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Two men (Hispanic guys even!) walked in and had a gander at the Ping Pong poster. They seemed a bit lost. They clocked me and asked if I worked there.
At my amused but negative response they turned to the community centre staff lady hidden behind the stairs who piped up, “I work here.”
“Is Ping Pong... To play today is from ..?” Guy number one asked.
She confirmed that Ping Pong was indeed on the table but not till 1:00 PM.
“We have another booking right now,” she said meaning the room where Ping Pong play, Zumba classes, Taekwondo classes etc. and sit-down dinners for the community groups all take place.
One large multipurpose room with its polished wooden floorboards and its many users who line up (metaphorically and literally) to wait their precious turn to use it.
The guys left. I wondered if they would return. The last two weeks I had seen new faces for Ping Pong, non-Chinese ones even. Glen (I met him Thursday Ping Pong) for the first time, told me that this place was becoming popular because the Ultimo Community Centre had begun to charge $10 an hour per table! I don't know if I would pay 10 bucks an hour. The hell do they do with my tax money anyway.
I've been coming to the centre for a while now, mostly to pick up my library reserves on a Saturday. Then I quit my job in this pandemic for a remote working gig that frees up my day hours a bit. I wandered in one day intending to sit and work for a spell having hated the public libraries- shitty atmosphere. I was tired of being alone at home. I saw some Chinese people playing. They looked damn good. Especially noticing they were old. They smacked the ball something special: hard, fast and fucking accurate. Geriatric Olympic wannabes.
I hung about in the room watching, hoping to get invited to play. No dice. They noticed me but proceeded to take no notice of me at all. The next time I asked if I could play and after about 25 minutes of waiting the ladies took pity and let me play.
“We thought you were staff telling us to leave” they told me in broken English. All the while Fan whipped my ass. She is 65 if she is a day and I could see her holding back.
It was weird hanging about in the room desperate to play but without a partner, watching them. I felt like the loser kid at the playground trying to get the cool kids to accept me. On the days that followed I started recognising folks and they started acknowledging me. But they rarely spoke to me. And usually stuck to Chinese, verbally volleying with each other across the room as more showed up.
They seemed to know each other or at least chattered among themselves a fair bit. I and a couple of white guys were the only non-Chinese. Usually as I played my partner of the moment nattered in Chinese with the folks playing at an adjacent table all the while nonchalantly beating the crap out of me. I had no clue what they were talking about. I don't even know the names of most of them. They don't seem interested in exchanging names. I tried but the awkward attempt was ignored.
They sort of tolerate- indulge me. I reckon they don't want to be turfed out by the centre staff in case people like me complain. Or maybe they feel a mixture of pity- fondness for the oddball, younger, Indian chick who shows up alone. Hard to tell with the language thing not going on.
I have started arranging my schedule around the blessed Ping Pong. Which I would never have discovered if I hadn't taken up this remote gig! All the Ping Pong slots are in the daytime. No wonder it is retiree haven. How can working folks get a shot? Come to think of it, most of the community centre activities are aimed at preschoolers or golden oldies. The middle: 10 year old to pre-retirement aged can fuck themselves. Presumably, we have busy enough lives.
And then they say people don't care about community, ha! Go figure.
I have created nicknames for most of them. Granddad, Uncle, Auntie... Granddad who can’t bend, or even walk very quickly. But he can stand at the head of a table and smack that ball! Auntie and Uncle who are a little bit more mobile, but not super good.
And then there's a group of really good players who are not as old. They prefer to play with each other. But because the number of tables is limited, they play with the oldies. And then when someone like me who is middling-bad arrives they farm off the golden oldies to me freeing themselves up to compete with each other. While I get to play for two solid hours. No waiting for a table or hanging about like a saddo anymore. It pays to be not such a good player!
It's pleasant to recognise these faces when I am about in the locality. We smile at each other and carry on. Occasionaly we might exchange a sentence or two, with the younger family member accompanying my Chinese Ping Pong friend translating between us.
I know a bit about some of them. John (white guy) plays with the good players, gets teased mercilessly, looks after his sick wife. Fan left China and lives with her younger daughter and grandson, learns English at TAFE. And the stories that I don’t yet know, may never know.
It's a dysfunctional sort of extended family. The kind that I miss from back home. Being stuck here on my own through the pandemic and the lockdowns it's nice just to see familiar, friendly faces. To know that my presence is welcomed. That my family may be far away but I am a little less alone here.
I could understand what my Indian lot were saying, and here I can't. But luckily, we have Ping Pong that serves as a sort of language between us. A bridge between our races, cultures and ages.