First Galactic Table Tennis Championships

Fiction - by Larry Hodges

editor's note: As well as a frequent contributor to NewMyths as a science fiction writer, Larry is a National coach for USA Table Tennis and has coached Olympians in the sport.)

"Team meeting! Line Up!" yelled Coach Sun. "Quickly!" She clapped her right hand against the stump of her left arm three times, meaning we had ten seconds to assemble or we'd be running laps. "Uncle Wang wants to waste our time again to give Americans chance to catch up." 

I'd been doing footwork drills with Fan Xin, the men's world table tennis champion, under the way-too-close supervision of Coach Sun. I swear if I blinked, she'd give me that raised-eyebrow look, and in her laid-back fashion tell me to time my blinks better or I'd never have a good forehand. But her perfectionism worked and was the primary reason I was the women's world champion. When she clapped, we jumped like a Pavlovian reflex, and that was why we were the best in the world. The Chinese National Team, all thirty-two of us, half men, and half women, hurried over to where Coach Sun stood with Mr. Wang, president of the Chinese Table Tennis Association. 

We came to a stunned halt as the alien walked into the training hall, the ground trembling with each massive step. 

Was I seeing things?

The dark green alien, an Ith, was about four meters tall, its body shaped like a huge, hairless, muscular gorilla. It crouched on its powerful arms and legs, which formed a stable platform for the huge, thick neck that stretched to near giraffe height. It stared down at us with a large, chinless head with two big, black eyes that jutted out like binoculars. In addition to the two arms on the ground—or were they legs?—two muscular, human-like arms sprouted from the neck, just below the head, with six fingers on each hand. A waft of salty air hit us, like a day at the beach. 

"Great," said Coach Sun. "While Americans furiously practice, we furiously stand around staring at alien we already have seen on news. Okay, everyone line up like small children in front of large alien for big announcement." She sniffed. "You smell like wet dog. Best smell in world." 

Mr. Wang stepped forward. "This--"

A loud rumbling interrupted him, like rolling thunder. It came from a huge mouth that opened in the creature's chest, just below the neck. The creature stepped in front of Wang, bumping him aside like a mouse. Wang sprawled on the floor, but the alien didn't seem to notice. 

"I am Egrad from Itheru," said a robotic voice from a black box that hung around the bottom of the alien's neck. The words were slow and exaggerated. "I am also president of the Galactic Table Tennis Association and the Itheru Table Tennis Federation. My son is Egrayu."

Egrayu! The greatest table tennis player in the galaxy. He'd toured Earth five years ago and nobody could challenge him. What chance did a human have against the Ith, who were faster, stronger, and had far better reflexes and hand-eye coordination? Their ancestors snatched flying insects out of the air for food. Smacking flying ping-pong balls was second nature for them. The irony was that table tennis originated on Earth before spreading through the Orion Arm of the galaxy. We'd have been a part of it if it weren't for the stupid Americans. 

"We have a big announcement," said Mr. Wang, who had regained his feet and now stood a safe distance from the alien, hands on hips, with a forced smile. "We—"

"The GTTA," the alien interrupted, "will be running the first Galactic Table Tennis Championships. We wanted to run it on Ith, but the detestable Shhh objected and lied about us and wanted to run it on their own decrepit planet. So, we compromised and agreed to run it on a neutral, backwards planet, the world where the sport originated."

"We will be running it here in Beijing!" cried Mr. Wang. "At the new National Convention Hall of the People!"

More rumbling noises came from Egrad. Mr. Wang seemed to shrink. He was relatively tall, but next to the alien he was like the insects the Ith plucked out of the air. Even Fan seemed short in comparison, and he's six foot three.

"The tournament will be held in six months," continued the alien. "Each world will be allowed three players. I wish you all good luck. My son has not lost a match in ten of your years. I will ask him not to embarrass you in front of your fans."

I raised my hand.

"Yes, Li?" Wang said. 

"What about the Earth embargo?" During the Ith table tennis tour, the Americans had pulled some strings to get an Ith ship, and then tried colonizing a small, vacant moon in the Itheru system. What were they thinking? The Ith had reacted as a lion with a big flyswatter might react to an irritating mosquito. They'd sent the Americans home and set up a blockade of the Earth and moon, enforced by a small group of Ith ships. After forcibly evacuating the Sherpas and other climbers, they'd blown up Mount Everest as a demonstration. 

