The first time I stepped foot in the pine-scented mud near the games room, I had never thought a sport, or even a serious game, could be a part of my future. Seven-year-old me was gliding through life, taking the easiest possible route through everything. It was a shock for me once I hit middle school and other people had expectations for me. So, when I squelch back through that same mud with the clementine orange shirt of a C.I.T. on my back, my mindset is different than the foosball days of old. I’m finally ready to tackle the ultimate game: Ping Pong. 

My eyebrows knit to the rhythmic click-clack of ball on paddle. Muscle memory takes over my legs, dashing side to side while I chase the ball with my wrist. A quick flick sends the ball sailing over the net, deflecting off an inaccessible corner and into the floor. Cooper sighs as I slide him the paddle. 

“4-3, your serve.” I say with practiced ease. We both know the score isn’t important. What matters is the flow of the game, staying in the mindset that keeps you reactive, dexterous. Suddenly a white line travels at blistering speed down the length of the table, and I register Jonah’s “Boo-yah!!” before my arm even starts moving. “Nice one.” mumbles the counselor, who barely glances from his phone. 

Jonah glances at his watch and his eyes widen. “Shoot, we’re gonna be late!” We toss our paddles into a plastic bin and dash out through the back entrance, onto the steep asphalt road where young me skinned his knee so many times.  

This competitive ritual has become routine. Every day, we spend our hour-long break in the games room. The room is empty except for the counselor, a college-age guy named Jamie, who stares at his phone with blue light playing over his face. He says he’s good, but he never plays either of us.  

The next day, a new challenger approaches when a tall, gangling counselor pays a visit to the games room. His frizzy ginger hair sticks up as he ducks through the doorframe. The scent of B.O. slowly fills the room while he waves.  

“Yo.” He picks up an extra paddle and asks to play. Jonah and I nearly shove each other out of the way getting to the table. “You first.” He waves me over and gets into serving stance.  

His first serve is surprisingly slow. I follow it with my eyes and return it from corner to corner, but he’s three steps ahead of me. He calmly sails his paddle arm to the ball and flicks his wrist.  
 

We go back and forth for a dozen or so strokes, but he seems almost bored while effortlessly defending every angle I hit him from. Volley after volley, point after point, he shuts me out of the game. I get a few lucky spikes, but by the end it’s clear who the better player is. He shakes my hand firmly and I retreat to the wall, my face heating with embarrassment. Jonah fares slightly better than I did but still loses badly. The counselor ambles out through the door with a somewhat condescending thumbs-up, leaving us to stew. 

A realization suddenly dawns on me. It came to me that the only people Jonah and I have played for the last month have been each other and 8-year-old kids. We’d been playing in a vacuum, and for the first time we were aware of the fact we were big fish in a small pond. If we wanted to truly become ping-pong masters, we couldn’t be satisfied with being the best CITs. We had to reach higher. 

The next day, Jonah and I play with steely determination, silently settling into our rhythm. New moves emerge along with ways to compensate for our weaknesses. For every ball that makes it past my side of the table, every time I fail to notice a spike, I gain valuable insight into the inner workings of the game. I knew I was growing as a player, and I could tell Jonah was too.