P-I-N-G GUMPO

For the record, this is being written outside White Sands National Park heading towards some serious mountains in New Mexico.
As we pulled into the run down RV park, the only thing on three of our minds was where to catch the Cats game. The answer was the game/laundry room equipped with several throw back arcade games and a ping pong table. Catching the game on the radio online, I was forced to have Matt yell updates out to me. This was due to poor computer volume and lack of classical acoustics in the concrete room. As soon as I hear, “Cats down 12, Damn!” from the big guy, I knew what must be done. “Adam, pick up your stick. It’s go time!” We settled on a best of three Ping Pong match. The only way to describe the play on both sides would be “subpar” at best. BOA took me down on game one. I blame the paddle and immediately seek out a proper stick. Game 2 could best described as a “calamity.” Multiple muffed dive attempts and one broken paddle later, I brought home the W.
By this point the Cats were down 16 and as we all looked right Beau Kansas City Shuffled left to the showers. Also, a tall older gent strolled through. He spoke real slow in a southern draw. “Miiind iiif IIII waattcccch foorr a biit?” “No worries my man,” was the obvious response.
The play of Game 3 was pretty solid, as we battled many points and have great rally after rally. We could see that Old Man Rivers was pretty into our game, but didn’t pay much attention to it. Finally after a slam bam thank you man, I brought home the trophy at 23-21. “Mind if I take a shot. I used to play a bit of ping pong back in the service.” Geezer Gary was ready to go. I was taught to respect my elders, so I accepted the challenge. I asked him if he wanted to warm up a bit first. All I received in return was a dirty look, “Just serve the ball kid.” Obviously this guy meant business. Not wanting to insult him with a weak serve, but also not wanting to rip a ace and embarrass him; I slapped a solid serve at him. His return? He smashed a one timer down the line for an easy point. What the hell? Who was this old guy with a southern accent and ping pong confidence? What is he doing in New Mexico? Why can’t Porter stop turning the ball over? These were just some of the thoughts running through my mind. Gametime.
We battled for the 5 or 6 points. He kept me on my toes with a series of spins, backhands and forehands. On the 7th point I set him up to slam one home. You could see it in his eyes. He was about to put me and every other kid punk in his life in their place. He wound up and all I could do was stand there like a deer in headlights and accept my impending fate. At the top of his motion he slipped backwards, his knees wobbled under the pressure of decades of use,; and he bit it hard to the cement ground. Damn, this I think this guy just broke his hip! We helped him up and like the deputy dawg he is, he brushed it off. Throoughly embarrassed, he thanked us for letting him play dipped out. He skidded out of the parking lot in his new Lexus with Alabama tags and an Alabama football sticker in the rear window. Adam and I exchanged glances. Could it be? Was it really him? Who else from Alabama could throw game like that on the pong table? He did say he learned to play in the service. It had to be him.