"I have arranged a temporary lifting of the Earth embargo," said Egrad. "If all goes well at this tournament, I expect the blockade will end. That is all." He turned and thumped his way out as we stared after him. 

"Holy mother of dragons!" cried Fan, breaking up a stunned silence. I had similar thoughts. 

"And just like that, we go from best in world to worst in galaxy," said Coach Sun. "But as always, we are expected to win. So, we must train harder."

"That's what you always say," said Fan. "Want to be world champion? Train harder! Want more ice cream? Train harder! Want to end war, hunger, and disease? Train harder!" Coach Sun smiled, and seeing that, there were relieved giggles. 

"You don't have to win," said Wang. "You need to do well. Do you have any idea who Egrad is? He's the owner of Ither Corporation, which dominates galactic commerce in the Orion Arm. He is the richest being in the galaxy! If you give a good impression, that'll open the way for China to do business with him. Imagine the opportunities!"

Fan raised his hand. Only seventeen, he was the wonderkid, probably the quickest person on the planet, with the power of a Kung Fu master and the best backhand in Earth history. 

"Yes?" Wang asked. 

"What's the prize money?"

Wang smiled. "I was getting to that. First place is fifty million dollars."

There were gasps and whistles. That's a lot of yuan. 

"Second is thirty million, semifinals fifteen, quarterfinals five, and the final sixteen get one million."

That was a lot more than we'd ever seen in a table tennis tournament. 

"And some say hard work does not pay," said Coach Sun. 

"But do not forget," Wang continued, "that your loyalty is to China. There may be extra . . . requirements made of you."

What requirements? 

I raised my hand, but Xu Chenhao raised his first and blurted out his question before Wang could call on him. "How will we select the Earth teams?" He was the grizzled veteran, already twenty-eight and slightly balding, and #3 among men in the world, behind Fan and the American, Danny See. 

"There will only be one Earth team," said Wang. "Not all aliens have males and females, and when they do, they aren't always as different physically as we are. So, the Galactic Championships do not have men's and women's singles, just open singles. Sorry, Li." 

He must have seen my shoulders slump. I lowered my hand. Since I wouldn't be on the team, I didn't need to know about these extra requirements. 

"They also seem more individualist than us," Wang continued. "No doubles or team events. So, the three Earth players will only be in open singles. They will be chosen by world ranking-"

"Then it's Fan, See, and me!" Xu interrupted in delight. "I'm going to win this thing!" 

"Not exactly," said Wang. "There was much discussion and negotiation."

"Like cats fighting over catnip," said Coach Sun. "Catnip always wins." 

"The decision was made that since there is no women's singles, the team will be the top two men and top woman in the world. Fan, See, and Li."

"What!" Xu cried. "That's not fair! I've beaten Li! I'm better than her!"

"You have beaten Li Yi because you learned how to play her unique style," said Coach Sun, with the raised-eyebrow look. "She beat you the first three times you played. But she did not develop that style to beat you. We go to war against enemies, not teammates. The Americans were the enemy, but now the aliens are. And they too will have trouble with her style." 

"But-" 

"Do you believe you know better than the State Council?" asked Wang. "We pay for your training, so accept their decision. Glory to China!" 

"The politicians have spoken," said Coach Sun. 

Xu glared at me unblinkingly. I didn't want to meet his eyes. Did I really deserve his spot on the team? Except . . . it wasn't his spot on the team. It was mine!!!

Egrad's thumping footsteps were no match for Xu's as he left the room, stopping just long enough to fling his paddle against the wall, splintering it and putting a 

jolting end to my thoughts. 

"That went well," said Coach Sun. 

I've spent years training to get to where I'm at. When I arrive at a tournament, people point, and there's always an autograph line. I signed dozens at the doorway as I entered the playing hall for the first Galactic Table Tennis Championships. But when I checked the draw on the viewscreen on the wall, I wasn't even seeded. My name had been thrown in the draw randomly against other nobodies in the first round, while the top seeds, like Egrayu and Fan—as the top seed from Earth—were seeded past the first round. 

