The Lion in Winter: Cheng Yinghua

In "The Snows of Kilimanjaro," Hemingway wrote of a leopard, frozen to death, on the heights of Africa’s highest mountain. It is a startling image. What would such a magnificent animal be doing so far from where it belonged? Was it insane? Misguided? Suicidal? Or daring to do what no leopard can do, an ill-fated explorer against overwhelming odds?

I could not help but think of this image as I watched Cheng Yinghua compete at the ITTF Pro Tour’s U.S. Open. Cheng, the magnificent warrior, born in November of 1958, hampered by tendonitis in his talented right arm, preparing to take on the young lions of International Table Tennis. His contemporaries have long since retired. They coach. They teach. They reminisce by the pool about old glories and long-distant battles. Even the remarkable Grubba, younger than Cheng, has called it a day. Wang Tao, now chubby and comfortable, plays in the U.S. Open’s Over 30 division, leaving the Pro Division to younger, hungrier lions.

By virtue of his World Ranking, 60 something, Cheng is pre-qualified and placed in the draw. He awaits the selection of his opponent in from the qualifying rounds. It is the Frenchman, World #212, Sebatien Jover.

Jover enters the court with a record of 3 wins, 0 losses. He has won 6 games and lost only one. Trampled behind him are Wilson Reynoso, (8,12), Keith Alban (12,15) and Jens Lundquist (-12,18,18). He is young, fast and determined. Lean, low and viper-like, he has emerged from his ‘B’ seeding to take out the higher-ranked Swede and the American Swedish-trained junior. He wants more.

Cheng is taller, stockier, more upright, his head swiveled forward on his neck, peering in. His knees are 41 years old. His back is 41 years old. His training is decades out-of-date. He is here. Against all odds, he is here. From obscurity in China, from years of being hidden away in the Chinese Table Tennis Factory as his prime slipped away, from years spent learning a new language, acquiring an American Citizenship, from daily coaching sessions in which any old white man, any 8-year-old kid, anyone with $25 can take an hour of his time, an hour on his feet repetitiously reining it in, feeding multi-ball, blocking feeble loops, he is here.

The match begins, and the stands begin to fill behind this court with American spectators, friends and fans of the old man. We see what we have come to expect. Cheng, the silent, stone-faced intimidator surprises the young Frenchman with his devastating backhand loops and counters. There is no weakness here. He controls play with his forehand, endlessly varying his spin and pace, and even drop-shotting the younger man’s attacks to his forehand. Cheng takes the first game at 13.

We are relieved. Cheng still has it. A three straight victory would give him breathing room before the next round.

But Jover has seen the worst the old man can do. He applies his advantages in game #2. Jover is quicker, faster, younger. He will outwork the ancient one, this relic of the 1980’s. He is too fast for Cheng. The crowd can see it now. He attacks the forehand. Cheng counterloops. He attacks the same spot, and Cheng blocks. He attacks the same spot again and Cheng whiffs. Over and over, Jover establishes his dominance. I am too quick for you, he whispers. I can recover and outwork you, he says. This is my time, old one. And he wins the second game convincingly at 12.

How quickly the tide turns in our lightning fast sport. Now a victory for the American-by-choice seems an impossibility. Sebatien Jover has found his range and is energized. His winners are crisp and sharply hit. The holes in Cheng’s defenses are widening. His serve is modern and he has found the ones most confusing to Cheng, the proven winners.

A game apiece. And now Cheng digs in. He must not fall further behind. He is here to win. He is Cheng Yinghua, and he is a champion. But Jover’s loops are falling from Cheng’s backhand. Jover is that microsecond faster that looks like an eternity to a spectator. He exhorts himself and motorized, relentlessly attacks the man who is nearly old enough to be his father. Now we see what we have rarely seen from Cheng. Unforced errors creep in. Serves miss long, or find the net cord and bounce back as he tries to load up on his weapon. Game to Jover at 19. Cheng trails two games to one in a best of five.

In hindsight, everything is clear. But now, the present, the future obscured, Cheng’s chances seem dim. Jover is upbeat. Perhaps he is over-confident. He is only 21 points from advancing. The stands continue to fill, and now spectators are standing behind the bleachers as other matches of the round conclude. They see the Umpire’s scorecard and nod, knowingly. Jover 2, Cheng 1.

But Cheng is doing what Cheng has always had to do. Cheng is adapting. Tactics are evolving and Cheng will win. Cheng sees. Cheng talks to himself as he retrieves errant balls. Is this self-talk, or an attempt to apply psychological pressure against the youngster? He glares before service and determinedly applies himself to the task. Jover’s quickness is neutralized as now-familiar patterns of play are exploited. Shots that had won cleanly in the second and third game are blocked back into play. Serves that had aced and confused are now read properly and returned, often to Jover’s elbow, forcing him to back away, back away and try hitting winners from impossible distances, or opening vast expanses of the table. Jover now seems chronically out of position, and Cheng, like some immovable mountain, is always in the path of his victory. Cheng beats Jover in the fourth game and forces a fifth, deciding, game..

Now all the other matches of the round have ended and only these two are left. Is the Frenchman wondering what all the fuss is about? Is he distracted that the crowd cheers even Cheng’s edge balls? In the fifth, he appears determined to end this farce. He again motorizes himself and seeks to exploit the heavy legs and aged back of his opponent. But Cheng is having none of it. Early in the fifth he stings a clean backhand winner off Jover’s loop, a shot unseen for nearly two games, and the crowd cheers lustily. Trailing 14-11, his corner calls a timeout, but it backfires. Cheng’s serves three straight winning points, and at 17-11 is driving the match home. Jover wins four of the next seven points, handing serve to Cheng at 20-15. The point develops into a backhand exchange and for only the second time in the match Cheng steps around his backhand and picture-perfect sends an untouched forehand loop down the line past a gaping opponent for match point.

"Well, of course!" the crowd murmurs as it drifts away. Jover is only World #212. After his victory over Lundquist, he may rise to #115. Cheng is top 100, of course. But I am having none of it. In my mind I see a leopard climbing steadily through the snow.

Later, a rumor reaches me at ‘Station B’ that Cheng has fallen to Werner Schlager in three straight games. "He was over-matched," I am told.

That evening, I see Cheng sitting alone on the deck over-looking the Inter-Coastal waterway. Through the barrier of language and with respect for the huge gulf of skill and experience that lie between us, I ask the man how he did against Schlager. "Too strong," Cheng smiles, "Too strong." And that is all that passes or needs to pass between us.

The stars deepen in a darkening sky. The air is cold, deadly cold. Somewhere beyond the leopard’s reach lies the summit. Beyond his reach, but not beyond his imagination. With nothing waiting for him below, the leopard continues to climb.