Jack and I arrived at the Kennet Vale Table Tennis Club at the exact same moment, both braced for the weekly ritual of hauling heavy tables out of storage. To our pleasant surprise, the hall was already fully set up and ready for action.
“Of course—the league season has started and they had a match in here last night,” Jack remembered gratefully. We could skip the heavy lifting and dive straight into our 1-2-1 session.
“We’ll build on the work we started last week,” Jack said as we warmed up with a steady rally. I was privately thrilled that I’d put in daily robot practice since our last session, quietly hoping Jack would spot at least a glimmer of improvement in my technique.
We are tackling the proper stuff now. We are light years beyond casual ping pong, pedestrian rallies, or beginner match play—or at least, Jack seems to think we are. I still have days where I feel a visit to the optician is required if I am ever going to master a backhand open-up.
Two hours later, I staggered out of the hall with my shirt glued to my back, my legs aching, and a desperate thirst. If anyone ever tries to tell you table tennis isn’t a proper workout, send them my way. I collapsed into the leather seat of the Cayenne and took a gentle drive home, praying my sweat-drenched top wouldn’t ruin the upholstery.
Wednesdays require a rapid turnaround—just enough time for a swift bite to eat at home before heading out to run the lunchtime table tennis club at Pewsey Vale School.
“Hi Mark, one of your star players is sick today so he won’t be in,” I was informed upon arrival. Carnival Bug is still claiming casualties, I thought. The club had been at maximum capacity the previous week, so losing one player would at least ease the crowding. “I hope he recovers quickly for Friday’s league match—I know how much he loves playing.”
I slung my lanyard over my head and made my way down to the sports hall.
In stark contrast to the previous week’s standing-room-only crowd, precisely two lads turned up. Both had played before, both were remarkably keen to improve, and both were thoroughly enjoying themselves—having willingly skipped their lunch break to play.
“The Carnival Bug must be really tearing through the school,” I remarked as they took turns attempting to knock plastic cups off the far end of the table to refine their precision control.
“Nah, there’s a massive football match on the field this lunchtime,” one lad replied casually, before cleanly snipping his third plastic cup off the edge.
“Ah. So football ranks higher than table tennis, then?” I asked.
“Yeah,” came the blunt, unvarnished response.
As I watched them play, I realised that my morning gloating over avoiding table-setup duty at Kennet Vale had come back to bite me. I had just spent ten minutes frantically setting up four heavy tables on my own in the school gym, only to require a single one.
Absolute divine retribution.
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