Ping Pong in the Park
By Susan Rachel Roca
We played ping pong in the park. My son and I. Though, it didn’t start out that way—not at first.
We started with walks along the Hudson River path on our way to t-ball games on the grassy field in the spring and soccer games in the fall. We would stroll through our little lower Manhattan neighborhood dotted with greenways and trees that led to tucked away treasures like a 14-foot slide, outdoor art, water trickling over smooth stones, and a ping pong table.
It wasn’t long before he noticed the sturdy green table on wheels that sloped slightly on the pebbly asphalt walkway. One summer day, my son slapped his small hand on the green surface and asked if he was allowed to pick up a paddle and play. He didn’t notice that the nets drooped a bit in the middle or that the paddles, while still sturdy, were somewhat worn. It didn’t matter to either of us. From then on, we played ping pong in the park.
At first, the game was about me darting between pedestrians chasing the ball that zoomed right past his paddle. But he picked up the game quickly, and soon enough, he was lobbing the ball over the net after the first bounce. Over time, he whizzed it back to me with great speed, and I dutifully returned it. Most of the time.
It’s difficult to play ping pong outside in a gentle breeze with pedestrians and strollers ambling past you, but we did it anyway. In summer and spring and the early part of fall, we headed to the curved pathway where the little hut sits crammed with games and toys, and I’d trade a driver's license for two paddles and a ball. If the wind off the Hudson was too strong, we would noisily roll the table across the pavement to the east side of the hut. Sometimes a park employee would peek out from the hut and ask what we were doing. Mostly they stared at their phones and paid no attention to the boy growing like a weed in the park. They didn’t notice how rapidly his ping pong game was improving.
Sometimes we rolled the table to hide from the glare of the hot afternoon sky, but that meant it was in the way of the strollers and pedestrians, and we'd soon roll it back as to be polite ping pong players. Sometimes the wind was stronger than our resolve to play ping pong, and the breeze would blow the ball out of play before it even hit the table. Those days we returned the paddles. There will be other, better days to play, we’d say.
It wasn’t long before we brought our own paddles—better than the worn ones at the park. Every now and then, ping pong pretenders would play for longer than the unstated polite amount of time. They’d unsuccessfully try to bat the ball to and fro before they tired of chasing the ball down the winding path. While we waited patiently, my son would stand up from the bench by the swing set and gently slap the rubberized paddle in his hand as if it were ticking off minutes of play, anxious to be next.
He continued to improve, and our time under the shade trees was spent seeing how fast we could rocket the ball across to each other and then how far we could stand away from the edge and still return the serve. And sometimes the pedestrians who previously ambled by us now stopped to watch the ball ricochet through the air. Sometimes the ball would fly back and forth two dozen times or more before one of us missed. Soon enough, it was often me, and I could no longer win the game that I had first taught him.
On occasion, younger kids waddled up to the table with a mom in tow. Their little hands gripped the edge of the table and they asked, “Can I try?” with excitement. We’d pause, and I’d ask my son to take a moment and let them try. He wasn’t a particularly patient teacher, but he’d let them bounce the ball or take a swing and a miss. Then I would remind him that he had been their age once and just as curious.
It didn’t take long before we knew which table was the better of the two—the one that had weathered the outdoor conditions more successfully—and we'd gun for that one if we had a choice. If both tables were occupied, as they were many times in nice weather, we reluctantly lumbered to the cement table positioned on the river’s path that shouldered a stronger wind off the Hudson. The gusts of the Hudson annoyed my son and the sun in my eyes annoyed me, but we played on until one of us called uncle. But not before we tried our best to make the most of the adventure.
On occasion, one of the tables would be under repair, having sustained damage from its outdoor plight or sometimes from older teenagers and their tricks (or so we were told). When one of the tables sustained damage from vandalism, my preteen son didn’t understand why someone would vandalize something so many enjoyed. We talked about how not everyone respects property that isn’t expressly theirs. And that we were privileged to live in a neighborhood where ping pong tables with nets sat in a well-manicured park. I felt privileged to have these conversations with a preteen son who didn’t mind spending an afternoon with his mom.
When we tired of playing, which took a while on particularly pleasant weekends, we flopped on the usually damp grass populated with toddlers and their caretakers, sometimes with a sandwich or treats from home. We would talk about school and silly inside jokes and nothing of much importance. We watched the jet ski groups skimming and bouncing along the shoreline or the occasional cruise ship or tugboat or tall sailboat or waterways ferry lumbering to the state across the way. The words that bounced between us on those afternoons were as meaningful as the silence that swished across the table as we played. I hoped that he was taking it all in and tucking it away for when he needed a special memory of home to make him feel better. I was.
He slowly inched towards his teenage years and soon enough, a closed bedroom door and texts and DMs to a universe unknown to me were the norm. Girls, or rather one particular, lovely girl appeared. Ping pong with mom took its rightful place on the shelf where the good memories are stored.
We didn’t stop talking. In fact, when the teenage times got tough, we talked more. Rapid fire back and forth, sometimes at high speed and high volume. Sometimes at dinner or on occasional late-night walks along the Hudson pathway when the streets were quiet. There were times I just listened and other times when I tried to dominate, convinced there were life lessons I needed to impart before he slipped away to follow his own path. But he learned to volley back not just with speed, but with teenage fervency on subjects he was just learning and opinions he was just forming. Ever since he began to talk, I had been taking notes of amusing or unintentionally insightful nuggets he had uttered. The ones from the last few years are stored in my phone under “Notes.” He knows that. And every once in a while, during our talks, out comes a whopper and we look at each other, say, “Yup, that’s a Note,” and laugh.
I dropped off my son, my only child, at college this fall. He was the right combination of excited and nervous for this next step. So am I. He’s only a short train ride away, but I already miss his presence in the apartment, at the dinner table, in the hallway, and of course, when I pass the ping pong tables in the park. We haven’t played in a while, but I am sure either of us could pick up a paddle and with a few practice volleys, get right back into the swing of the game. I reminded him that somewhere on campus there is sure to be ping pong table where students gather, stories are told, and friends are made. He just needs to pick up a paddle and play.
Guest essay written by Susan Rachel Roca. Susan lives in NYC where she works for an entertainment company. As a recent empty nester, she is determined to use the hours she previously spent dedicated to onsite mother duties to write down the many stories that have been rattling in her head. This is her first of what she hopes will be many attempts. She will continue to mother from afar and mine those experiences for additional story material.