"We're just a pair of hacks now." I looked up, and there was Danny See, the American champion and scourge of the Chinese team. He's short and stocky, with legs like tree trunks, and shoulder-length wavy brown hair. He wore a cowboy hat and a flamboyant brown and pink costume, with more sponsor logos than geometry should allow. He had a lasso at his side, part of his cowboy persona. He played conventionally, attacking from both sides with lots of topspin, and had the best serves in the world, maybe the galaxy. They were super-spinny, and he changed his racket direction almost at contact, making it hard to read the spin. At the recent world championships, he'd beaten Xu in the semifinals before losing in the final to Fan, 12-10 in the seventh. He talked loud like an American, and sometimes, after winning a big point, he yelled, "Yeehaw!"

Everybody in China hated him.

"Hi, Danny," I said, switching to English. "We're both playing Grods." I tapped my finger on our opponents' names in the draw, which were just numbers. Grods don't have names. Instead, they numbered themselves in order of birth since the time of some great ancestor. They were currently somewhere in the twenty-six billions, but generally went by the last two digits in their number. I was playing Forty-One and Danny was playing Twenty-Two. 

"Have you seen a video of them playing?" he asked quietly, which I didn't know he could do. 

"Coach Sun had me watch the video all last night," I said. "They never miss."

He smiled. "They never miss because everyone tries to smack it past them with heavy topspin. But you have those weird long pips on one side of your racket, so try soft-attacking with the pips, with less topspin, then go back to heavy topspin at wide angles. The different spins will mess them up." 

"Thanks. What are you going to do, yeehaw it to death in your silly cowboy clothes?" He stepped back, his jaw dropping, looking almost human for an American. 

"I came over to help," he said. "We're on the same team now." 

"Well, you are pretty loud when you play." On the same team? I still found that hard to accept, after the wars between our two countries. It's amazing that only one went nuclear. 

"And why do you think I do that?" 

I shrugged. "To show off and intimidate opponents."

He shook his head, looking disgusted. "I get paid $10,000 if I yell 'yeehaw' once every game—it adds up. I'm paid a million dollars to wear these silly cowboy clothes. It's how I make a living. Good luck in your match." He abruptly turned and left, his footsteps almost as loud as Egrad's and Xu's foot-stomping, to my ear. I have a big mouth—why had I gone after him like that?

"Sorry!" I called out, but he was already out of hearing. I shouldn't have mocked him; I knew how hard he'd worked to get where he's at. 

At the highest levels, the Olympic sport of table tennis is the most grueling sport imaginable. You have to be able to move almost instantly to any part of the court against a ball hit at you at eighty miles an hour, from across a nine-foot table, with tremendous spin, and throw your body into your shot as you hit it back just as hard and spinny. 

It's not a sport for pansies. 

I've been training eight hours a day for fifteen years, since I was five years old and was placed in a special sports school because I scored high for racket sports in a series of sports skills tests. I still remember them tossing ping-pong balls at me to catch. Three times in a row I caught two at once, one in each hand, and they got all excited and shook my little hand. Very few five-year-olds have the hand-eye coordination to do that. I was special. 

My parents were janitors and couldn't afford to pay for my training. But the state took care of that. From then on, I only saw them once a year—during Chinese New Year—until they died. Table tennis was everything. 

Every year I miss my parents more. 

Talent helps, but mostly at the start. The list of "talented players" who are forgotten is endless. Hard work stomps talent in the long run. It was the first thing they drilled into our empty heads at the sports school. 

My first few years I was trained in both table tennis and badminton, but by the time I was eight it was all table tennis, eight hours a day, six days a week. That included stroking and footwork drills, serve practice, match play, physical training, and meeting with sports psychologists. Oh, and one hour of school instruction five days a week, but that stopped when I was twelve when I joined the national team and became a full-time professional. 

I love every minute I'm in the playing hall and hate the very substance that makes up the floors, the wall, the ceiling, and above all, those tables and ping-pong balls that were the center of my life. I know every inch of the place, from the initials carved in the wall by the water fountain by past coaches like Ma Long and Fan Zhendong, to the splotch by the window where they repaired the hole after Fan Xin put his fist through the wall after a bad training session. I am so proud to be a part of this great team. We are the best in the world and that can never change. And me? I'll stop playing when they pry my paddle from my cold, dead fingers. 

Coach Sun has been my coach since I joined the team, from the time her hair was gray until it turned white as the ball. The first time I met her, as a tiny girl, she stared down at me—like Egrayu would fifteen years later—and said, "Give girl paddle and she play for a day. Teach her to play and maybe we get a champion. Or maybe ruin her life, I don't know. Let's get started." 

