Weathering a Midlife Crisis In the Haunts of Table Tennis

I played intermittently for the next four years until I was 12. Then life intervened, and I took a 36-year hiatus from the table. During my absence, the game emerged from the basement and became a celebrity pastime.

But as part of a midlife crisis last April, I embarked on a tour of New York City’s table tennis haunts, seeking to build street cred and finally master the game. Little did I know that I would come to be coached by George Braithwaite, known as the Chief, who was a member of the American “Ping-Pong diplomacy” delegation 40 years ago.

My first stop was the North Brooklyn Table Tennis Alliance. The alliance is two men who need each other: one has a backyard and the other owns a table, the latter being Alex Hansen, an Englishman who gave me my first formal lesson. Together, they conduct a grass-roots table tennis training camp and are determined to be part of the sport’s reawakening. No pretension, no cliques, just spreading the good word.

Despite delays caused by stray shots that landed in heaps of backyard clutter, Hansen taught me the basics of an undercut serve. Instead of stepping in, I moved side to side to hit shots. The lesson was officially over when Philip Eichhorn entered his backyard and accidentally stepped on the only ball. But for a $15 lesson, I developed a serve and met two people to play, assuming one of us brings another ball.

Last July, I began lessons with Paul David, a top-flight player from Guyana, at Spin New York, the Las Vegas of table tennis with waitresses in miniskirts and blaring music. I seemed to be the only person in the place who was not hip. Or texting. While playing. Still cheaper than a buying a Vespa scooter or having an affair, my midlife crisis was becoming surprisingly expensive. One hour with David cost $50, and $20 for the table rental.

I learned how to spend a fortune on equipment like paddle parts: blade (straight or flared grip) and rubber, the cement to bind them and special cleaners. It seems the more expensive the paddle, the more work it requires.

At PaddlePalace.com, I bought a preassembled model on sale. No gluing or cutting the rubber. I tested it in my friend Ken Greenfield’s dining room. Neither of us had room for any sort of backswing, but my $60 paddle was worth every penny as the ball stuck on the rubber for a split second, giving me a huge advantage in control and spin.

It was time to test my new paddle at the New York Table Tennis Federation, a no-nonsense downtown club near Canal Street off Broadway where I played a Frenchman, Jean-Philippe Kadzinski. I didn’t win any points but at least I lost to a top local player.

Everyone I met preached this sport’s benefits, citing studies that it promoted physical and mental health. My boss, Bob Mankoff, the cartoon editor of The New Yorker, said it improved concentration and hand-eye coordination.

“And it keeps you active, even if it’s just to pick up the balls,” he said.

Mankoff is serious about table tennis, dispensing advice: “A good player, like in chess, plans a couple of shots in advance.” That made no sense at first. Why plan so far ahead when I cannot return his serve?

Last October, I played my first tournament, on a concrete table at Gulick Park on the Lower East Side. I lost in the semifinals and out of the money by 2 points, which I still replay in my head.

A month later, I ventured into the Polish and Slavic Center in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, a hangout for exceptional players. I was thrown out before I hit one ball. Things went better next door in the Polish and Slavic Center Cafeteria, where I polished off a dozen cheese pierogi.

Following a tip from a friend of a friend, I then showed up at a secret club in Chinatown where, I had been told, the world’s best test each other’s mettle and gamble. I found the tucked-away entrance to this G-rated fight club graced with a doormat that said, “Leave.” I was unable to decipher the club’s secret knock.

Throughout my travels, I kept hearing about a Hall of Famer called the Chief, who now runs the program at Sportspark on Roosevelt Island. In November, unaware of his place in history, I asked him to coach me. As the 40th anniversary of the China trip approached, the Chief finally told me the story.

I’m still losing, but am occasionally enjoying some Forrest Gump-esque rapid-fire exchanges. Last month, I returned to competition, a round-robin tournament at Spin. After losing seven matches in a row, I refused to play a guy wearing a uniform with bogus sponsors and the flag of his Eastern bloc country. I announced to the group, many of whom did not speak English, that this was the last they would see of me. I announced to my wife that she had married a quitter.

But I recently returned to lessons with the Chief. I am confident he will bring me to the promised land, wherever that is.

Bob Eckstein is a cartoonist for The New Yorker and the author of “The History of the Snowman.”