Back to Ping Pong

After reading Brad Manning essay, "Arm Wresting with My Father", I was reminded of how my mom and I would use to go downstairs and play some ping pong.  We used to play around once a week, and we were very competitive.  There was never no clear winner in our ping pong games.  One day I would win, then the next she would. Some days were off days, and on some days I would be hitting shots as quick as the speed of light.

Ping pong for me was a way to take my mind of things. Forget about homework. Forget about life.  The important thing right then was whether I emerged victorious from the half hour battle.   We would play a best of three, 11 point games.  I remember that even if I lost, it didn't matter, because after ping pong meant ice cream.

Yesterday, I challenged mom to a ping pong match.  Her eyes lit up and replied, "You're on!".  Long story short, I ended up winning, but we both played horribly, our rallies only lasting two or three shots.  The effect was the same though, each of us walking up the stairs out of breath, and grabbing some ice cream after.  After so long I had forgotten the fun of ping pong, so I proposed that from now on we play more often.  She agreed and said that next time she won't go easy on me (As if. I could tell she was just as determined as I was). Just like old times.