The Secret Life of a Ping-Pong Wizard (7 page)

I MUST HAVE HIT THAT Ping-Pong ball against my bedroom wall twenty thousand times that night. Don't get me wrong. It's not like I became a Ping-Pong wizard or anything. I was able to get a second hit only about nine times, if that. But hey, that's nine more times than I ever did before.

I couldn't wait to tell Dr. Berger about this. She knows that I have difficulties with hand-eye coordination. When Dr. Berger first explained hand-eye coordination to me, I really didn't pay that much attention. What she was talking about seemed really complicated. But when I started to practice hitting the Ping-Pong ball against the wall, it became crystal clear that this hand-eye coordination thing was a problem for me.

“There's the ball,” my brain said as the ball bounced off the wall.

“Where?” my eyes said.

“Right there.”

“Whoops, we missed it,” my eyes answered.

My other problem was that it was really hard to keep track of the ball. I'd start seeing it, and then it would magically disappear. The next thing I knew, I'd hear it hit the leg of my desk and roll under my bed with the dust bunnies.

“Just keep watching the ball, Hank,” I said to myself. “How hard is that?”

Apparently, really hard for my particular brain.

I remember when I was in kindergarten and went to David Platt's birthday party. The party favor was one of those wooden paddles with the rubber ball on a rubber band. Everyone else grabbed their paddle from the party-favor bag and started hitting the ball. They smashed that ball up and down, back and forth on the paddle. Not me. When I tried, my ball went in every direction—hit me in forehead, even. I could never get it, so I made up an excuse and told everyone that I wasn't in the mood to play with paddles and I was going to do it at home. When I got home, I put that paddle in the party bag, where it stayed pretty much forever. I can admit it to you now: I hate that toy.

As I practiced hitting the Ping-Pong ball, though, I was determined to get it right. I just planted my feet in my room, sunk my toes into my carpet, and hit that little white ball against the wall over and over and over.

“Hank,” Emily shouted from her room. “That sound is driving Katherine nuts.”

“She's already nuts. How would you know the difference?”

“Kathy and I do not appreciate your sarcasm. And, just for your information, she's trying to hide behind the twig in her cage and her eyes are blinking up a storm.”

“Maybe her eyelids are sending you a message in Morse code: ‘You are weird, and everyone knows it.' ”

“Iguanas blink when they're stressed!” Emily shouted. “If you knew even the slightest bit about reptiles, you'd know that.”

“Here's a news flash for you. My brain rejects all reptile knowledge.”

Our voices must have gotten very loud, because my dad appeared at my bedroom door. I could tell he had been working on a crossword puzzle because he was wearing two pairs of glasses, one on his forehead and one on his eyes, and his blue mechanical pencil was shoved behind his ear.

“Hey, hey, what's going on in here?”

“Hank keeps hitting that stupid ball against the wall,” Emily said, coming to the door of my room. “It's driving Katherine and me crazy.”

“Don't annoy your sister,” my dad said. “Enough for tonight.”

“But, Dad, you always tell me that practice makes perfect. How am I going to get great at my new sport if I don't practice?”

“Ping-Pong is not a sport. It's a hobby.”

“Not true.”

“Yes, true. Soccer is your sport. Ping-Pong is your hobby. And doing well in the fifth grade is your goal. Now, don't you have homework to finish?”

Why is everything always about homework with him? It's like there's only one subject rattling around in his head. Did you do your
homework
? How much
homework
do you have? How's your
homework
coming? Did you finish your
homework
? You can't listen to music when you're doing your
homework
. Why don't you start on tomorrow's
homework
? It's good to get a leg up on your
homework
.

“I just have a math worksheet,” I said. “I'll get up early and finish it.”

“No, you won't, because I happen to know you have a dentist appointment tomorrow morning,” Emily the walking calendar reported.

She was right. Somewhere way back in my brain, I remember my mom saying that I had a tooth-cleaning appointment with Dr. Crumbworthy. That man talks about flossing like regular people talk about baseball or movies or comic books. He just lights up at the mention of it. And you should see him demonstrate the correct flossing method. He actually breaks out in a sweat from it.

