The Secret Life of a Ping-Pong Wizard by Henry Winkler

ball.”
    Concentrate. There’s that word again. Why is concentration so important? And why is it so hard for my brain to do?
    I wonder if there’s a brain garage somewhere where you can drive your brain in and they work on it while you wait. Replace the concentration gizmo. And while you’re at it, give it an oil and lube job, too.
    â€œHank, are you listening to me?” It was Mr. Chin, who must have noticed that I was out there driving my brain around town.
    â€œYup,” I said, pulling my brain out of the garage and putting it back in my head where it belonged.
    â€œWhen you hit the ball this time, follow through. Your paddle should wind up in front of your face so that you’re looking at the blade, which is the part of the paddle you hit with.”
    Mr. Chin was a really good teacher, because when Sam served me the next ball, I hit it exactly where it was supposed to go. It made the perfect sound. I pinged!
    Unfortunately, Sammy ponged, and when the ball came sailing back at me, I missed the next shot. I didn’t care. I was really excited to have hit the ball correctly. It felt smooth as glass.
    â€œYou must always remember to practice the Three Cs, Hank,” Mr. Chin said. “Concentration. Control. Confidence.”
    He made those three Cs sound so simple. If only they were.
    I don’t know where the next hour went, but wherever it went, it went someplace really fun. I played with Sam for another fifteen minutes, until his mom came to pick him up for dinner. Then the guy with the dreadlocks came over to my table.
    â€œHey, little mon. I’ll rally with you,” he said in an accent that sounded like he was singing.
    â€œBut you’re really good,” I said.
    â€œThis is how you get good, mon,” he said. “Rally with everyone. That’s what I did as a boy back in Jamaica.”
    Maurice—that was his name—played with me for another half hour. At first I was nervous, because I kept missing the ball and having to chase it all over the club. But he gave me lots of good pointers, and by the time we were finished, I could actually return the ball three or four times in a row.
    â€œHankie,” Papa Pete said at last. “We have to go now. It’s dinnertime.”
    â€œJust a few minutes more,” I begged.
    â€œYeah, mon. Hank and I are in a groove,” Maurice said.
    â€œI don’t want to make your mother mad at me,” Papa Pete said. “We’ll come back another time.”
    While I was looking for my backpack, Mr. Chin came up to me. “Here,” he said, handing me a Ping-Pong paddle with red rubber on one side and black rubber on another side. “You can borrow this paddle for a while. Keep it with you. Hold it. Let it become your friend.”
    â€œWow—thanks, Mr. Chin.”
    â€œAnd here are two balls for you to practice with. Bounce them on the paddle and against a wall until you start to get the feel of it.”
    I couldn’t believe everyone there was being so nice to me. Not like at the soccer field, when Coach Gilroy didn’t even say good-bye to me that afternoon. Actually, he did kind of say good-bye, if you can call “Remember to bring your game face to next practice, Zipzer” a good-bye.
    As we pushed open the door to climb the stairs back up to 81st Street, I was in the best mood.
    â€œThat was so cool,” I said to Papa Pete. “Do you think if I practice really hard, I could beat Maurice?”
    â€œIt could happen,” Papa Pete answered. “Although he is the Jamaican national Ping-Pong champion.”
    â€œHe’s the best player in all of Jamaica?”
    â€œLast I checked, that’s what champion means.”
    Wow. I, Hank Daniel Zipzer, just played the best of the best of the best. And he thought I was okay.
    â€œPapa Pete, do you think I’m good enough to enter a tournament?”
    â€œNot yet, Hankie. But there’s always