The Blazing Paddles
March 21st, 2018
I had been wandering across shiny floored basketball courts for ten minutes, clearly out of place in a thick sweater, Converse, and skinny jeans, before someone asked me if I was lost. After a quick redirection by a kind rec-center employee, I was headed towards an inviting and spirited group of people among table tennis tables and makeshift courts fenced off with cardboard dividers. Tucked in the corner of the Bob Keefer Center, under harsh fluorescents, the room is warm. Abandoned winter coats hang over the metal bleachers between a few people taking a short break and a sip of water.
Dave Combs, the club president, immediately recognizes me, “Oh good, you were able to make it early,” he greets me like an old friend, though we’ve only spoken over email. But I can tell by the way he stands watching over the bright blue table tennis tables that perfectly match the wall of lockers behind him, that this is the man in charge. On the folded out card table that serves as a front desk, rests a bucket of table tennis paddles, balls, and Combs’s light brown leather briefcase. Stamped like a badge on the center of his case is a sticker depicting two red paddles. He’s ready to greet you, introduce you to a friend, and collect your monthly dues.
The Lane Table Tennis Club, more commonly and fittingly known as, The Blazing Paddles, has created a community around a niche sport. First of all, it’s table tennis, not ping pong, they tell me. I still don’t know the difference. But I quickly realize that people don’t come here just for the table tennis. Most members take their games seriously, cleaning paddles with specialized sprays and debating over the correct use of the words “match” and “game.” But this is no Olympic arena— a constant laughter fills the gym. Jokes are made at each other’s expenses, high fives are slapped, and a winning shout or two can be heard three tables away. The lightness of the atmosphere lay in contrast to the cold and rainy Springfield, Oregon weather outside.
I show up to my first practice, and I’m immediately told to grab a paddle. I put my familiar notepad and camera down and pick up something I may have only held a dozen times and associate with vague memories from childhood. Not only was my unfamiliarity with the sport a major difference, but I was also 50 years younger than most of the people that filled the room. Like most 21-year-old college students, I did not expect to spend my Saturday mornings waking up at 8 a.m. to play table tennis; especially with people three times my age. I may have looked out of place, but to my surprise, I found I could laugh just the same as I did with friends my own age. I quickly became as much of a part of the club as anyone else that was there. Over the next ten weeks, I’d play many matches, make friends, receive life advice, get laughed at for my lack of skill, and learn a little bit about the stories of the people who spent their time there.
Combs is the rock, the glue, the heart, and as member Tom Mitchell will say of his friend, “the benevolent dictator,” of the club. Mitchell is one of the founding members, along with Harry Ehrmantraut, who has since passed away. At its start, the club was no more than just a small group of people who loved table tennis. In 1996, Combs joined and brought some structure to the group, assuming the role of President.
The first person Dave Combs introduces me to is KJ Park. Patiently and with a broad smile, Park teaches me simple things like how to hold the paddle (grab it like a handshake) and reminds me not to stand so close to the table. As we hit the ball back and forth, as best as we can with my terrible hand-eye coordination, I ask what brought him to this club. It’s a question I plan to ask everyone with whom I get the chance to speak. Park tells me he joined the club only a few months prior. His hands shake as he grips the paddle— he has Parkinson’s and is using this exercise as a way to manage his shakiness. He was one of four or five other members who came for the same reason.
The club is mostly made up of men, but I often play matches with the small but budding group of women, as well. They usually occupy just one of the gym’s six or seven tables, and they are no less competitive or friendly. A recurring debacle breaks out over a score, a wrong server, or both, “Who just served? Did I just serve? Who did I serve to last? What’s the score again?” I shrug, unknowingly, as well. “We’re old! We forget things!” says one of the women I was playing a doubles match with, but they resolve the issue with a lighthearted laugh.
On Friday evening, I show up at the rec center expecting my usual crew. But when I get there, I realize that the room is a little quieter, there are far more empty tables, and there is a distinct lack of salt and pepper hair. I find out that this is the younger group— the after-work crowd. But there’s little difference in character between them and the morning members. I play with Jima, Larry, and Philip, they’re good, and the ball moves fast. But they are no less patient and full of high fives.
After weeks of hoping no one noticed how confused I was, Philip Bayles finally explains the rules and varieties of games to me. “You’re here again?” he jokes, “what are you writing a novel on us?” It was about time I learned how to play the game, and I quickly learn that table tennis is more complicated than just hitting the ball back and forth. Doubles, singles, old school, new school, it was all too much for me, but one thing sticks, “these games make you play with everyone at the table. The people you want to play with and the people you don’t want to play with,” explains Bayles. There was a forced socialization to the sport, but it fosters an open-mindedness between the players. If you spent enough of your days there, you’d shake a lot of new hands.
Mike Pittman shows up a little late to an early morning practice, “I stayed up until two last night working on this.” He passes me a sparkly necklace with colorful chunky beads, similar to the collection of bracelets that swung on his wrist as he hit the ball. He makes jewelry when he’s not playing table tennis, turning images of them into kaleidoscopic designs that can be transferred onto clothing. The necklace passes through the hands of everyone sitting on the metal bleachers. Chatter is common here, and I find if I stay put, within five minutes, someone will introduce themselves to me. I sit with Herb one day and scroll through pictures on his phone from a vacation to China, KJ tells me about his brother who was a pilot, Lory tells me the story of how she joined the club to surprise her husband and fellow member, Jima, and I bond with a fellow or two over our LA roots.
There are 85 members in The Blazing Paddles, and about twenty to thirty will rotate through the three-hour practice on any given day. And they practice every day. Most days they play at the Willamalane Bob Keefer Recreation Center in Springfield, Oregon— the consensus is that this is the favored location. But they have a space at the Adult Recreation Center, they solely refer to as the “Senior Center,” on days they can’t get the other court reserved.
The club attracts enthusiasts from all over the state of Oregon, including Salem, Roseburg, and Cresswell, and Combs is committed to recruiting from even further. While the majority of the membership is made up of older retired men, the club is open to all genders and ages. For many, this is one of the few sports they can still participate in due to their age. Some come for exercise, others for competition, and many for the social aspect, but the majority say they keep coming back for the friendly people and the good-spirit.
It’s my last day, and I tuck my camera into my bag as I sit on those metal bleachers in that corner of the recreation center for the last time. “So do you have jobs lined up once you graduate?” asks Mitchell. “No,” I respond, a little sheepishly. “Well you can work here,” says Combs, “I’ll pay you double I pay him,” he says gesturing towards Mitchell, who yells, “that’s zip!”
Walking out of that club, I’d be a fair match to any confident 12-year-old at a game of table tennis. But I think it’s fair to say I came away with more than just a killer backhand. Who knew I’d grow to like these people enough to miss them. As if to fill some void, I now I find myself calling my grandma more often. I understand why people keep coming back here. I dragged my feet in every morning sleepy-eyed and hazy minded, but I always left with a boost of energy a cup of coffee could never give me. As cliche as that may sound, I found life, community, and childlike spirit cultivated in this club.
For many of my new friends, The Blazing Paddles granted the freedom one might not expect to lose in retirement. But as a 20-something-year-old, I was surprised to find that it provided me with something similar— a refreshing positivity and an escape from the humdrum of the everyday.