So here's what I was looking at. Do math homework. Go to bed. Get up extra early. Go to dentist. Listen to him scrape my teeth with that pointy metal thing of his.

I looked at the Ping-Pong paddle in my hand. Just a minute ago, we were having a really good time.

Boy, how a night can change.

DR. CRUMBWORTHY IS MISSING the fourth finger on his left hand. Well, actually not the whole finger, just the part that has the fingernail on it. Ordinarily, that wouldn't be such a big deal, but when a guy has his hands in your mouth and he's missing part of a finger, you wonder if another fingertip is going to fall off on your tongue. At least, that's what I was wondering while he poked around in my mouth with his mirror and silver pointy thing.

“How's life treating you, Hank?” he said.

“Ine,” I answered. Okay, you try to say
fine
when you have a mouth of metal and fingers going into all different parts of your mouth.

“Doing well in school?” he asked.

Why is that always the second question adults have to ask you after finding out about your health? I mean, why can't they ask if you've seen any funny movies or had a great slice of pizza or ridden on a really cool roller-coaster? You'd think a guy like Dr. Crumbworthy would know better. He's a kids' dentist, and everyone in my neighborhood goes to him to have their teeth cleaned and their cavities filled. He should have learned by now that kids don't really want to discuss how they're doing in school when that instrument with that little hook at the end is in your molars looking for cavities.

“Ure,” I answered.
S
's are hard too.

“Is there any reason you have a Ping-Pong paddle in your lap?” he asked.

I forgot to mention that I was holding the Ping-Pong paddle while I was at the dentist's. I had two reasons. First, because Winston Chin had told me to carry it around everywhere and make it my friend, and I took that very seriously. And second, because I thought that in case Dr. Crumbworthy poked me too hard, I could hold up the red side of the paddle and wave it around like a stop sign.

There was no way I could explain all of that to Dr. Crumbworthy with his nine and a half fingers in my mouth. It wasn't really necessary, anyway, because he likes to keep the conversation going all by himself. I guess you learn to do that when the people you're talking to can't answer.

“There is nothing like a good game of Ping-Pong at the end of the day,” he said. “Have you discovered the Ping-Pong Emporium over on 81st?”

I nodded. How did he know about our club?

“That's a great place,” he said. “I've been playing there for a couple years.”

Wow, it was lucky I hadn't run into him the day before.

“It gets pretty hot in there by the end of the night. I like to wear a tank top and sweats, but when I get really sweaty, I peel off my sweats and rally in my Speedos.”

At that thought, I almost bit his finger off. I'm not kidding. Dr. Crumbworthy doesn't know how close he came to having eight and a half fingers.

“You should try it,” he said. “Just wear Speedos under your sweats.”

I didn't have the heart to tell him, and he wouldn't have been able to understand me, anyway, but I'll play Ping-Pong in my Speedos on the day the Mississippi River flows backward.

“I've got a great backhand,” he went on. “Even Maurice can't get anything by me when I unleash my wicked topspin.”

This was so weird. Two days ago I would have thought this conversation was crazy, and now I'm understanding everything he's saying.

“I'm thrilled to see you taking up the sport,” Dr. Crumbworthy went on. “Not a lot of young people your age understand the excitement that Ping-Pong has to offer.”

Suddenly, Dr. Crumbworthy took his hands out of my mouth and spun around.

“I've got a great idea!” he said. He went to a keyboard he keeps on a shelf in his office and started to type.

One thing I haven't told you about Dr. Crumbworthy's office is that there's an electronic banner running along his wall that flashes the news of kids in his practice. It's like the runner you see at the bottom of a TV screen if you watch a news channel, which I never personally do. But instead of flashing news about the president's trip to Europe, or the baseball scores, his flashes contain news like “Congratulations to Heather Payne for trying minty dental floss.” Or, “Hats off to Luke Whitman for using a toothbrush instead of his fingers.” My sister Emily's name is always flashing up there for getting the “Clean Teeth Award.” Not only for her but for Katherine, which isn't that easy since iguanas have 188 teeth to keep clean.

