We had a ping pong table in the basement of our house. Like those everywhere else, the net came loose too easily, always seeming to sag, and the expected shelf life of a ping pong ball was shorter than my crew cut.
I have been a grandpa now for several years willing to accede to every wish of the little ones I chase around. Never wanting to give them a moment of distress. I have lost countless arm wrestling matches with my granddaughter, never snatched victory from defeat in Candyland and have come in a distant second in our races between bicycle with training wheels and old man seeming to run in quicksand.
But, when I was just beginning my own journey, during those moments of battle in the basement of my house in the late 1950's, victory was not assured. In fact, I can't ever recall climbing the steps after playing a game against my dad where I basked in the warm glow of reaching 11, or 21, before he did. I am sure it must have happened but that memory has not survived the decades.
Often I emerged from the dungeon with tears flowing. And a ready excuse for the waterworks. My favorite go-to was "it's not that I lost. It's that I twisted my ankle." Even then I must have understood that I was fooling no one.
Tomorrow is the 43rd anniversary of my father's passing. He would have been 104 now. He barely made it past 60.
What I wouldn't give for one more game against him in the basement. I bet, with him being well over 100, I would now stand a fighting chance.
And if he still found someway to emerge victorious, I am sure it would only be because of the twisted ankle that severely hampered my efforts.
Beautiful... hard to believe it has been 43 years. He was so young. xo