Ping pong

 Ping pong, ding dong. My own little reverie taking place on the table. Andrew is goading me into pretending I’m a professional. A swing and a miss. A thud as the body hits the table with force. His eleven year old self is laughing uproariously with glee at my lack of skill. I go round the table picking sides to better my odds. Nothing does the trick. The little rascal still laughs, falling to the floor in hysterics. My foibles must be something to behold. 

I give it back and up the stakes. Can he do better?  I know this isn’t a bet to make or take. I do it anyway. Anything to shut him up. Funny thing is, the kid has some skill or maybe just the will to prove me wrong. Those prepubescent preteens find any need for competition and I gave him the opportunity for showmanship. 

The kid is now in the zone ready to pretend to be the professional. Paddle to ball, eye to ball ready for action. He smokes an ace. I’m ready to shake my head as it is done over an over again. Blows on his fingers, and goes at it again. I tell him to take it easy on me as the wise elder. He retorts: Not so wise now, really. Got to give it to the cocky kid. He’s right. I hate when I’m wrong. Stinks being shown how it’s done. 

I’m stupid enough not to concede defeat. Must be a glutton for punishment. I attempt another go at it. I now make contact with the ball, but it slams into the net. Throwing rackets, er paddles and screaming “you can’t be serious” come to mind. Just a game. Muttering to self. Toweling off. Blaming sweaty palms for lackluster play is the next excuse. Yet I forget my antics are being mimicked by said chap smirking in bemusement. 

Dang!  Really this is what my embarrassment looks like. Oh my. And now the old lady just chalks it up and laughs at self remembering that life is made up of moments we would like to forget, but never do. I admit defeat. Admitting I’m no McEnroe. Then the boy says who is that?  Now I laugh hysterically. 

Oh wow. Now I know I’m old. Oh well. C’est la vie.