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Amid the drama and excitement of the Olympics, an unfortunate truth emerges: there are sports that are fun to play and sports that are fun to watch, and the Venn diagram of these two things is by no means a circle.
There’s a certain alchemy to a good spectator sport; multiple elements balance to create both spectacle and drama. The gameplay should be fast-paced and dramatic and not bogged down by endless time-outs and penalty calls (I’m looking at you, NFL) or inexplicable delays between plays (that’s you, Major League Baseball). The athletes should be, well, athletic, but in a way that’s relatable rather than freakish—which is why college basketball will always be objectively more fun to watch than the NBA, in which players are so ludicrously tall that they make dunking look too easy.
And then there’s the ball, which should be big and brightly colored enough to see at a distance. Which brings me to Olympic table tennis, a thing I earnestly attempted to watch for thirty whole minutes this week before quitting in a fit of pique. This is not a spectator sport; in fact, I suspect it was designed in a lab to be the antithesis of one. The gameplay was too fast-paced, to the extent it was physically stressful to watch, while also being completely inscrutable. Entire matches began and ended without me ever actually seeing the ball, or even knowing who was hitting it. It was like watching two cats fighting over a dust mote, except less cute and without the occasional time-out for the players to lick themselves.
I was bewildered. Who was watching this? Who was enjoying this?
I called up Paul Thacker, a journalist who claims to like the spectacle of professional ping-pong. He credits a stint in the U.S. Army, where table tennis was one of the few recreational activities available on base. “Having played it,” he said, “when you see someone doing it at such a high level, it’s just like, wow.”
Hearing this, I thought that maybe Thacker’s ping-pong experience meant he literally saw the game itself in a way I couldn’t. But when I asked if he could understand the gameplay or even see the ball, he said no. Apparently, this is part of the appeal. “It’s just the amazing ability they have to catch that ball, when it’s going so fast that you can’t even tell what’s happening,” he said.
He also said he had recently started playing ping-pong again for the first time in many years, and that “I beat an eleven-year-old and I felt very good about myself.”
So, there you have it. I leave it to you, the Free Press readership, to decide who is right about Olympic ping-pong: me, or a man who literally delights in crushing the dreams of children. (Just kidding: we thank Paul for his service, and are sure that the tween had it coming.)
Kat Rosenfield is a columnist at The Free Press. Read her piece, “We’ve Forgotten Trump’s Shooter Already,” and follow her on X @katrosenfield.
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I love you, Kat, but you're so off base in this piece that I actually feel sorry for you. I'm speaking here as both a competitive table tennis player and thrilled watcher of competitive table tennis. (Ping-pong, btw, is the benighted diminutive--the Parker Brothers attempt, many years ago, to trademark the game and tame it for backyards. You've insulted my tribe AND gone corporate without realizing it.) Table tennis, to begin with, is the most popular indoor game in the world. That fact alone might gain it a little respect. As any tournament player knows, it's a melting pot par excellence. The best players in the world, historically speaking, are the Chinese and the Swedes. Jan-Ove Waldner, the Swedish star of years gone by, is a thrilling player known for impossible shots made with consummate aplomb. Because table tennis favors lightning-fast reflexes, younger players often find themselves competing at the highest level, but the game has simultaneously always had a fondness for older players, grey foxes, who've got all the tricks and who know how to foil the best-laid reflexes. Marty Reisman, who I saw once at the table tennis club on Broadway at 96th Street, was the master. For the player, table tennis is an especially demanding discipline. But it lends itself, in a way that tennis simply does not, to a kind of one-upsmanship and showmanship. I'm thinking here about two of my teachers back in the day, Atanda Musa, the greatest player ever to come out of Africa; and Wally Green, a black New Yorker who combined a hip-hop attitude with serious German-honed skills. Olympic table tennis, of course--and notice, I'm not using the patronizing diminutive--is a subset of tournament table tennis, which is itself a subset of serious table tennis, often for money, that guys like Wally Green and Marty Reisman embody. Here's what I do know: if you spend a couple of hours with a great coach, being instructed in the basics, and then watched that coach--Musa or Wally, or the great George "the Chief" Braithwaite, former olympian and one of my coaches back in 2000-2002--battle another player, up close, you'd suddenly get it. You'd get why those of us who play the game seriously just love it to death. You'd begin to appreciate just what it takes to serve, and return, at the highest level. You'd feel the burn, and the innovation bred by desperation, of the serious tournament player seeking to stay alive in the point. You'd get it. You'd know who Danny Seemiller is, and why an aging schmo like me would travel to South Bend, Indiana to spend five days at a clinic put on by the former US champ. Start with Wally Green. I love the guy. He was a great coach. He taught me a lot. There's a deep, rich story here. I think you've missed it. But we love you anyway--and know that we could get you into the tribe, if you gave us a chance. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qP1_GjFJZKo
Guys… the ball is bright white. The table is black. Maybe time to visit the eye doctor? 😂