(Note. This follow-up to my Ping-Pong Oddity is an account of the Chinese Team’s reciprocal visit to the U.S. in 1972. I toured with them and immediately afterwards did this extended write-up. Though it’ll be reproduced here in serial form, it’s otherwise presented very much as I wrote it 28 years ago.)
CHAPTER I
"Friendship first, Competition second." For two weeks it was the line held to, firm as a handshake, a smile, a look in the eye, as the Detroit-assembled Chinese and American ping-pong players, following their flight pattern, looped in and out of the lost horizons of the East, moved westward to the perspectives of Memphis and L.A....
Apr. 12, 1972.
Forth from out the "Glory of the Skies," that Pan Am 707 "Jet Clipper Friendship" --its red flag afurl to those given proper security clearance waiting in preassigned welcoming positions in the sun--came the Chinese, reciprocating, resurrecting, the American Team’s Easter visit to Peking almost a year ago to the day.
How had they landed here in the U.S.? Thanks must go to the National Committee on U.S. China Relations, a non-partisan educational organization, financed in part by the Ford Foundation and the Rockefeller Brothers’ Fund--"the right wing of the Chinese Scholars," as one observer put it--who assisted the hosting USTTA in raising the estimated $300,000 necessary for the Chinese visit.
For Graham Steenhoven, President of the USTTA and the man who led our Team, supervised our conduct, in faraway China, it was something of a miracle, a dream come true. As "Town Crier" Mark Beltair, in one of those covering Detroit papers, put it, "...what a fine gesture it would be for Chrysler Corp. to loan Graham Steenhoven to the government to give lessons in diplomacy to our ever-fumbling State Department....The man’s simplicity, in the very best sense, and sincerity have been evident from the start." And he quotes Graham’s remark from last year, "I don’t really care whether they play a single game of table tennis....I just hope they’ll come so we can show them our country and try to repay some of the very real hospitality they gave us."
First out of that heavy door of protocol burst the Chinese photographers--waving their German cameras, shooting pictures of our cordoned-off photographers waiting to shoot them.
Then came Graham, alone, smiling and waving. (He’d flown to Ottowa that morning to join the Chinese at the close of their reciprocal Canadian Tour.)
And, following Graham, 30-year-old Chuang Tse-tung, World Champion in ‘61, ‘63, and ‘65--thought by many to be the best table tennis player who ever lived. Pronounce his name, well roughly, "jwONG tseh doong"--though as one sympathetic translator was quick to admit, "We’re faced with a spelling system that reveals nothing about how a word should be pronounced." Chuang is a "leading member" (that means in the egalitarian vernacular, "the head"?) of the All-China Sports Federation. He’s also Vice President of the TTA of the People’s Republic of China, and Deputy from Peking to the National People’s Congress. ("It’s like having Hank Aaron in our Congress," somebody said.)
And following Chuang--this flowering diplomat who, 25 pounds heavier now than in his best playing days, has visited at least 30 countries--came the rest of the Chinese carrying matching flight bags. Some 34 strong: players, officials, interpreters, journalists, two-thirds of whom it soon appeared, dressed in Western shirts and ties or not, could not or would not speak much English.
Down below to meet them, under the ever-watchful, walky-talky eye of some unknown number of buttoned-down plainclothesmen and uniformed officers of the Detroit Police Department, the Wayne County Sheriff’s Office, the Michigan State Police, the special agents and consultants from the White House, the state Department, and the National Committee, were, not to be forgotten, the American players.
Of course they’d been briefed ahead of time by USTTA International Chairman J. Rufford Harrison ("Ruf," I heard someone on the National Committee call him). "Please," advised Rufford, "no overt political activity. Please, do not react to demonstrations--it will embarrass the Chinese if we have trouble." Trouble? In the briefing room, Mrs. Steenhoven was telling me over coffee that she’d answered the phone at 6:00 a.m. one morning to hear, "I hope you burn in hell. I’m going to see to it that your husband loses his job."...Trouble? Somebody wants to know about the bus that will take us to the Sheraton-Cadillac Hotel. "It’ll be here when we need it," says Harrison. "Only the driver and someone else knows where it is. It’s been locked up since last night. Don’t worry, though, it’s been debugged--they’re no bombs on it."
