Long Shot

Uncle Richard, an aging phys ed teacher at Oxford, took advantage of his novel British accent to convince me, a wide-eyed seven-year-old, that a drop shot could be hit with so much backspin that it would go from the opposite side of the table and back without striking the opponent's racket. I was hooked. But ping-pong tables were sparse in upstate New York, so I had few opportunities, and fewer decent opponents to nurture my newfound love. I wrangled obliging victims at family gatherings. I suffered dismally underwhelming opponents at school during gym. I defeated my younger brother left-handed. I folded the table into the upright position and played against myself. I was unbeatable.  

My winning streak came to an abrupt end in college. As a freshman, I was thoroughly crushed in the dark recesses of a dorm by a half-Asian concert pianist with uncanny reflexes, and a Ukrainian who transported his paddle, or “blade” as he and all serious players call it, in a black-and-red striped carrying case. He wouldn't let me touch it because the oil from my fingers would spoil the sticky spin-imparting surface.  

I've since had some sporadic affairs with the sport – playing in a start-up warehouse in New York City, a park in Paris, a bar in Berlin, and on the beaches of the Yucatán – but it's been years since I've had a steady game. Recently, I heard word of a ping-pong master who gives lessons in San Francisco. The information sets off nostalgia for my table tennis days. I decide it’s time to seek him out, get real lessons, and finally play with a community that can elevate my patchwork “basement” game to a consistent, respectable level. 

I can spot Lewis Loyi Wei a block away. There aren't many characters walking around the Tenderloin dressed in a colorful ping-pong jersey, matching shorts, and toting a bulky carrying case filled with rackets. We meet outside the newly constructed Salvation Army Community Center on Turk and Jones, and he leads me into the backroom crammed with a pool table, arcade games, and two ping-pong tables. He is definitively the “elder who has an indissoluble bond with ping-pong,” as he was described in the May 15, 2009 cover story of  China Fortune Magazine  (Lewis gives me a copy of the mag at the end of our lesson).

Lewis is sanctioned by the U.S. Association of Table Tennis (USATT) to teach at the regional level. He is well into his 70s, but once he has his “double happiness” blade in hand he gambols around like he is half my age. I start feeling a bit self-conscious as I try to limber up to the absurdly patriotic country music blaring from the speakers. Lewis is reassuringly in his element as he unfolds the table and unpacks his array of rackets.  

I pick the racket that looks the least expensive, figuring I will inadvertently hit the table at least once. Apparently I have a shakehand grip, meaning I hold the paddle as if giving someone a good handshake, with my index finger sticking out along the base of the backhand side. The alternative is a penhold grip, where the index and thumb grip the racket as if it were a very large pen. Lewis says the shakehand grip is good. Even the world-dominating Asian players are switching over from penhold to shakehand. That, it turns out, is the only good part of my game. 

Finding a good pick-up game isn't easy in San Francisco. Recreation centers are always a good bet, although the ones in the Richmond and Sunset that I visit on a Sunday are closed due to recent budget cuts. The rec center in Chinatown, fabled for high-caliber games, is currently being remodeled. There are a few bars with tables – like Thee Parkside and Finnegan's Wake – but I am looking for players who drink sports drinks, not beers, while playing pong.

The USATT website has a comprehensive list of sanctioned clubs in the city – as well as an oddly amusing celebrity photo gallery. Did you know Henry Miller met his fifth wife playing ping-pong? There's even snapshot of a collegiate-age Hillary Clinton lunging gamely across the table at a paddle-toting Bill. I jot down some numbers and call a few on the list.

After a few inquiries –  no, I am not a ranked player, yes, I learned how to play in a basement – I determine that the games at the Potrero Hill Neighborhood House seem the most plausible place for a competitive, yet not completely humiliating evening. But first, I need to get a blade of
my own. 

It's 9 p.m. and precipitating every form of weather from raindrop to hail ball, I'm in the basement of the Potrero Hill Neighborhood House – sick, panting, and dashing around under the high florescent lights as if the fate of the free world depends on me landing a little white ball on the corner of a green table.  

There are four tables set up and 12 players ranging from teenagers to septuagenarians. My opponent has a small potbelly and graying hair. He is wearing flannel, the shirt sleeve of his blade hand rolled halfway to his elbow, the racket dangling in a penhold grip. I can tell he has been holding back, sending me high bouncing serves, tempting me to smash his defensive, center-table returns, to lose the points through my own aggression; which I have been – sending the ball directly into the net. His smile broadens when I finally land a hard topspin forehand in his left corner.  

I play until almost 11 that night, losing every game, but several with dignity and well-earned points. I haven't had this much fun since I lured Marcus Webster into severely damaging our dilapidated high school ping-pong table as he lunged to return a backspin drop shot. From a brief survey of his Facebook photos, it seems that Marcus has abandoned the use of a paddle and replaced his nimble opponent with a frat-house pyramid of red pixie cups filled with cheap booze. I, however, have happily found a place to improve my pathetic backhand, develop a  trick serve, and finally work on making that spinning drop shot  hop back onto my side of the net.