By JJ Bowman
Associate Editor
Lately, I’ve tried to figure out why I play Ping Pong as if the fate of humankind rested on the outcome.
I am not athletically gifted. My Little League average hovered anywhere between .000 and .093. My doctor once looked at my feet and laughed out loud, explaining to me I walk like a pigeon. And I still have a difficult time making it up a flight of stairs without losing my breath or my balance. Nevertheless, I can still look back with pride on some of my accomplishments.
I was not a particularly popular kid in third grade, by which I mean I never had the opportunity to play basketball with the cool kids before school. Finally one day, late in the year, a spot opened for me to prove myself on the court. Although I couldn’t dribble or shoot, I was one heck of a passer.
But as fate would have it, I was stuck with the ball as the bell rung, meaning I would have to attempt the game winning three-pointer. Using all the might in my right arm, I hurled the ball up, and — with budget cuts requiring the school to maintain backboards with the firmness of a sponge — it was good.
My game winning shot was my No. 1 athletic triumph until a certain Little League game in fifth grade. I hadn’t gotten a hit all season and rarely even made contact. This time, I hit a dribbler down to first base. The first baseman stood on the line and waited to apply the tag, but remembering an older kid who once knocked the ball out of another player’s glove, I tried to make the play of the game. I missed the glove and sent my forearm right through his nose. I was called out for interference — even though he never applied the tag. And in my long lumber back to the bench, opposing players chided me for not knowing the rules to baseball. I knew the rules, I thought, and I finally got a solid hit.
More recently I organized a triathlon of table games for students in the Florence program. We competed in foosball, Ping Pong and air hockey for the pride of the villa. And although those games do not strike the same passions of the gridiron or ball field, the intensity — at least the intensity of myself and a few other competitive non-athletes — was palpable.
The tournament in Florence, itself, was an offshoot of what has recently become my family’s greatest accomplishment. For the past three years we have hosted “The Thumper Olympix,” a competition in which pairs of individuals compete in six of the greatest games ever devised — Ping Pong, foosball, darts, billiards, whiffle ball and horseshoes. The annual event has become so popular among family and friends that my sister made sure to arrainge her upcoming marriage around it.
Such love of “kids” games makes perfect sense. Back when there were only a few cavemen, I’m sure they all bet each other to see who was strongest. And when there were cavemen who could not possibly compete with the strong ones, I’m sure they competed to see who could throw a ball in a cup more accurately.
This is the purpose of table games and the reason why so many unathletic folks like myself will risk severing friendships over what constitutes a foul ball in Whiffle Ball. (“Clearly, over the swing set, off the sand box and into the mulch pit is a fair ball!”)
Were I blessed with actual athletic talent, then I, as most people, would certainly do everything in my power to make a living playing sports. Most people would rather spend the next 10 years pitching in the major leagues or starting for the Lakers than taking their college degree to a corporate cubicle. Those who feel that way have no right to shake their heads when such a large percentage of Pepperdine athletes leave school to chase their goals.
I say to our athletes, “Go, pursue your dreams.” If you do not succeed professionally in your sport, then come back and get an education if you so desire. I, King Pong, will be here ready to dispense the paddling of your life.
September 18, 2003