Of some embarrassment, however, if not to the Chinese, to the Americans, was John Tannehill. He had not originally been put on the Team because he hadn’t responded to the requisite forms requesting his availability and uniform size. Turns out, though, he really did want to be on the Team. Further, he had distinguished himself by his play in the U.S. National’s where he’d lost in the semi’s to our yet to be beaten Champion Dal-Joon Lee, a world-class South Korean player who’d emigrated to the States and was dominating play here.
Steenhoven felt that as John was with us on last year’s historic trip to Peking he ought to be in Detroit welcoming the Chinese Team. But he was not at all convinced that he owed John the courtesy of playing him. So, at the last minute, John arrived at the airport in his familar Washington overalls, accompanied by two unknown Chinese friends, while the rest of the U.S. Team was in uniform. The rest of the Team, that is, with the possible exception of D-J Lee. I can remember only that his wife Linda and three-year-old son Jeffrey--the little boy was suited if D-J wasn’t--were forced to stand behind a security fence (Jeffrey had a gun) far away from the welcoming party.
And what an unusual picture our players presented. Heads all together. Head Ski and Sportswear right down the line. The men in new, expensive blue turtlenecks and blazers. And white trousers (of too often untailored length--but never mind). And blazing in a buttonhole a red flower for each. Cowan, for example--no one had seen him like this before. Forget about the varied shoes and socks, what obviously we had here were men of goodwill come together in common commitment to a friendly people-to-people exchange.
And the girls! Wow! In orange turtlenecks and drip-dry, won’t wrinkle, all-white pantsuits. Why, the jacket alone was a $50 item. What American Team had ever looked so good?
Except for Tannehill in his overalls. And, oh, oh, worse, one of his mysterious Chinese friends with some strange little box out there conspicuously in line with him. How had he, Tannehill’s unknown companion, advanced to where it seemed he’d be part of the flash-bulb-blinding reception? Finally one of the security agents turns up his hearing aid and discovers him. "Hey you, who are you and what’s in the box?" Does it matter? Goodbye box, goodbye Chinese friends.
John, it turns out, wanted to present to the Chinese not only the hand of friendship but also a pair of his Washington overalls--which, as several people remarked, wasn’t out of line at all, was it?
Now nice, dull but friendly speeches all around. Sometimes droned out by planes criss-crossing smoke above....After a time my mind wandered...."Greetings from the President." (Nixon? Steenhoven? Me? Come the 1st of June I would be the next President of the USTTA? The ballots would be counted soon.) John Scali, a special consultant to President Nixon, was talking about how all the flowers here were not yet in bloom, but that, as the Chinese travelled the countryside, they would see many flowers and they would symbolize our ever-improving relationship. (Why, by the way, was I not given a flower for my buttonhole? Because, like Tannehill, I had no uniform?)
On into the bus we clambered--the Americans and Chinese packed together in friendship. And crowding the aisle were press and cameramen eager to record the phenomenon. On, out past the out-of-the-way hangar where our visitors had landed, we saw a delegation of Chinese Studies students with red banners. "Long Live the Friendship of the Chinese and American People! Warm, Warm Welcome from the Motherland!" Signs like this I would see again and again during the trip.
Tannehill asked an over all of a question of 22-year-old Liang Ke Liang, member of the winning Chinese Men’s Team and Men’s Doubles finalist with Chuang at the last World’s. "Would you," our John asked, "like to have a date with Olga?" While Miss Soltesz waits silently (blushing perhaps?), the exchange between the interpreter and Liang takes some time. Finally, "Yes," comes the answer, "we met before in Japan, in Nagoya at the World...."
Olga turns the conversation to tennis, which she says she plays every weekend. This is quickly taken up and thought about and served round to several people nearby. The Chinese interpreter replies, "In table tennis, concentration is much more important. You’ll soon be sweating even if you haven’t had so much physical exercise. You’ll be sweating from the concentration."