She was my coach, mother, and dictator. I can't watch a TV show or read a book without her approval. Yet she also wanted us to think for ourselves, understanding why we did what we did. She would often say, "Teacher opens door. You enter by yourself." It took me years to really understand that.

The training wasn't all bad—once a week she'd announce who were the hardest workers that week, and those selected got ice cream for dessert that night. 

I ate a lot of ice cream.

I'm notorious for eating. We go through a lot of calories, and we all eat a lot, but not even the men can keep up with me. If you put something in sniffing distance, it's gone before Coach Sun can say, "Serve and attack!" and I'll lean back and pat my skinny belly with a big grin. I have the lowest fat percentage on the team, and everyone hates me for it.

I was always Coach Sun's favorite. She even let me mock her speaking habits, which I'd mimic at parties—her native tongue is Cantonese. When I was ten my parents both died from the latest pandemic—or was it something from the Americans?—and she and the Chinese Table Tennis Association became my parents. 

She claimed she'd lost her left arm in a poker game, and never replaced it because she hates prosthetics—"Make me feel like robot." Someone told me she'd actually gotten drunk after losing the final of women's singles at the world championships and fell asleep in the street. An auto-car rolled over her left arm. That ended her playing career. She was a lefty.

"Li Yi?" I turned around and gaped. 

Twenty men and women in ceremonial Mao suits were standing there. In front was President Zhang. The president of China! He looked older close up, close to eighty and heavily wrinkled, but shiny black hair. We were the same height, and I'm average for a woman. But he had a commanding presence that made him seem as tall as an Ith, like Coach Sun.

"I want to wish you good luck," he said. "Win, lose, it doesn't matter. If you play your best, you will bring honor to China."

"Thank you, sir!" I gasped as I froze up. It's all I could think to say. 

"I'll be watching your matches. I love your unique style!"

"Thank you, sir!" I repeated. I sounded like an idiot.

He nodded, and in unison they all turned and walked away. 

"See, you are both famous and eloquent," said Coach Sun. "Are you ready to battle with alien barbarians?" 

"All set," I said as Zhang walked away. 

I do have a unique style. I have the standard inverted sponge on my forehand side, which I use to attack. The sponge is smooth, grippy, and super-bouncy, and great for topspin attacking. But on my backhand, I have my secret weapon—long pips with no sponge underneath, a rare and specialized surface. They are slow and defensive, making it easy to return an aggressive topspin. When the incoming topspin hits the pips, they bend, allowing the ball to slide on the surface, and so returning all of the topspin as backspin—so the harder opponents attack with topspin, the more backspin they get back. It's called push-blocking. Only the best players can keep up an attack against that much backspin. If they don't attack, I do!

I have one other secret weapon—when an opponent gets used to my backhand long pips, I'll flip the racket and backhand attack with the inverted. That really messes them up! 

The weakness of long pips is that it's harder to attack with, so I'm often on the defensive, with opponents doing what they do best—attack. A legal racket has different colors on each side, so opponents always know which side I'm hitting with—I have red on the backhand, black on the forehand. But if I mix up defense and attack, I do well, even if I can't hit as hard as the men. 

The great majority of top players play two-winged topspin attack, with inverted on both sides—which meant that when they play someone with a different style, like me, they often have trouble. Until they get used to it, like Xu. 

How did I develop such a style? Coach Sun once told me, "A wise woman develops her own style, an ignorant one mindlessly follows the crowd." I've always loved that.

I'd warmed up that morning with Fan. We both wore the Chinese National Team uniform, blue shorts, and red collared shirt, with the Chinese flag, outlined in blue, over the heart. In a show of unity, the world flag had been added underneath, a green rectangle with a picture of the United Nations Knotted Gun statue. Danny wore one too, though it was lost in the sea of logos on his shirt. 

I'd gorged on far too many fried chicken dumplings at the food booth. They were so good!

"I have been watching more video," Coach Sun said. "They get every ball back if you attack too much with inverted side. You will need to attack with both inverted and long pips side. That will throw off their timing." 

"That's what Danny See said."

"Danny See is smart player. That is why he is our main threat on Earth. Maybe we export him to Itheru? Now, remember. You can win this match. Because only alternative is you can't win, and if you can't win, why are you here?"