As Dr. Crumbworthy typed, I watched the red letters flash up on the screen. I recognized my name, of course, as it rolled by. But since I'm not the fastest reader in the world, the message had to scroll by a couple of times before I could read the whole thing. It said, “Congratulations to Hank Zipzer for exploring the excitement of Ping-Pong!”

I have to admit, it felt pretty good to see my name up in lights, flashing like one of the Mets' names on the big scoreboard at Shea Stadium.

Even when Dr. Crumbworthy started poking around in my mouth again, I didn't mind. My brain was busy. I was thinking that if I won some tournaments, I could get Dr. Cumbworthy to post my scores. Everyone in my school would see, even Kim Paulson. She'd think they were cute. I'd get famous and people would ask for my autograph on the street. I'd go to the Olympics on the American Ping-Pong team. My picture would be on a box of cereal, with a tiny Hank Zipzer doll inside, wrapped in cellophane.

“Oooowww.” The sound came flying out of my mouth before I could stop it. I held the red side of the paddle up in the air.

“I'm sorry, Hank, did I nick your gums?” Dr. Crumbworthy asked.

“It's okay,” I told him, “because I want my teeth to look really good when they take my picture for the cereal box.”

Dr. Crumbworthy looked confused. He didn't know what I was talking about, but he'd find out soon enough.

AT MY SCHOOL, when you come in late from a dentist appointment, the first thing you have to do is check in with Mrs. Crock at the attendance office, which is just outside Principal Love's office.

Mrs. Crock is a really nice person, but she takes a long time to fill out a late pass. She types one word on her computer, then takes a bite of the salad that is always sitting in a little plastic bowl next to her.

“Hi, Hank. I assume you have a note from your dentist,” she said, smiling at me and showing a bit of radish between her teeth. Or maybe it was tomato. Whatever it was, it definitely had come from her salad bowl.

“Here it is,” I said, pulling the note out of my back pocket along with some light blue lint and a green Tic Tac.

While I waited for her to finish the pass, I noticed a big piece of poster board on the wall. It was the sign-up sheet for the Parade of Athletes. A whole bunch of kids had already signed up. Joelle Adwin had signed up to do a gymnastics demonstration. A third-grader named Christopher Hook had signed up for trampoline. Frankie and Ashley were going to demonstrate soccer dribbling and passing. Funny, they hadn't asked me. Sarah Stern, a really sweet girl in Emily's class, was doing karate. Sam Chin had signed up for Ping-Pong. And Nick McKelty had the unbelievable nerve to sign up for advanced soccer drills. The only thing he was advanced at was tripping over his own big feet.

Finally, Mrs. Crock finished, but just as I was leaving the office, Principal Love appeared. He has this mole on his cheek that is shaped like the Statue of Liberty—and both he and the Statue of Liberty mole were giving me a nasty look. I'm not kidding, I think the mole was frowning at me.

“Late again, I see,” Principal Love said.

“Oh no, sir, not late. I was at the dentist's.” I tried to slide out the door so I could get to recess. Principal Love is not known for his short conversations.

“Ah, oral hygiene. One of my favorite topics.”

“Like I always say, good oral hygiene is what makes a man a man and a tooth a tooth,” he said. I could tell he was gearing up to repeat himself, like he always does.

This time he surprised me, though. He didn't repeat himself.

“Is that a Ping-Pong paddle you're holding?” he asked.

Before I even got a chance to say yes, he cleared his throat and went on.

“I don't mean to brag, but I am proud of the fact that I earned a merit badge in table tennis at Boy Scout Camp in Minnesota.”

My foot was tapping. It felt like there was a train engine in it.

“Sir, I am really fascinated by your summer in Minnesota, and I can't wait to hear more about it. But it's just that, right now, I've got to—”