Note: I apologize for taking six months to conclude this saga. After the last entry in March, my adversary filed a defamation suit in the U.S. federal court system that only recently cleared up. I am permitted to proceed as long as, in the words of Paddlehands himself, “I tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” I’ve split the final section in two, with the last piece coming sometime next week.
Read Paddlehands Pt. I about the origins of my rivalry with the greatest ping-pong player in my city’s history. Part II chronicles our early encounters leading up to the biggest tournament of our high school lives. Part III takes you through my preparation for the Match of the Century.
From the opening serve, the dogfight ensued—not a literal or physical fight but a metaphysical one. Calloused, paddle-wielding fingers tore through the thick, unconditioned gymnasium air, and momentum swung with the blood and mucus that poured from our nostrils. Thick beads of sweat fell to the hardwood floor in buckets, leaving Ping-Pong Club President Neil Tobayan no choice but to deputize his minions to mop up between points.
But this wasn’t an NBA arena we were playing in. This was the Octagon. Eddie Finck and I were experiencing the last great moment of our high school lives. A moment that had turned us from boys to men and from human beings into minotaurs. Our pursuit of the title of Ping-Pong Champion—one that Finck had already claimed twice: in the students' singles and doubles tournaments months earlier—meant we were willing to pay whatever price for glory. And that afternoon in April 2007, we paid the piper in full.
The rancid shark meat that my doubles partner, Mr. Bryngeirsson, had handed me before Ms. DeMaria signaled to start the championship match had worked like spice mélange, focusing my attention on my foe at the opposite end of the table. Just as my sensitivity to the motion of the plastic ball and each swing of the paddle intensified a thousand-fold, Finck’s movement slowed in my mind for maybe the first time ever. This is what Mr. Bryngeirsson was preparing me for! I thought to myself. For weeks during the torturous early-morning sessions in his basement, he had ended training by standing up a combat dummy with a printed cut-out of Paddlehands’ stupid, smiling face stapled to it. After two hours of tireless swinging and blocking, I was depleted of will and strength. But he ordered me, again and again, to smash with brutal power, aiming at the most vulnerable places of the human body, as if we were practicing Krav Maga and not ping-pong.
“If he seeks to take out your body, you must take out his eyes!” my partner ordered me. “This is the Icelandic way!”
On the day of the final, Mr. Bryngeirsson and Robert, the elder Finck who’d come in as a last-minute replacement for Ms. DeMaria and helped my nemesis dispatch Jeremy and Mr. Broderick in the semis, brandished their own instruments of war. But as the fight played out over each painstaking rally, they inched back from the table: 1-1, 2-2, 3-4, 6-5. In this championship bout, they were the supporting cast. Finck and I were the protagonists, the makers of destiny.
A few months earlier—I was too ashamed to write this in the earlier portions of this saga—Paddlehands had swept through the singles and doubles competitions that Ms. DeMaria organized, dropping only two points to Charlie Cao in the singles final. Meanwhile, I was out in the round-robin stage both times. Immediately following my eliminations, I’d glanced over to where Finck stood, observing the competition from the other end of the room. He was leaning back against a wall encircled by his minions. The only three female members of the club were there, too, hanging on his every word. With his leather jacket tossed casually over his shoulder, he met my eyes then turned away. Paddlehands had sought a worthy opponent on the polished hardwood at BHS, and I didn’t need to see the position of his thumb to know the Emperor had cast his verdict. None could match him, especially not me.
But that was before I’d seen my best friends dispatched by the unfeeling machine. Before the unending training, the hákarl settling in my stomach.
Through the first rallies of the final, I’d proven myself worthy of my adversary. Mr. Bryngeirsson bore the brunt of the brothers’ early attacks. I’d done my best to aid him. Before long, we were up 9-8, two points from winning the first in our Best of Three arrangement. Neither Robert nor Paddlehands had expected this. As in their semifinal an hour earlier, they hadn’t bothered with a game plan; their only strategy was to smash everything they touched. Their aim: absolute destruction.
On the ensuing point, my foe sent a powerful shot in my direction. I just managed to block it with my backhand. The return was light to the other side of the table, served on a plate for the elder Finck to smash. But Paddlehands pushed him aside, driving the ball back at my chest with lightning speed. Before my brain could react, my paddle was at my sternum, blocking again. The return was slow and deep to Finck’s forehand. With Robert out of the frame, Mr. Bryngeirsson stepped aside. Whether by instinct or the magical effects of the shark meat, my body had separated from my mind and positioned itself at the very center of the table. Finck smashed again. On the return, I stumbled backward but made contact with my backhand. The ball soared over the net, clipping the table's edge before falling to the floor. “Set point!” Ms. DeMaria announced.
Sadly, that is where the road to glory fell out from under my feet.
The memory of that first-set loss to Mickey and Mr. H triggered something in Paddlehands. He shook his head, muttering under his breath. His brother sensed the anchor coming loose and snatched my Finck by the shirt collar. Then he smacked him hard across the face. No words were exchanged. But the spectators were silent as the sound of the slap reverberated off the gymnasium walls. Paddlehands absorbed the blow, staring stoically ahead. The skin of his face didn’t budge.
On the next point, he let loose a ferociousness he’d rarely needed to display before. The Fincks stormed back, winning the first set 16-14. The second was just as hard-fought, though the pendulum refused to swing back in my direction. Mr. Bryngeirsson and I used slices and chops, loops and blocks: every shot imaginable short of throwing our paddles like blunted lances across the table at our opponents. But they were unrelenting, ahead 10-6 and with four match points—four opportunities to put us down like dogs.
On the third match point, the effects from the hákarl proving ineffectual against the onslaught, I made a light return to my enemy’s forehand. The cubic zirconium in his paddle glistened as time slowed to a crawl. I saw his paddle his drop. Finck sneered as it fell to the floor. Then he lifted his right hand and smashed the return with an open palm. The ball came at me with surgical precision. Bouncing short, it rose sharply and struck me on the left cheek as I turned away.
Paddlehands had slapped me across the table.
“16-14, 11-8; Eddie and Robert are your champions!” Ms. DeMaria announced.
Her voice was drowned out by the clamor from the crowd, and I winced as I rubbed my cheek, which stung as if it had been hit by a poison dart from an Amazonian tribesman. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mickey and Jeremy staring helplessly down at the floor. Staring as if it were my coffin present there, and they were mourners on the day of my funeral. A single tear fell from Jeremy’s eyes, which Tobayan quickly ordered mopped up by one of his drudges.
After his final smash, Finck lifted both his hands to the sky. But he didn’t close his eyes or mutter thanks to God. Staring through me, he brought his thumbs down on himself, and I swear I could hear him mutter, “Who do you think you are? I am!” Amid the pandemonium, Robert extended a hand to Mr. Bryngeirsson and Ms. DeMaria. “Good game,” they said to one another, exchanging courtesies. Paddlehands’ gaze remained locked on mine.
It must’ve been just a second or two, but time still felt like it was crawling. Finck grabbed his paddle from the table and turned the handle toward me. He closed one eye, aimed for my chest, and pressed down with his thumb. Got ya.
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