It usually takes at least a couple weeks for people to realize how difficult I can be, and so it was yesterday when an invitation to hang out was amicably offered, then promptly vetoed. A co-worker had outlined a weekly ritual of going “on the prowl,” in the parlance of the Serengeti and single folk, and last night’s programming called for beer and karaoke. I listened politely, of course, but it was a lost cause. “To be totally honest with you,” I replied, “neither of those things sound appealing.”
Now, I wasn’t a complete Herr Douchenbagger about this, as the Germans call it, and you’ll see why in a moment. But for me, karaoke sits well north of Rock Band on the mortification spectrum, and it is roughly level with public displays of Dance Dance Revolution. I suppose computer-assisted musicality just doesn’t jive with me? You may also know of my general dysfunction with bars. There’s putting yourself out there, and then there’s running headlong into gunfire. Karaoke, in this case, would be both the running and the gunfire.
I appreciated the invitation, naturally, so after the veto I inquired about options. Were non-karaoke establishments in the weekly rotation? What other activities were available? Pool was by far the most compelling alternative, and I committed right then and there to any future outings that would fall under this label. You see, the ability to wield a cue stick proficiently has long been on my list, if only to smash offending karaoke machines.
About once or twice a year, at intervals unfettered by scheduling or calendars or other normal demarcations of time, I speak with my old man. Sometimes it’s over the phone, sometimes it’s over e-mail, and he might initiate, or the task may fall upon me. It’s not a traditional father-son relationship by any stretch, but it works for us. I’m apprised of crucial information, such as a rough approximation of which continent he currently calls home, and in turn I share the top highlights from my newswire.
Today was such a day, with a wholly unexpected e-mail awaiting in my inbox early in the morning, and after re-reading his message and my own reply, the similarities were just too uncanny. Cordial, high-level missives bereft of any sentimentality, maudlin or otherwise, and it was an exchange I valued. It got me thinking about family in general, namely whether it’s possible to ever truly escape your genetic mandate.
I’ve got the same high threshold for remaining incommunicado. Same affinity for corporate life. Same work ethic. Same love of speeding. Same, shall we say, conflicted opinions about our culture. The same propensity to game, even. He doesn’t partake nowadays, obviously, but I clearly recall the brutish-looking Intellivision sitting in front of the teevee on the carpet, along with a ratty red cardboard box, within which resided the original Pong.
Perhaps “escape” is too strong a word, but it just feels like it’d be a shame to fall back on these similarities and call it a day. The charge is to try to be more, to do one better. I’m afforded opportunities he didn’t have, and failing to take advantage of them would be criminal, in a way. Did he vow the same thing about his dad, I wonder? I bet he did. Call it a hunch.
Decimated. Utterly destroyed, insofar as ping-pong is capable of destruction, and even now, a week later, I’m still thinking about what went wrong. I didn’t make it to game three. Hell, I barely made it to game two, with an abysmal 12-21 opening, followed by a 15-21 loss. The second game was closer, obviously, but the six points needed to bring it to deuce may as well have been six fathoms deep, such was the difference in skill.
I don’t think it’s a question of physicality. Not at this level, at least. This isn’t big people tennis, after all, nor is the office playing Olympian-caliber ping-pong, and how quickly it takes me to run a mile shouldn’t have any bearing on performance, right? I mean, it’s not like I need to bench a target weight to be able to swing the paddle faster. No, I suspect the issue is two-fold. I’m missing some items in my toolkit, for starters, specifically a forehand. Full disclosure, I simply don’t have a forehand, and I’d do well to procure one before the annual tournament.
But more importantly, the ability to seize the offensive continues to elude me. I’ve mentioned a good game is like a rich conversation. My recent conversations have been purely one-sided. I constantly find myself on the defensive, and instead of participating in a discussion, I’m essentially taking notes, passively so, and getting schooled in a very real sense. Does being aggressive call for more than flipping a mental switch? Does a defensive style perhaps speak to some kind of personality flaw outside of ping-pong? I’m overthinking things, clearly, but with four consecutive losses today, I’m officially in a dark stretch. And to dig myself out of this rut, indeed to find victory in any appreciable quantity, I need to give–and push–in equal portion.