Chapter Five: Arguing at the U.S. College Table Tennis Championships

Bruce Sims stood in a relaxed ready position, clutching Sling, his paddle, as Notre Dame’s Todd Davis prepared to serve. The thousands in the packed stands surrounding the playing court in the Baltimore Convention Center quieted to a murmur.

Bruce glanced at the scoreboard; he led 19-18 in this game to twenty-one. He was glad they’d change games back to 21—games to 11 were ridiculously short. They were in the fifth game of this best of five, so he was only two points away from victory in the final of the USA National Collegiate Table Tennis Championships.

He was twenty-nine, with a thick mat of curly brown hair and several days’ beard growth. Sweat dripped down his face and from his red shirt, which was drenched and covered with corporate logos. The back of his shirt said “University of Maryland,” with a large holographic Pepsi logo underneath that seemed to leap off the shirt in a swirl of colors. When he’d worked for the Dubois Campaign, he’d been sponsored by Coke, but he’d switched to the obscure Pepsi afterwards rather than go the liberal route with Hancola.

Sling was the latest model of ping-pong paddle, a Maestro Prime covered with Spinsey pinhole sponge, both from Trump Sports. When the ball hits it, the Spinsey sponge compresses, forcing air out through the tiny, angled holes that permeate the surface. If he held it one way, the air would shoot upward from the parallel holes, creating a topspin. If he flipped the paddle, so the backhand side became the forehand side and vice versa, then the air would shoot downward, creating a backspin. He held it in the topspin position for attacking.

Bruce had never played the hulking Davis before, but he had scouting reports: powerful from both sides and quick off the bounce, but with a tendency to serve fast and deep too often. Not too bright for a high-ranking player. Bruce couldn’t match up with Davis backhand to backhand, but by anticipating many of the fast serves to the backhand and attacking them with his forehand, he’d battled the top-seeded freshman phenom into the final game. Bruce was used to taking on bigger, stronger players; it was why he’d named his paddle Sling, after David’s weapon against Goliath.

After losing in the final three years in a row, perhaps this was Bruce’s year to win. He’d already knocked off the number two seed in the semifinals.

It would have been a lot easier if he hadn’t let his ranking drop from lack of training, which hurt him in the seeding. His ranking, normally first or second, had fallen to number seven in the college pro ranks, costing him a fortune in sponsorship money. He’d also lost his spot on the U.S. National Team. He’d spent way too much time studying the election primaries, writing detailed political memos and election plans for the Dubois Campaign and then destroying them in disgust. He was through with Dubois, and with Toby and Lara. But he could stop breathing more easily then he could stop thinking about the campaign.

Davis rotated a bit to his right as he served, telling Bruce that the serve was probably coming to the backhand. Then he saw the barest flicker of Davis’s tongue sticking out of his mouth—a telltale Bruce had noticed earlier, telling him it was going to be a fast and deep serve, rather than short and spinny.

As the ball contacted Davis’s paddle, Bruce stepped to his left so he could attack the serve with his forehand. As expected, the predictable Davis had served fast and deep to the backhand. What a chimpanzee, Bruce thought, as he began his backswing. He contacted the ball with a grazing motion, which, along with the airholes, created a heavy topspin to Davis’s backhand.

Bruce knew that Davis’s return would be to his now wide-open forehand side. He quickly moved back into position just in time to make another swooping forehand topspin, again to Davis’s backhand.

Davis hit a quick backhand to Bruce’s wide backhand. Out of position from his previous shot from the wide forehand, Bruce had to lunge to the left to get to the ball. As he did so, he flipped his racket about, so the pinholes pointed downward. He contacted the ball with a downward grazing motion, which along with the airholes, created a heavy backspin.

Davis threw his body into the next shot, a powerful forehand to Bruce’s wide forehand. Bruce dove for it, flipping his racket into topspin position as he did so, and barely got his paddle on the ball. He lofted it fifteen feet into the air, a defensive topspin lob that hit deep on Davis’s side. Bruce got to his feet and raced backwards.

Davis smashed twice in a row, each time taking a running start and jumping into the air to increase his power. From the barriers twenty feet back, Bruce ran each shot down with more topspin lobs. On the third one, to his wide forehand, he crashed into the barriers, knocking them against a number of surprised spectators. Fully stretched out and trying to stay balanced after his collision, he still managed to flick his wrist at contact, adding a bit of sidespin.

Davis misread the sidespin and miss-timed his next smash, sending the ball nearly off the end. But it just nicked the edge of the table for a winner, making the score 19-all. Bruce closed his eyes in disgust.

The ghosts of last year were laughing at him, Bruce thought, except that last year it had been a net-dribbler at the end that had done him in. There are no Gods, he knew, but those bastards were out to get him anyway.

The umpire flipped the scoreboard to 20-18 match point for Bruce and announced that score over the loudspeaker. The umpire hadn’t seen the ball nick the edge! Davis was staring at the far side of the table, his mouth working furiously as if he wasn’t sure whether to argue.

Double match point. One more point and he’d be the national champion. The best of the best. What he’d trained for much of his life.

Not really, of course. It should be 19-all. He smiled fatalistically; if only he’d taken some Eth!

Bruce approached the umpire. “The ball hit the edge. It’s his point.”

