The Secret Life of a Ping-Pong Wizard (3 page)

Quite the opposite.

“Oh, I'll be at soccer tryouts, all right,” I said. “No ball is safe around this foot.”

Just as I lifted my foot to show it off to him, another big red rubber handball came flying off the court and landed accidentally on my shoe. I hadn't even seen it coming. Frankie gave me a look that said, “Don't act surprised, Zip. Be cool.”

“Nice kick, Hankster,” Ashley said.

I think McKelty was impressed, because he started to brag, which he always does when he's feeling like someone else might be better than he is.

“I'm going to be the first guy picked tomorrow,” Nick the Tick said. “And not only that, I'm going to do the best soccer demonstration in the Parade of Athletes.”

“Right, and my name is Bernice,” Frankie fired back.

“Well hello, Bernice.” McKelty grinned, thinking he had come up with a real clever comeback. He burst out laughing, and a spray of crumbs and seeds shot out at us through the gigantic space between his two front teeth. An aircraft carrier could sail right in between that gap.

Suddenly, a shrill whistle sounded right next to my ear. I wheeled around and was just about to say “Hey, what do you think you're doing?” when my mouth froze up mid-sentence. It was Ms. Adolf, holding a brand-new whistle she had added to the lanyard around her neck. It was grey. I ask you: Where in the world can a person even buy a grey whistle?

“Pupils, recess is officially over,” she called out in her playground voice, which is strict like her regular voice, only louder. “It's time to get back to your desks so we can begin your fifth-grade studies.”

“And that means you, Hank Zipzer,” Principal Love said.

I hadn't even started the fifth grade and already I was wondering if I'd ever even see the sixth grade.

THE NEXT DAY, I spent the morning with the exciting, sweet, kind, loving, and always-has-a-good-word-for-me, Ms. Adolf. And to make things even more wonderful, we had a thrilling, action-packed, supercharged morning doing long division worksheets. She even threw in a few problems with the ever-popular decimal point.

I looked down at those sheets and all I could think of was the Hopi Indians. That might seem strange to you, but it wasn't to me. You see, the Hopi Indians wrote their whole history on the walls of their caves in a hieroglyphic code called pictographs. Ms. Adolf's long-division worksheets made about as much sense to me as those Hopi hieroglyphics. Actually, the cave paintings make more sense because sometimes you can see a buffalo or a warrior on a pony. What I had in front of me on my desk made my eyes spin in my sockets. They were going so fast, they were like propellers that were going to lift my butt right out of my seat. Thank goodness for the desktop that held me in place or I would have shot right through the ceiling.

At 10:14 that morning, Ms. Adolf said my second favorite word in the English language.

“Recess,” she announced.

In case you're wondering what my first favorite word is, it's weekend. Except when I'm really hungry, and then it's pizza.

By the time I had walked down the stairs and through the double doors and out onto the playground, I was starting to feel happier.

That's what my grandpa, Papa Pete, always tells me. I always think of my glass as half full of chocolate milk, because I love chocolate milk, especially Nestlé Quik when you make it in a blender. We're talking smooth.

I looked around to decide how I was going to spend my fifteen minutes of recess. I saw Frankie and Ashley pick up a soccer ball and start passing it to each other.

“Come on, Zip,” Frankie called. “Dribble with us. We have to practice for tryouts later.”

The truth was, I was nervous about the after-school tryouts. What if I didn't get picked for a team? I know, I know. That doesn't really happen because there are no cuts in this league. But what if I was the last one to get picked? That does happen. I'll bet you know someone it's happened to.

“No thanks,” I hollered back to Frankie. “I'm in a dribble-free zone right now.”

“Come on, Hank,” Ashley said, kicking me the ball. “How are you going get better if you don't practice?”

“I'm going to think about that as I walk past the swings,” I said. I kicked the ball back to her, and of course it went in totally the opposite direction. It landed right in front of Nick the Tick.

