My Love Language is Ping Pong

I am eight and trying not to cry, standing by the basement ping-pong table. To start our game,

you slam it fast with spin, and it collides against my racket and rolls into the net.

“You’re so bad,” you say and sigh, shake your head.

I swallow the lump in my throat, refuse to let tears fall in front of you, “You’re worse.” I win the

next point, your shot falling past the table onto the carpet, “I’d be embarrassed if I hit it that far

out.”

“Do you realize the score?” you retort. “You actually suck at ping-pong.”

I dissolve into sobs and run upstairs to Mom.

***

Despite these vicious exchanges, we keep playing. After a few months, we’re in the basement by

the table every day. I become good, and you become better. When friends are over, we teach

them the same way we learned, holding up a red-white STIGA paddle, demonstrating the grip,

the forehand push, the backhand drive. When there are four of us, we teach them the rules of

doubles-matches, to hit diagonally for the serve, and then play from there. During Thanksgiving

dinners with our grandparents and their lifelong friends, we slip downstairs before the apple pie

with vanilla ice cream is brought out.

From the basement, I hear someone upstairs tell my mom, “Your kids get along so well.”

***

It’s Sunday afternoon, and I’m ten, and I’m ravenous after my soccer tournament. I open the

fridge, rummage among the Tupperware for the Mamma Lucia’s penne with vodka sauce I’d

picked up yesterday morning. Instead, I see the empty takeout container, streaked with traces of

marinara, in the recycling bin.

“Rahul!” I shout, and you come down, see the container.

“My bad.” You shrug, grabbing a clementine from the fruit basket.

“Did you not see Mom’s text?” I snap, slamming the fridge door shut.

“Find something else to eat.” You peel the orange as you leave the kitchen and head back

upstairs.

A couple hours later, I hear you coming down. I know it’s you by your slow gait.

“Wanna play ping-pong?” You’re standing in the entryway of the dining room, where I’m

studying for a vocab quiz.

I smile and nod. Neither of us are good at apologies; ping-pong is how we say sorry.

***

Favorite paddles in hand, we come up with a game to play, as in you come up with the game and

I enthusiastically agree, because I am eleven and worship you and the things you make.

“I’ll set the pace to start,” you say, and I nod earnestly, awaiting further direction. “I’ll hit lightly

and then you hit soft back, then I’ll hit harder and you follow that pace until we’re rallying fast

and with power.”

When we start to play, I am tentative, afraid to mess this up, the precious thirty minutes you’ve

carved out. As we keep rallying, I become more relaxed, in my element. We’re both laughing.

You slam the ball and it flies toward me, and then slips to the other side, out of my paddle’s

reach.

“That was so good!” I gush. The next rally, I hit a drop shot and you just barely miss it.

“Not bad,” you say with a shrug, and I beam.

***

It’s spring of your senior year and my freshman year, and we’re playing for the first time in

months. It was your idea, something to take our minds off final exams the next week.

“How’s school?” you ask, as you slice the ball toward me. You’ve always been quiet, so I’m

surprised by your chattiness.

I let the sound of the ball against the table fill up the silence as I think about it, “It’s tough, but

good.”

You ask about my ultimate frisbee game tomorrow, and I ask about your yearbook superlative,

and we forget about the score and end up rallying for hours, the ball in the space between my

racket and yours, until Mom calls us upstairs for dinner.

***

At summer camp a couple years later, I participate in the camp-wide ping-pong tournament and

win, earning bragging rights and a gift card. I don’t remember where I could use the gift card,

which of the matches I won, who I played. All I remember is pushing through throngs of kids,

running to my phone, calling you. I scrolled to our last conversation -- it startled me how long it

had been.

“Rahul!” I shout, “I won!”

“Not bad,” you say, your voice calm as always, “Did you use drop shots? And slices?”

No one else knows how to ask those kinds of questions. We’ve never said “I love you” to end our

conversations; we simply say “Bye” and one of us cuts out first.

Now, you say, “We’ll play when you get back” and I say “For sure,” and a week later, I’m home.

We grab our usual rackets (yours the red STIGA, mine the black one) and make our way to our

respective sides of the table (me by the fraying sofa and you by the Pop-A-Shot). You toss the

ball across the table, let it bounce, “Zero zero.”