The umpire looked up, the hint of a glare on his face. Then he held up a blue card with a white “R” for replay on it, and his eyes glazed over as he watched a replay of the shot on his TC. Then his eyes cleared and he put the blue card back in his pocket.

“Too close to call,” the umpire said. “Point stands. 20-18 match point for Bruce Sims.”

Bruce looked heavenward. Another chimpanzee! “Look, the ball hit the edge, so just give him the point.” When the umpire did nothing, Bruce walked to the scoreboard in front of the umpire and flipped the score back to 19-all. The crowd cheered his sportsmanship, with the fans in the Notre Dame corner especially loud.

“Are you trying to show me up?” The umpire rose to his feet, his face red with anger. He flipped the scoreboard back to 20-18 for Bruce. The Notre Dame crowd booed. The umpire jabbed a finger into Bruce’s chest. “Touch the scoreboard again and you’ll be defaulted.”

“Chimpanzee!” Bruce muttered under his breath. Oops, he thought, shouldn’t have said that out loud.

The umpire held up another card, this one a yellow warning card. “One more outburst, Mr. Sims, and I’ll default you.”

The booing from the Notre Dame corner turned to cheers. Bruce stared at them for a moment and then walked over.

“Why were you booing me?” he asked. “And now you’re cheering me because I might get defaulted? I’m the one trying to give your guy the point!”

“You’re a sore loser!” one from the Notre Dame crowd cried.

“That makes no sense,” Bruce pointed out. “I’m the one leading 20-18 match point, but I’m trying to convince the umpire it should be 19-all. You should be cheering me.” Why was everything like politics, where the more you do the right thing, the angrier the mob?

His reasoning didn’t have much effect as the Notre Dame crowd began shouting at him. One began chanting, “Lose, Bruce!” over and over, and the others joined in the chant.

“That doesn’t even rhyme,” Bruce said, but doubted anyone heard him. He shook his head as he muttered, “Crowds: the ultimate stupidity magnifier.”

Some from his home school began a rival chant of “Maryland! Maryland!”

Bruce started back toward the table, but found himself blocked by the massive Davis in his sleeveless muscle shirt dominated by a Coke logo. Bruce stared at the man’s arms; could any sleeves hold those biceps?

“Why are you yelling at my friends?” Like most professional athletes, Davis’s steroid-built body was a sculpture—or monstrosity, as Bruce thought of it—of bulging muscles. They were both a little under six feet, but Davis outweighed him two to one.

Davis took another step closer. Bruce felt the floor vibrate. He also got a whiff of Davis’s lack of hygiene.

Okay, Bruce thought over the continuing chants, not a chimpanzee, a gorilla. Who, he noticed, had left his paddle back on the table, and was currently clenching two coconut-sized fists from a few feet away. Do steroids increase fist size? Apparently.

“Watch what you say to my friends,” Davis said. His voice sounded an octave lower than anything humanly possible, and came out of a head that Bruce figured was hardwired for stupidity.

The words “Breaking News!” appeared in the air in front of him, obscuring Davis’s angry face. It was poor etiquette to leave your TC on during a match, and Bruce was sure he’d turned his off.

“TC, I told you not to bother me while I play,” Bruce said under his breath. “Why are you bothering me during a match?”

The TC spoke directly into his head. “You said, ‘Do not interrupt me unless there’s another nuclear war or an alien invasion.’”

Davis was also saying something to him. “What?” Bruce asked.

“I said watch what you say to my friends or else,” Davis said.

“Bruce Lose! Bruce Lose!”

“Maryland! Maryland!”

“Mr. Sims, you’re disrupting play,” the umpire called from his chair. “You’ve got ten seconds to return to the table or I’ll fault you a point.”

“There is an alien invasion,” Bruce’s TC continued. “Would you like visual?”

“Are you going to apologize to my friends?”

“Bruce Lose! Bruce Lose!”

“Maryland! Maryland!”

“Five seconds, Mr. Sims.”

“Play visual,” Bruce said. A small screen opened up in front of him, showing the alien ship.

“When did this happen?” Bruce asked.

“When did this happen?” Davis exclaimed, his breath like moldy onions. “You insulted them just now!”

“The alien ship landed twenty-seven minutes ago,” Bruce’s TC said.

“Why didn’t you let me know then?” Bruce asked.

“I did!” Davis exclaimed, his face now a foot from Bruce’s.

“I’m faulting you a point,” the umpire said, flipping the scoreboard to 20-19, still match point in favor of Bruce.

“The evidence at the time suggested it was an alien landing, but not necessarily an alien invasion,” the TC said. “When the shooting started, the preponderance of the evidence was that it was an alien invasion. Would you like me to play that scene?”

“Play it,” Bruce said.

“Then go to the table!” the umpire said.

“I’m going to pound you after this match,” Davis said.

“Bruce Lose! Bruce Lose!”

“Maryland! Maryland!”

The TC played the shooting of the alien scene. Bruce watched, ignoring the growing havoc around him.

He walked to the side of the table where he’d left his playing bag, tossed his paddle into it, threw the bag over his shoulder, and made for the door, ignoring the shouts of the crowd, umpire and Davis. The world had just gotten a lot more interesting and he wanted to be a part of it.