This was originally posted on blogger.

Yesterday I went to my first ever ping pong competition!

The last time I went to a competition like that, a series of one-on-one matches, was when I was in elementary school playing chess. My gracious father (happy Father’s Day!) accompanied me on a few Saturdays to these rather quiet, solemn affairs. Kids of various ages would whip each other’s asses on viscious terrain while the parents would sit in the break room and drink coffee. My opponents in chess where always more serious than I was, and normally better. They would write down every move in a booklet so they could play back the game later. I would play from the heart.

I walked in the room with my devoted team of supporters – Etienne, Leon, Penny, and Gary – to a room of kids. Ranging from six to ten years old, most smaller the ones I teach at cram school. I’d call them all meimei (little sister) or didi (little brother) because, well, they were all that small. I was welcomed to the registration table, however, and was grateful to see a couple people above the age of fifteen (by far the minority).

In the next two and a half hours I proceeded to get my ass whooped. My first loss was against a small boy (age 7-ish) in yellow – I’ll call him Tomahawk, named after his viscous side-spin serve. Every ball he served whipped to the left, and I felt woefully unprepared. After one game (best of five), we broke and the boy got water from his parents. I went to my friend and ping pong partner Etienne. He said, “Rohan, I’ve played against a guy like this before. You can’t take his bait, you have to counter-act his serve. You need to go right to go left.” With a room full of children, their parents, and flying balls I couldn’t exactly master the Tomahawk serve response, and soon enough lost three consecutive games.

Second up was another kid, slighter bigger in blue. I called him Puma because that was the brand of his shirt but he sure acted like one, too. Puma played hard and fast, taking every forehand as the opportunity to strike. I felt I had a fighting chance against Puma because unlike Tomahawk, his serve was normal. But Puma beat me fair and square. Even more frightening, though, was his stance and poker face. Win or lose, Puma showed no emotions. After winning the first game his dad urgently hit him on the forehead and seemed to imply how Puma should be doing better than this. Etienne commented, “it’s sad, man, never feeling like you’re doing enough. That kids going to end up with some kind of inferiority complex.” I nodded, feeling like playing little kids is a little bit of a lose-lose situation, but forged one (and proceeded to get whooped two more games). To his credit, Puma shook my hand after the game and walked away with little joy on his face.

My final match was with the oldest opponent I had played that day (he looked to be fourteen or slightly older). Jiayou, I shouted (“good luck!”), and he smiled back. I won one game this time and danced in a circle! My friends cheered, knowing that was my goal for my first tournament. The Teenager played well, but not perfectly, which made it a good match. He won 3-1 and thereby qualified for the final elimination tournament (I didn’t).

I left after that, happy to leave the pressure-cooker environment. I reflected that one-on-one competition is no easy thing. The other sports like that – ping pong/tennis, chess/go, martial arts – all take a form of seriousness at the professional level. You are left on your own to savor victories and accept defeat. There’s no element of chance. Just you and your opponent.

On the floor upstairs, my friends I watched the advanced tournament going on simultaneously. Mostly still young kids, maybe averaging a couple years older. One boy holds back tears as he plays. He raises his left hand to signal to his opponent that he’s not yet ready to start, sniffles, and presses on. On a different table, a girl is locked in an epic duel with a boy that obnoxiously shouts “DUI!” every time he scores a point. She develops her own call, “Wei!”. But eventually she suffers a defeat, three to one, like my match against the Teenager. She’s only eight-years-old, I learn from her father; dexterity ten times greater than my students at school. “Ni hen lihai,” I say (you’re really good). She smiles at me. After a day of losing I reflect that the hardest part about sports is learning how to lose even when you give it your all.