Tuesday, September 7, 2010

Deep in my hallway closet, on a shelf up high, sits a ping-pong paddle. Near it is a tennis racquet, below it hangs a trusty corduroy jacket, and gathered on the floor are CD-Rs, a power drill, and other curios once useful, now left to idle in the dark. But the paddle, which I’ve had since high school, may be exhumed in short order. Indeed it is positively ancient, with its own narrative told through a scratched handle and a worn face, and yet I’ve kept it. I like its heft. It’s reassuring, familiar, and with a little work it should be ready for prime time.

The venue in question is the office. You may recall my stance on physical exertion vis-à-vis the corporate world. Golf, bowling, table tennis, darts, softball, kickball, it doesn’t matter–any sport simply offers another data point upon which you may be judged, in however minor a capacity, and this is at the forefront of my mind whenever I think about participating. But ping-pong is big in the office, and I happen to enjoy it. Proportionally speaking, I enjoy it with a fervor commensurate to how much I hate golf.

I got the full lowdown today, from the house rules to equipment allowances to the key stakeholders who must be vanquished in order to ascend to the top of the heap. It’s been two years since the paddle’s left its case, but I’m on a mission now, and such stats are irrelevant. There’s apparently a tournament around Christmastime, complete with an actual bracket, so there’s my due date. It’s perfect, really. I’m afforded a few months to prepare. More importantly, it’s the season of Advent, the festive time of year when thoughts turn to the birth of Jesus and how to crush my opponents.