“Nice pass, soccer nerd,” McKelty said. “I hope you don't get picked for my team.”

McKelty was standing next to Joelle. They were standing close together, like boyfriend and girlfriend. I know the thought of McKelty even having a girlfriend is too icky to let into your mind, but sometimes the truth is hard to take.

“Nick tells me he's really good at soccer,” Joelle said, looking up at him with her squinty little eyes. “He says he never misses the ball.”

“Sure, if I had feet the size of tables, I wouldn't miss the ball either,” I fired back.

I just have to take a minute and say that I do occasionally have great comebacks.

“Oh yeah, watch this,” Nick said. He pulled back his big, thick leg at the end of which was his size-twelve Nike and let loose on the ball lying at his feet. I swear the ball said “ouch.” It took off like a missile, flew across the yard, and landed smack in the middle of Ms. Adolf's backside. It was as if she had a soccer ball magnet under her grey skirt.

“Ooouuuph,” she said, sounding like a wrestler who's just been pile-driven into the mat.

McKelty ran away, leaving me staring eyeball to eyeball at her.

“Henry, I think you owe me an apology.”

“Ms. Adolf, I promise you I never touched that ball. I'm allergic to that ball. That ball and I do not get along.”

“Then perhaps you can explain how that ball hit me in the derriere.”

I'm no rat, even when someone as obnoxious as Nick McKelty is involved.

“You're finding out what I already know. Soccer balls have minds of their own, Ms. Adolf.”

Lucky for me that at that very moment, Luke Whitman thought it was necessary to show Katie Sperling his pet African centipede, Bugsy, which he had brought to school in a sandwich baggie.

“Gross!” Katie shrieked. “He's putting that hairy bug in my face!”

As Ms. Adolf turned to rescue Katie and put Bugsy back in his baggie, I took the opportunity to run as far away as I could, and ended up in the kindergarten area of the playground.

“Hi, Hank,” said a little voice from the sandbox.

“Mason!” I said. “My man!”

Mason Harris Jerome Dunn is just about the cutest little kindergartner you'd ever want to see. I met him during summer school, and we became friends. He wears Donald Duck shirts every day. The guy is a Donald Duck nut and an artistic genius. No kidding. He drew a picture of the Brooklyn Bridge in the sand that looked so real, I wanted to walk across it and buy some Chinese dumplings at my favorite dumpling shop in Lower Manhattan.

“I'm not a man, Hank. I'm a kid.”

“It's just an expression, my man. What are you drawing?”

“A pirate ship,” he said.

“That's really cool. Want me to help you?”

“Uh-huh.”

I picked up a stick and started to draw a cannon on the deck of Mason's ship. He was busy making a treasure chest. I hate to admit this—even to you—but I really love to play in the sand. No one there is counting your number-two pencils and telling you that fifth grade is serious business.

Suddenly, Mason got up.

“Now I'm going to play ball with Sam Chin.”

“Hey, wait. Why are you leaving?”

“I'm practicing soccer for the Parade of All Feets.”

“That's ‘athletes,' dude.”

“Okay. Bye, Hank.”

Mason ran over to another little kindergarten guy who was holding a soccer ball. He kicked it to Mason, who stopped it with his foot.

“Want me to pass it to you, Hank?” Mason called to me.

“Sure, fire away,” I said, getting up from the sandbox. This might be good practice for tryouts. I figured I'd be good enough to kick it back to a five-year-old.

Mason passed the soccer ball to me. It came straight and fast. He was good! I saw the ball coming and I put my foot out to stop it. I thought I had everything under control, but I missed it by a mile. The ball rolled right past me, bounced into the sandbox, and landed on the pirate ship.

“Wow, Mason, I'm sorry.”

“That's okay, Hank. You'll learn.”

This isn't a good sign for my tryouts later. I'm a full-fledged fifth-grader and I can't even stop a ball kicked by a kindergartner
.

