I take no pride, and there is no ego in saying this: I have beaten Dave in all but one of our ping pong games.
All.
Not one or two or three or four or five or six. But 7.
Nor am I going to shy away from sharing how, for the last seven points, he’d devolved into a kamikaze pilot spiraling toward Earth while trying to clay-shoot ping pong balls. I’m not going to say it was a disaster, but I’m also not going to say it wasn’t.
It is certainly a treat to have an equal in a sport I very much love. That he loses gracefully and doesn’t make me sleep on the couch is a major bonus. Even though I’d be fine with sleeping on that extra-plush Crate & Barrel performance fabric for a night.
Truly, the second of our three-game match was worthy of being televised. We passed up the 21-point stopping point, as the winner needs to win by two. Up, up, up we went, all the way to 24 each, and I cliff-hung myself through the final two points, squeaking out a victory.
I don’t know how.
He’s very good.
Also, I’ve returned to worrying that my front right tooth is about to fall out.
Care for a little trip down memory lane?
My sophomore year—the year I’d gain access to a driver’s license and take my mom’s Buick Century 70 mph over the hill near Cemetery Road to give myself and my friends that wee-in-your-stomach feeling—I also played fastpitch.
The day in question was a typical April Showers Pacific Northwest day, and like many practices, we had to move it indoors. That cooped-up feeling put everyone in squirrely moods, even my mid-twenties, still-a-baby-himself teacher, Mr. Denning.
His “Tee it up, Jaclynn,” got a chuckle out of me as I watched him straddle up to the empty tee, a tennis racket in hand, having just come inside from coaching tennis.
After putting the ball on, I stepped behind him, mouth agape in hilarity, as his follow-through slammed me right in the kisser.
Instantly, my hand went to my mouth, and rushing toward me was my best friend, Lesa. Having heard her tell the story MANY times, I know that when I revealed the damage, I asked, “Is it gone?”
Her face told me I needed to know.
I was rushed to the dentist for a root canal and temporary tooth. I remember the dentist’s light above me, the sound of metallic jackhammering at a mini massacre, and my dad’s face coming into view.
But just as quickly as he stepped in, he stepped out.
Turns out he didn’t have the stomach for it.
Later, I was given a permanent implant, with the advisory that it would likely fail. It’s been almost thirty years, and repeatedly I’ve found myself in this spot.
Worrying.
Will it or won’t it?
Likely, it just got a jostle from the extra-fast eating of a fish taco wrap earlier.
Unrelated: the sky is cotton-candy yellow with dark-blue swirls in it. The layers of blue make a 3D magic show.
Love,
Jaclynn
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