Not So Ordinary

by Whitney Ping On the surface, I thought this to be an ordinary story and wondered if others would think the same. Its main subject would rather shy from the attention, preferring to cast the limelight on something or someone he thinks to be more interesting, more worthy. And after all, a good portion of the population eventually gets placed in performing the same simultaneous roles that he does, one day playing the part of the idol, the next the teacher, the chaperone, the general. But that this particular man may still stand out among the large cast of men makes me think that perhaps the ways in which he does what he does is not so ordinary, that maybe this is a story that should be told, if only because he is that rare kind of a man who deserves recognition.

I call him Dad. Our sport has many of these Dads. These fathers who float through the tournament gyms, occasionally pacing, always watching; those devoted table tennis fathers who hand down their interest for the sport to their children. I followed this trend, thanking the trees, as my father gave up on tennis as his primary form of exercise after moving to Oregon. (Portland’s terrific natural landscape proved too much for his sensitive allergies, and thus Dad mini-sized tennis and moved indoors). My first racket was a recreational one; at eight years old, I didn’t know or care about the difference, nor did it matter. And so it began with my sister Emily and I running around the room in our house with the hardwood floors, every so often colliding in frenzy to control the ball that we pitter-pattered against the walls— until we came home one day to the sight of our chemical engineer father, a man with little inclination for building things, putting together a ping-pong table.

And it continued: Playing barefoot in the garage led to a half-hour drive to the table tennis club on Saturdays where Emily and I mostly dawdled, more interested in the chocolate malt balls dished out from the vending machine, than the inedible orange ones zinging around us. The great thing, spectacular even, was that our father never pushed this sport on us, as all of his kids pursued other interests as well. On weekend mornings, with four soccer-playing daughters, Dad, with great assistance from my mother, split his time as best he could. We’d sometimes head for the table tennis club after our games or practices, only to realize that I hadn’t brought shoes with me other than the soccer cleats I had on, or that I lacked socks after tae kwon do. My father’s way of introducing me to the world of table tennis was with an approach simple and yet extraordinary— contradictions, I know, but those few young and gifted players who have turned away from the sport because of the burning pressures from their parents will perhaps recognize my table tennis upbringing as a gift.

Dad did not pressure me, but when he saw that I began to find my own love for the sport, one that has been crucial and necessary to my development as a player, my father sat in my corner and never left. He coached me but never said more than he knew, cautious that his pen-hold style would wrongly influence the way I played, which turned out to be a natural penchant to an all-around shake-hand game. My first national championship came in the Under-10 Girls’ Division, and others followed after, but I never placed much significance on them. Whether I was promising as a young player or had talent as some said was lost on me because I never heard it from my father. I don’t know if that is good or bad, but I eventually came to learn, albeit through more times of never understanding, that despite the lack of compliments, my Dad had a lot of faith in my capabilities. This was evident mostly through the long conversations we would have mapping out my future: what I wanted to achieve in table tennis and what would be necessary to get there. We still have many of those conversations today, although they have evolved over time to include academic and career goals. These talks have always been my most pleasant moments with my father as we chat away, dreaming of all that my future may entail.

One detailed plan was drawn out for fun when I was in the ninth grade with the ultimate goal of competing in the Olympic Games. Things didn’t always work out the way we envisioned, and this was normal, but I stayed on the path of our rough plan and worked hard. Through a great partnership and friendship with Jasna Reed, I competed in the doubles event at the Olympic Games in 2004. When Jasna and I played the North American Olympic Doubles Trials in Atlanta, the final stage that would determine my Olympic berth, Dad didn’t accompany me as he normally does to important tournaments. I did receive a phone call though right after my first, and in hindsight, most important match of the Trials. Having read the scores of the match online, the closest of battles that extended itself to the seventh game against very formidable opponents, my father told me over the phone that he had tears in his eyes. Perhaps it helps to understand what this win might have meant to my Dad, although I can only speculate— to have known that our years of rhetoric and planning were actually turning into reality— when I say that I have never once seen my father cry.

But back in the beginning years as a table tennis player, there were no plans. The advantage of having a father with elite-level experience or connections was not on my side, but Dad more than made up for it in his commitment. Before we knew about training abroad, and being relatively limited by the opportunities in Oregon, I was able to learn and improve by playing in a number of tournaments in the Pacific Northwest, California, and Canada. My family often treated these short trips to tournaments as mini-weekend getaways as my Mom and sisters came along for the ride, and it soon was clear that I went on more “family vacations” than any of my friends. When my sister Emily stopped playing to pursue other interests, and my younger sisters found my table tennis matches to be quite boring, the family car rides to tournaments turned into Dad and daughter going solo. We would typically leave in the early morning when heading up to tournaments in Seattle or Richland, with my father waking up at four or five in the morning while I slept until our arrival. I love him for that, and loved him more when he stopped to pump gas during one early morning drive and bought me a bag of Skittles, which I had not requested but cherished more than any candy I can think of.
Although a father’s job may be easiest when candies can make heroes, I doubt it is ever that simple. My early teenage years were probably the hardest on my father because I developed a strong and stubborn aversion to losing. My Dad sometimes had to deal with his grumpy teenage daughter, and add to that one who could nurse defeat for hours or days, especially as my improvement stagnated and the losses became more frequent than I was used to. It was not that I was a particularly poor sport, though I had those moments too and do apologize, but car rides home were not always pleasant for him, I’m sure. However, my father rarely failed me as a source of comfort— except when a firm father was necessary to quell an unacceptable attitude— maybe because he knew that my own anger was more scolding and criticism than would be necessary. Even recently, I was feeling quite disappointed at my sub-par play during one tournament and walked back to my Dad in between games standing in my corner holding my water. He simply brushed my hair out of my eyes and told me to keep going.
And so I will, and the plans for my table tennis future will continue until there is a reason to stop. And why not when it’s been an enjoyable and mostly successful time?

It’s funny the things our minds choose to remember, and not only that, what they deem as special and significant experiences. These subtle occurrences that pass by without consequence are ingrained and saved; as young kids grow older, we feel more mature when uncovering the mystery of a memory that was previously spoken or seen. I was probably ten years old but recall overhearing another club member praising my Dad when he said that he had never seen another father spend so much time with his children and family and happily too. The revelation: my Dad is a good table tennis father, and what’s more, my Dad is a good father. I think now that all I’ve ever received from my father was the most he could possibly give me. Not so ordinary after all.