=> Best Ping-pong paddle here: http://bestpingpongpaddles.com
I played with intermittently for another four years before I was 12. Then life intervened, and I required a 36-year hiatus in the table. During my absence, the game turned into a star pastime and emerged from the basement.
However, within a midlife crisis last April, I stumbled on a tour of New York City's table tennis haunts, seeking to build street cred and master the game. Little did I know that I would come to be educated by George Braithwaite, known as the Chief, who had been a member of the American "Ping-Pong diplomacy" delegation 40 decades ago.
My first stop was the North Brooklyn Table Tennis Alliance. The alliance is just two men who want each other: one has a backyard and the other owns a desk, the latter being Alex Hansen, an Englishman who gave me my first formal lesson. Together, they conduct a grass-roots table tennis training camp and are decided to participate in the sport's reawakening. No pretension just spreading the word that is fantastic.
Despite delays brought on by stray shots which landed in heaps of yard clutter, Hansen taught me the basics of an undercut serve. I proceeded side to hit shots. The lesson was officially over when Philip Eichhorn entered his backyard and inadvertently stepped on the only ball. But for a $15 lesson, I developed a serve and fulfilled two people to perform, assuming one of us brings another chunk.
Last July I started lessons with Paul David, a top-flight player from Guyana, at Spin New York, the Las Vegas of table tennis with waitresses in miniskirts and blaring music. I seemed to be the only person in the area who wasn't hip. Or texting. While playing. Still cheaper than a buying a Vespa scooter or having an affair, my midlife crisis was becoming surprisingly pricey. 1 hour with David cost $50, and $20 for your table lease.
I discovered the way to spend a fortune on gear like throw components: blade (straight or flared grip) and rubber, the cement to bind them and special cleaners. It appears the more expensive the paddle, the more work it takes.
In Bestpingpongpaddles. com, I bought a preassembled version on sale. No cutting or gluing the rubber. I tested it in my friend Ken Greenfield's dining room. We all had room for any sort of backswing, but my $60 paddle was worth every penny since the ball trapped on the rubber for a split second, giving me a huge benefit in spin and control and ping pong tables reviews.
It was time to Check my new paddle in the New York Table Tennis Federation, a no-nonsense downtown team nearby Canal Street off Broadway where I played with a Frenchman, Jean-Philippe Kadzinski. I didn't win any points but I lost to a leading local player.
Everyone I met preached this sport's rewards, citing studies which it encouraged physical and psychological health. My boss, Bob Mankoff, the cartoon editor of The New Yorker, said it enhanced immersion and hand-eye coordination. "And it keeps you busy, even if it's simply to pick the balls up," he explained.
Mankoff is serious about table tennis, dispensing advice: "A fantastic player, such as in chess, programs a couple of shots in advance." That made no sense initially. Why plan up to now when I cannot return his function?Last October I played my first tournament, on a concrete table at Gulick Park on the Lower East Side. I dropped in the semifinals and outside of this money by two things, which I still replay in my head.
A month after, I ventured into the Polish and Slavic Center at Greenpoint, Brooklyn, a hangout for exceptional players. I had been thrown out until I hit one ball. Things went door in the Polish and Slavic Center Cafeteria, where I polished off a dozen cheese pierogi.
After a suggestion from a friend of a friend, I then showed up in a key center in Chinatown where, I had been advised, that the world's best test each other's mettle and bet. I found that the tucked-away entrance to this G-rated battle club graced with a doormat that stated, "Leave." I was unable to decipher the club's secret knock.
During my travels, I kept hearing about a Hall of Famer known as the Chief, who now runs the program at Sportspark on Roosevelt Island. In November, oblivious of his place in history, I requested him to coach me. Since the 40th anniversary of this China trip approached, the Chief eventually told me the story.
I am still losing, but am sometimes enjoying some Forrest Gump-esque rapid-fire exchanges. Last month, I returned to competition, a round-robin tournament at Spin best ping pong robot. After losing seven matches in a row, I refused to play a guy wearing a uniform with bogus patrons along with the flag of the Eastern bloc country. I announced to the group, a lot of whom didn't speak English, this was the last they would see of me. I announced to my wife that she had married a quitter.
But I recently returned to lessons together with the Chief. I am confident he'll bring me into the promised land, wherever that is.