Fathers and Sons

Bringing up children requires just the right blend of push and pull; boundaries must be set yet independence encouraged. Nevertheless, one does not just manage one's children. Although the relationship is also asymmetrical, it is not a good idea to humiliate a parent either. Our recent purchase of a ping-pong table reminded me of the wisdom of the above approach. So far, my two boys have not had much opportunity to beat me too handily at this game. As such, so as not to appear to be attempting to give them the match, I waste points. In this way, the game is more even as I miss a lot. Both sides have fun and the winning ratio of dad to kids is a respectable 3:1. However, I am careful with this approach and learned that one must never underestimate an opponent, be he father or a son. I was an undergraduate attending university in the late 1960s, and we spent our evenings studying until 11:00 p.m. Around 9:00, we would repair to the basement, where a round of ping-pong would ensue. I was neither the best nor the worst player. One day, my father asked if he could come up to see the university. I was thrilled, as he had never visited me there before. I showed him the laboratories and other facilities. He joined the gang for dinner, and at 9:00, when the great matches were to begin, Dad came down with us and watched with interest, applauding when I won a particularly close game against a friend. It was at that point that things began to go downhill. Dad asked if he could play me. I felt uncomfortable; I was in the flush of early adulthood, and my father was just about the age I am now, but just as my kids think of their “old man” with an emphasis on the adjective, with the arrogance of youth I too considered my then-middle-aged father to be athletically over the hill. “Sure, Dad, why not?” I answered halfheartedly. The guys gathered round the table, intent on the big game. We volleyed a bit to warm up, and as expected, my father missed practically every shot. It was pathetic. I gave him the serve, and we started off: 0–1, 0–2, 1–3, 1–4. My serve: 5–1, 6–1, 6–2, 7–2, and so on until I beat him handily 21–8. It was excruciating. How could we continue? But Dad, never one to quit, especially in sports, struggled on. “Come on, let's play another one, and don't play down. Give it your best shot. I don't want any gifts from you!” he ordered. “But Dad,” I lied (whitely), “I am trying my best.” It was at this point that the ping-pong tables turned. My father slowly began to improve, managing to get in a successful curve, to serve me more speedily, and to return some of my smashes. Halfway through the second game, the score was a more even 11–9 in my favor. This time, it was a much harder match, although I still managed to win 21–19. “One more,” my father crowed. “This is getting to be fun!”“Nah, Dad,” I protested, “We have to go back to the books. Don't we, guys?”“No way!” they all chimed in. “Play again. C'mon, Mr. Clarfield, beat him this time!” They all bayed for my blood. With friends like that … This game was a total rout, and I gave up all pretense. Although I tried my best, in the end, my father was too much for me. His was the fastest improvement in athletic skills any of my friends or I had ever witnessed: from chump to champ in just over 30 minutes. Dad won in overtime 26 to 24 and went on to trounce three of my friends. We were all flabbergasted. How did my old man do it and so quickly? It turns out that, in his time, my father and his younger brother had played a lot of modified “table” tennis at home. Growing up in the Depression, there was no way they could afford a regulation-sized outfit, but they could manage paddles and balls. They would clear the kitchen table, set up a piece of two-by-four as a net and go at it for hours. When they finally got the chance to play on a real table, it seemed so large that it was easy to excel. Before I had even heard the word “geriatrics” I learned an important lesson that evening when my dad pinged my pong; children should never underestimate their parents—at whatever age. As such, when I play against my boys today, to increase their respect for older people, I try my best to show them who is still the boss—at least for as long as I still can. Recently, my 85-year-old, still-athletic father recalled a relevant tale from his army days. During World War II, he was known as the best ping-pong player in his artillery unit. This fact soon came to the attention of the unit's major, who fancied himself a mean paddler as well. Eager to show his men who was boss, the officer challenged Dad, who knew he could beat the major fair and square. But should he? The great day arrived; Major “Dusty” Corbett versus Sergeant Clarfield. The men gathered around, wagers were placed—most on my dad, because the men had already seen both play. Given the spirit of the times, my father's tact, as well as his understanding that one must also honor one's officers as well as one's parents, the major won—although my dad let it be close: 21–19, 24–22, 21–19. I have no conflict of interest to declare and I have not published or submitted this manuscript elsewhere.

Fetched live from OpenAlex and de-inverted. Abstracts are not stored in this database: the inverted indexes are 8.6 GB of the frame’s 9.3 GB of text, and the host has 13 GB free.