It’s no secret ‘round these parts that my athletic skills do not rely on eye-hand coordination. Aerial flips on a narrow bit of wood? Fine. Hit a ball with a bat? Fuck no. Consider my philosophy on golf. If the sport requires me hitting a ball, then bystanders beware.
I do, however, have a killer serve in ping pong. I'm a fucking serving savant. Unfortunately, I’m so old that beer pong did not exist when I was in college. Or high school. Or middle school. Hey, shut up. Some of us were over achievers. I coulda been a contender!
The nice thing about having a killer serve AND no eye-hand coordination is that you rarely have to go past the serve into an actual volley. It’s all ping. No pong.
Friday night, I tried to teach my son this important life skill.
It’s going to be a few years before the verdict is in on the kid, but he amused the hell out of himself trying.
Next time, I need to remember to put myself on the side of the table that has a wall behind me. I’m not into aerobics. Either that, or he needs to practice on a table folded in half.
He managed to sucker his sister and some friends into a few games after I gave up on playing what can only be described as Ping-Pew.
Saturday, we took it down a notch at the in-laws' where he practiced his pool game. As you can imagine, 9 balls and a stick + me = a frightening proposition. I spent my time in the other room. Any other room.