My father's little, suburban house was a great home to grow up in, and undoubtedly the most intriguing part was the cellar.  His cellar was a clutter of exercise weights; tools - both old and new; childhood toys , some used to the point of being almost worn out, and some barely even opened; an ancient accordion that no one in the family could play; stacks of random boards; and- the glorious centerpiece of the basement - a homemade, plywood ping pong table.

I was probably in middle school when I first began to experience the true joy of serving, returning, and volleying the light weight, hollow ball.  Of course, a cellar that packed with working man's treasures had its challenges when my brothers and I would play.  Countless times we had to retrieve the ball from under stacks of boards, inside the washing machine, or from any number of boxes of miscellaneous valuables a family of five sons is likely to accumulate.  Mostly, I played with my brother David, who, three years my senior,  was closest to me in age. At first I was mediocre at best, but I continued to play any time he offered.  Perhaps it was the fact that I had his attention all to myself, or perhaps that by being in the cellar we were away from the noise of the rest of the household, or perhaps I really did love ping pong right from the start, but as our teen years moved forward, we found ourselves volleying that little white ball more and more. My skills improved, and there was no better affirmation than to hear David say, "Nice return" after successfully making a difficult shot.  

And we'd talk.  We'd talk about annoying or nerdy classmates, weird teachers, and girls - although I had little to no knowledge of this particular topic to bring to the ping pong table.  We'd laugh about the mess that was the basement we played in, and the limited space we had for such an active game.  (Specifically, there was a lally-column virtually touching the side of the table.  If you could place the ball close enough to it, it was impossible for your opponent to return.  He would smack the post with his paddle instead.) 

When he'd come home from college, we spent many more hours catching up at opposite ends of the ping pong table.  I distinctly remember one conversation when he was home from school, and I was beginning to really progress with juggling.  It went something like this:

"I'm really into juggling, and I could see myself doing it a long time." I told him,  "I could even see myself doing it until I'm 40!" 

In all his big-brother-home-from-college wisdom, he replied, "Why stop at 40?"

Now, at 63, and having just completed my busiest summer of performing in years, this conversation still makes me smile.  Almost half my juggling career has been since turning 40!

These days we don't see each other much, but when we do, we inevitably find time to play ping pong if there's a table anywhere in the vacinity.  Most recently, we played at a family reunion at his house in New Hampshire.  And others played too, of course.

And one of these other opponents was my new grandson, Michael-Aidan.  No, I wasn't playing against a newborn; he's my new grandson, but he's already 15. Our daughter, Naomi, married his dad a year ago, and they are currently living with us here in Maine.  During the first school year that they lived with us, getting to know Michael-Aidan had its challenges.  He's a quiet kid living in a new home with a new step-mother with new people in a new state going to a new school.  He's been through a lot. And Sue and I both work full time during the school year, so opportunities to do things with him are rare.  Then came the family reunion.  He played a lot of ping pong, and took to it quickly, although it was his first time trying it.  

Then, just yesterday, through the magic that is google marketplace, we got a used ping pong table for $30. Delivered!  He and I have been playing a lot these two days.  Like my early days playing with my brother, my grandson has yet to win a game, but he's been scoring in double digits most games.  And we're having tons of fun.  And a few times I've heard my older brother's voice come out of my mouth as I've said, "Nice return."

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