Most of the questions asked centered not surprisingly around table tennis. Miles remarks to Liang that as a long-time defensive player himself he’s happy to see another defensive player. To which Liang says (for some reason he’s taken out his Japanese-made Armstrong bat, inverted on both sides), "I used to play defensive, now I play offensive."
Chang Shih-lin, the Chinese player-coach, the so-called "magic chopper" who, with Women’s Champ Lin Hui-ching, is the World’s Mixed Doubles Champion, picks up the conversation. He remembers that he had once practiced with Miles and makes the point that Dick was the forerunner of his own chopping game.
"Here’s a great conversation!" shouts an ABC cameraman, bringing two of his crew stumbling our way. Miles tells Chuang that the Hungarian player Istvan Jonyer, though not Tibor Klampar (they’e the Hungarian World Doubles Champions), likes to play against the robot. Does Chang like to play against it? No, says Chang with a smile, he prefers to play against people--people to people.
Much ado is made about the special sign that’s coming up on the side of the Freeway--"We Welcome You To America." Who paid for this sign? someone in the Chinese party asks. No one knew.
We ride into Detroit with our helicopter/motorcycle-escorted motorcade, the police flashing their bubble-like lights to clear our way. Then, on getting off the bus, we walk into the street-level of the Sheraton-Cadillac, past curious shoppers and businessmen, to the elevators that have been roped off by security men, and go up to the 16th floor. There we’re each given a little blue button that makes us instantly recognizable. In our rooms we look about, and, ready to freshen up, reflect on the story going round that a police dog had been sniffing here and there searching for nitroglycerine.
Then down, quickly (though for some curious reason the elevators kept getting stuck) to lunch. Local Chinese restaurants wanted to provide at least breakfasts for the distinguished visitors, but weren’t allowed to, apparently because of the hotel’s "union rules." Team Captain Jack Howard spontaneously said to a nice-looking young lady that it was disgraceful to carry security to such lengths, and when that nice-looking young lady reported him to her newspaper...well, it was poison to some of our officials. Anyway, along with the standard hotel fare, the required "La Choy Soy Sauce" (so it came from Archbold, Ohio) was soon available on demand.
After lunch the Chinese are presented with several gifts, the most interesting of which is a Polaroid Camera. It’s a very crowded, confused room we’re in. "If the press can’t stay out of the way of our guests, then please get out," says a Mr. Frank Carpenter, the man responsible for such media relations. "The Polaroid people want to put on a good show."
"Ruf" shuts the door in the face of a camera--or rather a man--that’s not a Polaroid. Immediately the door swings open again to show the indignant yet resigned face of the ABC cameraman. Yes, he has a job to do. His camera must catch the Chinese and their cameras--or better yet their instant delight at their cameras.
Only what is this? None of the Chinese seem to care about taking the cameras out of their boxes. "Don’t you have any interest in taking pictures?" I ask an interpreter who’s just offered me a Chinese cigarette. "Sometimes," he says, "when I go to the park with my family or when I’m on vacation."
Several discreet minutes later I try again--with another interpreter who is wearing a Square of Heavenly Peace button. "Will you keep this camera for yourself or will you give the camera to a friend of the family or to some poor person?" Too late I think, There are no poor people in China, are there? What am I doing? Why am I just mechanically trying to make conversation? Poor people. Why in the world did I say that?
"Your question is very new to me," says the interpreter. "I have never given any thought to having a camera."
Later, Tannehill, who is not to be with us long, is explaining the picture in his own instamatic eye. "The Polaroid Camera tends to point out the technological inferiority of the Chinese, whereas the present I tried to give them...."
Now that the meal’s over, there will be a little rest, followed by some practice at Cobo Hall. The press, it’s made clear, will have an opportunity to have a "direct confrontation" with the Chinese at the Chrysler factory tomorrow. As for now, thank you, no individual interviews.
Later that afternoon there is segregated practicing. "I’m telling you, the Chinese are so precise it’s pathetic," says one of our players watching them, shaking his head in admiration. "They hit the ball so much harder, they’re so much quicker--to try to play seriously against them is ridiculous." There’s some talk of how hard the Nittaku ball is (it was used at the last World Championships). One Chinese interpreter is surprised to learn that the Super Barna, to be used next year in the Sarajevo World’s, is even harder. "Has this ball been finalized yet?" he asks.
