maybe in twenty years we'll meet up at the corner dive bar for a few beers and some darts, but as for now, there's only one thing that'll allow us to express our competitive natures: ping pong.

There's something rhythmic- almost soothing- that happens during a good ping pong volley. *tap* *click-click* *tap*, *click-click* *tap*. *click-click* *tap*, *click-click* *tap* *smash*. Over and over up to 21 (win by two).

With two tables and enough people, it's easy to set up little tournaments. Someone would run downstairs to the office for a sheet of paper, we'd draw names out of a hat for seeding, and commence to table tennis tourneys mostly policing ourselves and respecting the rules. Keeping it simple...unlike baseball, the focus is technique over situational strategy. You still have to hit the ball where your opponent's hopefully not, and you have to accept a ball coming at you, but it's a much smaller, faster surface, and you can direct your return easier than, say, fielding a grounder and throwing to first or dragging a bunt down the third base line.

I'll mess around on the ping pong tables...I'll jump in on a tournament. I expect to win...what's the use in not trying if a score's being kept? I'm in it to win it. Even if I don't like going to my backhand much, or haven't quite mastered the drop backspin to intentionally slow down a solid volley. Everyone's a "club pro" here anyway, regardless of skill level...if you can hold a paddle and possess enough hand/eye coordination, you're fit to play and stand as much chance of winning a free soda from the machine as anyone.

*tap* *click-click* *tap*, *click-click* *tap*. *click-click* *tap*, *click-click* *tap* *smash*
*tap* *click-click* *tap*, *click-click* *tap*. *click-click* *tap*, *click-click* *tap* *smash*
*tap* *click-click* *tap*, *click-click* *tap*. *click-click* *tap*, *click-click* *tap* *smash*
*tap* *click-click* *tap*, *click-click* *tap*. *click-click* *tap*, *click-click* *tap* *smash* Mix in the "ooohs" and "ahhhs" from the onlookers occasionally, and you've got a fire beat that'll soundtrack your trash talk. It's the song of our people, and I'm gonna be the freshest of the pack once I get a lead. It's not bein' cocky if you can back it up.

But don't get too high off that beat...just as the rain'll bring out everyone to The Club, the sun will shine on the a** of the dog you didn't see comin'. Cakewalkin' through the initial tiers guarantees you nothin'. I dominated the little kids on my way to a championship match against an equally-skilled dude my age, known more for his pool-shootin' prowess and trick shot capabilities. But this is just ping pong, man...the secondary art of our choosing. No big thing...but the taste of a cold Pepsi was burnin' in Spankee's mouth as he toyed with me over the first two hands of serve. In a blink I was down, 8-2.

I tried to close the gap, but sometimes it's just not your finest hour. Four serving eleven. Fourteen serving six. Seven serving eighteen. Not a winning formula.

Time to make adjustments...it's easy to lay the smack down in a passive-aggressive attempt to let someone now what they're doing wrong when you're cleaning them off the table. Losing, however, makes it easier to be silent as you're searching for determination. I juggled my paddle between service breaks, hoping a slight change in grip along with stepping back a bit from the table would improve my angle perception. A jerk in the machine's timing can overcome all straight talent, I figured. Hit it where they ain't, or so I always thought. Nope. Hit 'em on the wrists. Right at 'em. No time for playing nice.

I took serve and won all five points, as the crowd gathered. My stance now, coupled with Spankee's sudden confusion, brought me back within striking distance...sixteen serving nineteen.

Another five straight and I could win! Seems so easy! But he needs two outta five to clear me out and get a free pop. I looked at my sister, and asked her if that machine had Mountain Dew. Nervously, she said it did. Her mind was already made up...I was gonna lose, and then ask her for the dollar my stepmom gave her just for a cold drink. The consolation prize was warming up in the trunk of her brain's car.

But I had other plans. Spankee was goin' down. I took the next four of his serves...my game now, 20-19. We ripped a steady volley back and forth for a bit. S*** got intense. I don't know why I remember certain things in difficult times, but I went into "f*** it" mode and slightly twisted my paddle on a return. I dropped the ball right onto the lip of the table, over the net...and when it hit it, it deflected to the right and skittered away. Look in the notes...everyone knew it was game.

Comebacks can happen. I shook Spankee's hand afterward; he took it like a man. He knew he got beat, and beat by a part-time Club patron. While he shot pool six days a week and I was worryin' 'bout ground balls Bucknering my legs like '86, the music made on the table was relatively silent. *tap* *click-click* *tap*, *click-click* *tap*. *click-click* *tap*, *click-click* *tap* *smash*

And it was like the clouds ran as the sky opened up to sunshine just for me on the walk home, cold can of Mountain Dew in my proud grip. I could be anything, my teachers said. But today, I was the Boy's Club ping pong champion. Didn't matter to me if I came back or not this summer. Once you get that taste of winning in your mouth and your psyche, you're always a winner.

Lyrics.  

Word Count: 1226.