“Hey, guys, I've got an idea. Why don't you play by yourselves for a while?”

“Do you have big-kid stuff to do?” Sam Chin said.

“You bet I do,” I said. And I walked away trying to look like a big kid with somewhere to go.

You're not going to believe this, but those long-division worksheets were starting to look really good.

THERE'S A SECTION OF CENTRAL PARK called the Sheep Meadow, which is a big, flat field just up from the carousel. Maybe you've heard about it. It's pretty famous because sometimes at night during the summer, they have concerts where tons of people crowd together to listen to music. I went there one time with my parents to see the Dave Matthews Band, but when Dave came out and started to play, everyone stood up and all I could see was a lot of adult rear ends. I think I'll wait until after I have a growth spurt or two until I go to a concert there again.

The soccer tryouts for all West-side kids were being held in Sheep Meadow. By the time we got there, there were hundreds of kids from many different schools all over the field. Ashley's mom had picked us up from school and walked us to the park, since my mom was at work in our deli, the Crunchy Pickle, and my dad had to take Emily to her allergist appointment. I was glad Ashley's mom took us, because she's a doctor and all she likes to do is sit on the bench and read articles about heart valves and skin rashes. She doesn't watch the tryouts, and she doesn't really care who's a good player and who's not.

Lots of different coaches were scattered around organizing how they were going to do their team tryouts. Mr. Rock had told Frankie and me to find Coach Gilroy. His son Patrick was in the fifth grade at Trinity School, and he was organizing a team for ten-to-eleven-year-old boys.

Mr. Rock said Coach Gilroy would be wearing a green and white jersey. I looked around the field and spotted him talking to a few of the dads.

I knew I was in trouble the minute I saw him. Coach Gilroy was a huge, muscular guy who was standing with his foot on one ball, and had three other balls tucked under his arm. He was a four-soccer-ball coach. All the other coaches on the field were holding just one. And listen to this: His soccer shorts were ironed with a crease down each leg. Who irons soccer shorts? Only a guy who's crazy-serious about his soccer, that's who.

I have this thing about sports balls. They cause me lots and lots of problems. Except bowling balls. My grandfather, Papa Pete, is a champion bowler and he taught me his technique. On a good day, I can bowl two strikes in a row, which makes me feel unbelievably good. But other balls of the non-bowling type are really tricky. Last year, with a lot of help from Frankie and Papa Pete, I learned to pitch a softball. But that's all I can do. I mean, I can't field or hit or do any other softball-type stuff.

See, I love sports. I'm just not good at them. In my sessions with Dr. Berger, she has explained that a lot of kids with learning differences don't have good hand-eye coordination. That means that my eyes and my hands, or in this case my feet, are not talking to each other. Or if they are talking, they're not listening to each other very well.

“All right, players, take a knee,” Coach Gilroy said in a big voice that sounded like Darth Vader's. He had come over and gathered up about twenty of us guys. As we huddled together, I smelled something rotten, like a fish with bad breath.

I looked around and, sure enough, there was Nick McKelty, taking a knee right next to me. First I had to get him in my class. And now he was on my soccer team. That was way too much McKelty time for me!

There was nothing to do about it, so I settled down on one knee and tried to look like I was comfortable in that position. All I kept thinking about was why you had to be on one knee. Wouldn't it be so much more comfortable to sit on your rump, which has built-in cushions? I guess it's because “All right, players, take a rump,” doesn't sound very sporty.

“This is no-cut soccer,” Coach Gilroy began, “so as of now, all you men are on the team. You're the Green Hornets. What are you?”

“Green Hornets!” everyone shouted. His son Patrick, a tall kid with bright blond hair, was shouting the loudest.

“I can't hear you,” Coach Gilroy shouted back.

“Green Hornets!” we shouted even louder.

“What's the matter, cat got your tongue?”

“Green Hornets!” I shouted so loud, I thought my tonsils were going to fly out of my throat.