I continue playing ping pong regularly. Mostly, I’m going to the club on the east side of town, which meets on Tuesday nights and Saturday afternoons. It has a lot of good players, as opposed to only a couple players coming to the one on the west side of town (my side). Last night, I played 8 or 9 matches during the three-hour period. I beat the guys I should have beat, and lost to the ones who were better than me, though I put up a pretty good fight and won a couple games off of guys who had previously beaten me 3-0 (we play best of 5 games, with 11-point games).

About 25 guys were there last night, and I’ve played probably 40 different guys during the past two months. Two guys, both named Tom, are clearly better than everyone else. They are the upper tier. Then there is a tier of about 8 guys who are very good, and fairly well matched. I was surprised last night when, in separate conversations, two different guys put me in that group. I’m definitely on the bottom end of it looking up, but it was flattering.

This is just about the nicest bunch of guys I’ve ever been around. It’s not a church thing–just a secular, city club that happens to meet at a church. But I’ve never been around a more gracious, nice, friendly, courteous bunch of guys. Not a single person there acts stuck-up, gets upset about losing, or otherwise displays a bad attitude. Like a bunch of Mormons or something.

By comparison, I think of the church softball, basketball, and volleyball leagues I’ve played in. My goodness, if you want to find unsportsmanlike jerks, go play in a church league. Why is that? And why are pastor-athletes sometimes the worst of the bunch? Would the character of the ping-pong club plummet if a preacher showed up to play? Hmmmm.

Just got back from playing ping pong. Max, our 82-year-old leader, was in the hospital for three weeks. He has a tumor, his kidneys got infected and nearly shut down, things don’t look good. But he was playing, and could still whip me. We played for a while before he lifted up his parka and showed me the colostomy bag. Hmmm. I felt guilty hitting balls past him, because it was painful watching him slowly amble to retrieve balls. But at the table, his reflexes are plenty good. “I’m still as good as anyone in Fort Wayne, any age,” he told me.

I’m not sure of that. I’ve been going to a well-developed table tennis club on the other side of town. Lots of really good players there. There are a few that I think could beat Max–not in his prime, but now. Which shouldn’t seem like such a big deal–young guys ganging up on an 82-year-old with cancer and a colostomy bag. But there are some.

After the others left, I hung around to talk to Max. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since before he entered the hospital. He said he hasn’t been in the hospital since World War 2. Pretty fortunate. Now a bunch of things are hitting all at once. I sense that he’s lonely. I know he has at least one son in town, but I don’t know if he’s close to anyone. He just seems alone. If he didn’t have an athletic outlet, I get the impression he would just shrivel up and be gone. I asked him if his hospital stay went well, if they accomplished what they wanted to accomplish. He just smiled and said, “Oh no. This thing isn’t going away.”

How do you live with that?

On the way home, I pondered on whether I should have had prayer with him. Just say a little prayer on his behalf, him and me, the only ones left in the church. That’s what a minister would do. It doesn’t really fit me–it’s not something I would normally do, just have spontaneous prayer with someone who needs it. But maybe I should. Whether or not it “fits” me is irrelevant.

Maybe next week. He needs to feel less alone. I think the fact that I, at last, hung around and inquired–with genuine concern–about his condition at least counted for something in his mind. Probably most people don ‘t know what to say, figuring his days are numbered. And they are. But he needs people to come alongside him. I’ll give it a try.

Last night, I went back to the Ping Pong club. It was a rainy night and there were only two guys there, both of them 60+ years old, and both of whom whipped my butt. Or cleaned my clock, a good Christian would say.

Max is the better of the two, and I can’t tell how old he is. But I know he served in WW2, which means he’s probably pushing 80. He’s a thin fellow, who comes wearing sweat pants and Nikes and a sweatshirt. He’s not quick laterally, like you need to be in tennis, but his reflexes are very good, and since in Ping Pong you can get away with not moving much, he does just fine. His strokes are beautiful. Having played competitive tennis for a number of years (high school and throughout college), I pay much attention to form, which is all-important in tennis. I learn a lot just by watching how Max hits that little white ball.

The other guy is George. He’s still employed, but I’m guessing he’s approaching retirement age. George and Max warm up together, and they really go at it. But in singles play, George rarely beats Max. Max just has too many shots. I enjoy warming up with George, because his style is more conducive to my bang-the-ball style, and he tends to respond to the other person’s shots more than try to control the play. George and I played two games, and he beat me both of them. We played to just 11 points, taking two serves at a time. I think I got 8 points one game. But I’m sure George can still take it up a notch or two.

I played a lot more against Max. When we get in a slicing duel, I do extremely well, because my backhand slice stroke (thanks to tennis) is very good. I can at least stay with him, though he’ll eventually win the point, most likely. But I’m pleased to discover that that’s a strength of my game. When I play Kevin at church and things get tight, I can start slicing with the knowledge that he won’t be able to keep up with me.

But Max has all kinds of spins. He’ll serve the ball with a lot of spin, and when I return it, it might veer off to the far right or to the far left–I never know which. He has a forehand shot with lots of spin that sends the ball out wide to my right; I think I’m on it, but I swing and miss it. Very frustrating. But I’ll get onto it eventually.

My backhand has always been a strength–thanks, again, to tennis–but it just doesn’t measure up with these guys. I have felt real good about my forehand. But when I mentioned to Max that I needed work on my backhand, he said, “Actually, your backhand is better than your forehand.” Which was a blow to me. But it’s because I didn’t know better. He explained that I was hitting the ball where you would in tennis, at waist level, whereas in ping pong you need to hit the ball at the top of its arc. I started doing that as I played Max–it’s very tough to break decades of habit–and it was definitely an improvement. He taught me other things about how to stroke the ball. Too many things, actually–I’m overwhelmed! But if I keep going back, week after week, I’ll be able to incorporate things into my game.

Max and I played three games. He beat me all three, and without much difficulty. I had my moments, and I’m not a pushover. But Max is the master. The previous night, he was playing full-court basketball with the youth. He also plays tennis, and who knows what else. Quite the athlete. Not as quick as I’m sure he used to be (he’s about 80, for heaven’s sakes!), but great reflexes and wonderful coordination.

I could have continued elevating my game just by playing at Anchor, improving on what I already know and struggling back to the level at which I played in college. But putting myself in a whole different situation will jump-start me to a new level. I can feel it. This ping pong club will be very good for me, and I’m extremely eager to learn. I think Max appreciates that.

I know there are correlations I can draw with the Missionary Church–putting ourselves among them, learning from people who are much better at church planting and missions than we are, discovering new spins and strokes that we’ll never learn just playing among ourselves. But I’ll let it go.