Chang Shih-lin and Li Fu-yung, three-time World Men’s Singles finalist, are given a Super Barna by Miles. Li Fu-yung, I might add, is thought something of a handsome movie star by several of the women in our group. "But the Chinese," wrote one reporter, "do not make heroes of their sports stars in the same way Americans do." Li has told him, "We play in public and people know our name, but there is no special treatment."
For a few moments Chang and Li can’t keep the Super Barna in play, and look at one another curiously, ironically. It’s a scene right out of a movie--a training film.
One of the American players (I think it was Errol Resek to his friend from last year, Chiu Yen-liang) said to a Chinese (of course when any of the players talked it was almost always with a Chinese or American interpreter) that he’d noticed he, Chiu, had changed both his forehand and backhand since last year’s exhibition matches. Questioned whether it was good he’d done this, though in fact he certainly seemed to have made much improvement, the young Chinese made light of it, smiled, and answered with a question of his own, "How much could I have progressed in only one year?"
"He’s being polite," explained Perry Link, the Harvard interpreter. "To deny a compliment is Chinese. To say ‘Thank you’ is American."
Later in the conversation, the Chinese player said,"There is no such thing as luck. The only thing you can talk about is progression. Either you progress fast or slowly."
And now, since all of us have worked up an appetite, there is the Mayor’s Banquet. To which not all of us are invited. Cowan--no, he’s not been excluded, but he doesn’t have his customary energy. Indeed, he’s been accompanied on the trip by Bobby Gusikoff who, looking out for him, will have to take him back to L.A. tomorrow. So Cowan, feeling nothing but love, though he’s sick, will be no trouble.
But Tannehill in his Washington overalls is something else. "Did Tannehill’s non-conformist behavior have an effect on his missing person status?" asked a reporter earlier. "Good heavens, no," answered Ruf. "We didn’t consider that as a factor in the least."
As for Linda Lee and Jeffrey, they were out from behind the fence, and, with respect to accompanying D-J to the banquet, were now sitting on it.
And there were others--eight in all--who were again asking to attend. President Steenhoven is put in an embarrassing position. It’s difficult for him to ignore the requests. "If the stewardesses can come, why can’t...." Finally he is direct--calls Mrs. Gribbs. And, yes, it’s o.k.--except now at the last minute there is no time to go upstairs and try to find a uniform for Tannehill. Perhaps in the morning he will outfit himself properly? As for now he obviously can’t go like that.
At the buffet at the Mayor’s mansion one of the speakers makes the point--as if it were a kind of grace before the meal--that "If there is to be peace, there must be understanding. If there is to be understanding there must be communication." This theme--People of the world unite"--finds its fullest expression in the buffet itself. Namely, in the American shrimp, Swedish meatballs and pickled herring, Danish ham, Polish sausage, Ukranian stuffed cabbage, German potato salad, Kosher dill pickles, Jewish and French breads, French green beans, Italian salad, Spanish olives, and Afro-American black-eyed peas. No matter how you arranged it, quite a smorgasbord.
Mayor Gribbs toasted his Chinese guests with cold duck and spoke of his Polish ancestry and of how his forefathers, peasants all, came looking for the freedom and opportunity they couldn’t find in their own land. Deputy Mayor Greene, a black man, kidded that, unlike the Mayor and his wife, his ancestors "had been in the United States for 300 years." To which Mrs. Gribbs with a laugh responded, "The true American." She then identified herself as an "Afro-Saxon"--which brought loud laughter. Mr. Greene went on to say, in something of his Flip Wilson manner, "They wanted us so much they didn’t want us to come voluntarily, they forced us to come."
The Chinese showed their appreciation by giving the mayor’s six-year-old daughter, who wore both a USTTA flag pin and a red Square of Heavenly Peace button on her white bo-peep dress, some intricately colored eggs in a plastic case. An Easter reminder?
Ziggy Bella and his gypsy fiddlers entertained. As Mr. Bella said to one reporter, his opening number was called "Fascination" because "we’re all fascinated by these people." By "these people" he meant of course the Chinese.