Nov. 26, 2002 - 22:11 MST

THE WONDERING JEW

After School

About 1937 we moved from the two room house at the back of a lot to a new brick home in East Denver that my Dad had a contractor build on his lot there. A palace to a kid who had to live in a two room house from his earliest memory.

So I was put into the back bedroom which they had furnished with a new bed and mattress set and a bureau all of my own - all the drawers instead of one in their bureau. But I hankered after the full finished back bedroom in the basement. Thinking back it seems to me that it was the teen drawing apart from family, trying to establish a personality of one's own that I think many of us go through.

I think Mom's feelings were a bit hurt, but seeing as the old studio couch that I had used in the old house had been put down there, there was a chest of drawers of sorts, a floor lamp and a chair I (chuckle) became my own man. King of the basement. One summer I think I read a number of books equivalent to a small library, down there. One neat thing that my buddy and I discovered was that the window could be removed from its place and we could crawl out and go to the park and roam the neighborhood at will. So I was more or less a free agent -- as long as I used a bit of common sense.

One Saturday morning Dad and his brother moved my furniture out of the basement room, I was moved back upstairs and uncle proceeded to build a nice ping-pong table, regulation size in there. When I got the drift of what was going on in there my excitement level built to an impatient dancing around about of waiting. I had been playing at a friends house and was somewhat competent.

After the sawdust was swept up and the surface dusted, the net put up Dad broke out some paddles and balls. He became my student in a way. That is until he learned the basics of the game. Suddenly, instead of magnanimously letting him win a game now and then I found myself looking thhe wrong side down the barrel at a formidable opponent. I couldn't win a damn game no matter how hard I played. My return shots went off the end of the table or hit the net, if not that they would go off to one side or the other. When he served it was the same, only it seemed worse. He was very canny in serving and had mastered just barely getting the ball over the net at one side of the table or the other (the side opposite the one I was covering. That I was coping with. But I just couldn't make any headway against him.

Finally one night I gritted my teeth and asked Dad, "What are you doing to the ball that I can't get it where I want it to go ?" One word he said, "English." I knew that as a Western Union Messenger Boy he had frequented the pool hall across the alley from where he worked and was quite conversant with the game of pool. I wasn't. Begging for the meaning of the word English he told me about learning it playing pool and proceeded to give me the explanation coupled with a detailed demonstration of how to put English on the ball back spin, top spin, side spin and the permutations of all of those.

For a long time I was the pupil and he the teacher until we began to even out on games. Then is when the room began to teach me the limits of the game. If I stepped back and swung the paddle my knuckles would graze the back wall, on the sides I had to be quick enough to get to the ball before it hit the wall on the side. Same way vertically, I couldn't reach up to get a high ball unless I was fast enough to get it before it hit the ceiling.

Of course it was the same for Dad. Tight quarters for sure. The games between the two of us were fierce, both of us in a sweat before time forced us to quit. He had to work in the morning and I had to go to school.

When I went into De Molay we guys would meet at the Chapter Dad's house fairly often and there was a ping-pong table there. Needless to say I joined the group. Then on Friday night, Saturday and Saturday night there was Ping-Pong at my house. Sometimes 'til dawn the next day, then a big breakfast cooked by Mom. Thinking back I wonder how on earth Mom and Dad slept with that constant gnip-gnop of the ball bouncing on the table echoing like mad.

The guys soon learned close quarter playing art in that room. We would go into the Denver Chapter after our meeting and play the Denver guys. Shooting fish in a rain barrel it was for us as we played a superfast and vicious game. The playing area was spacious. When things got a bit hot it was easy to drop back a bit and handle what ever came. Shots to the side could be played way off from the side, often just before the ball hit the floor.

It was a very enjoyable time of my life and though I didn't realize it at the time many valuable things were taught to me. Some by myself and some from competition. One thing I think was learning a bit of realistic philosophy from the vagaries of the game. Another was the old Yogi Berra thing, "The game ain't over 'til its over," and the fact that it applied to much of my life from then on. Falling back when pressed in order to surprise the opponent. Learning how to be precise and how to judge all the ins and outs of the game. How to get along with guys my age who were individuals and as macho as teens were even that far back and hold my own without unpleasantness.

One of the great things it taught me is that there is much to be learned After School . . . . . . . . . . . .

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