(For anyone who's ever played table tennis or done anything with me.)It was a summer many
summers ago, and it was
a place many miles away.
That’s all you need to know.
And this, that there was a
table tennis game, and
two players, Keith, a
man who'd seen many more
years than me, and I.
I remember him setting
up the table such that
a beam of sunlight
brushed it in a delightful
dab of gold near the net,
its seal of approval
so the games could begin.
He told me to watch out
for the quirks of the
club’s equipment, I told him
to beware of the quirks
of my game. We
played for a long time,
every smash an echo in
that room, every point
a battle, two men hunting for
the slightest flaw in
each other.
Two more men joined us, Keith
said, “Look at this lad play.
He is talented, his forehand
is unlike anything else
I’ve seen. When he hits the ball,
it stays hit”. He didn’t say
that he’d beaten me
to the ground effortlessly
every single time we played,
or that I didn’t have
a backhand to speak of then.
A few days ago, while
I was playing, a backhand
came to me, the first
in a decade of
playing the game.
Another came later,
and then another,
till they came in a crowd.
And an image came to me,
of Keith, his wicked leftie
forehand whizzing past me,
his serves puzzling me,
his slices confounding me
into a nervous jab at the ball.
The room vanished
and, for an instant, I was
playing on a table dabbed
with a spot of sunlight,
and I wondered what
Keith would have made
of the lad’s backhand
if I had one then. Would
he have slammed it down
like he did my serve, my slice
my forehand,and looked away,
embarrassed, apologetic? Or
would he have said, “I’ve never
seen a backhand hit like that?”
I have never since talked
to the man who taught me
that the biggest win
of them all was learning
how to lose. I hope
that he is still engaged
in the joy that this game is,
and finding peace through the battle,
like I do when I go through
someone’s defences with a few
sweet, wicked angled backhands,
many of them hit
just for Keith
and for the memory
of those games
we played that summer,
when the thud of
ball hitting racket
livened up that
quiet little town for me,
so many summers ago,
when I didn't even have
a backhand to speak of.