"I'll win this," I said. 

The Grod, Forty-One, was about one and a half meters tall, maybe forty kilos, light blue, and shaped like a short, upright torpedo, with four stubby legs spaced equally on the bottom.  It wore a colorful handkerchief over its mouth but no other clothing. It clutched a ping-pong paddle in one of its four frail-looking arms that came out of its head, just below its large eyes.

The umpire, dressed in a black suit, red bow tie, and black derby hat with a red ribbon around the base—when did that become fashionable for officials?—motioned for us to enter the bubbled playing area five minutes before match time, nine in the morning. 

One of the problems with running the galactic table tennis championships is that the players come from different atmospheres and gravity. To accommodate this, the organizers put each playing court and table in a "bubble." The bubbles were transparent enclosures with an airlock. Inside the bubble the gravity and atmosphere would be set at the midpoint between the two species about to play. The Ith had lent us several bubbles to train with, so I was used to adjusting to varying gravity and atmospheres. Since the Grods came from a lower-gravity planet in the neighboring Alpha Centauri system, the gravity inside was about 10% below normal for me. They have a lower oxygen atmosphere, and so instead of 21% oxygen I was used to, it was at 19%—no different than playing at high altitude and not enough to worry about. 

"Remember, lower gravity means balls fly long, so attacking less consistent," Coach Sun had said. I glanced around, and nodded to the Chinese team, which had gathered to watch. The convention center was vast, with 64 bubbles. Surrounding them were stands, with a hundred thousand screaming fans. It was unsettling at first, but the fans gave me extra energy, while hundreds of hours of sports psychology meetings meant they didn't distract me. 

Watching in the near seats and staring down at us were Egrad and Egrayu, with Wang sitting at their feet. Also watching was President Zhang, with his delegation split between watching me and watching Fan. I tried to ignore all of them as I focused on my play.

Forty-One and I entered the bubble's airlock door, followed by our coaches. There was a hissing as the atmosphere and gravity equalized. I felt my weight go down. What a great diet plan! Then we entered the bubble and the playing area—14 meters long, seven meters wide, with a six-meter ceiling to allow for high lobbing. The flaming red table was set up in the middle. The bubble was disconcertingly silent—they had optional soundproofing, and I hadn't realized the soundproofing would be on when we played, so had never trained with it on. From inside I could see the cheering fans, but it was like a silent movie. 

The umpire flipped a coin to see who served first, and I won. I chose to receive first, so I'd be serving at the end if it got close. We had the usual two-minute warm-up, and then the umpire called, "Time!" 

The Grod served fast to my backhand, and I attacked with my long pips, not too hard as I had to adjust to the lower gravity. It blocked the ball into the net since it was used to the extra topspin of an inverted surface return. The next rally, the Grod attacked my backhand over and over, but I blocked with the long pips, returning its topspin as backspin, and it finally put one in the net. The next rally it went to my forehand, and I ripped a winner with the inverted. 

As the match went on, it got more used to the long pips, but not nearly enough. We both adjusted quickly to the gravity. But it was a massacre as I won easily, 11-2, 11-3, 11-5, 11-6. Perhaps we were not the worst in the galaxy. We shook hands afterwards—it was surreal, shaking hands with an alien. Its four-fingered hands were like a five-year-old's. 

"Stay focused," said Coach Sun. "You won so easy I grow bored. Your next opponent looks like squid with great forehand and great backhand. Hit in between. Next round is at 10:30. Meet me at table ten minutes early. Now I have to rush out and deal with emergency."

"What's the emergency?"

"Fan forgot his lucky dragon-blue socks. I am taking auto-car to clothing store to buy replacement. How can one possibly win without lucky dragon-blue socks?" She left quickly. Fan was so tall and such a good player that we sometimes forgot he was still a teenager. 

"Great win!" said Wang, who had somehow sneaked up on me. "I think Egrad was impressed with your play. Keep this up and you'll get a good raise. Glory to China!" He shook my hand—why were his hands so sweaty when I was the one who had just played? "C'mon, your hand's like limp spaghetti!" he said. "Give a real shake!" I shook more firmly. 

"One more thing," he added. "This tournament is more important than anything you have ever done. The Worlds were nothing. You do well here, you will be rewarded. You embarrass us, and you will pay the consequences. We don't tolerate losers."

I stared at him as he walked off. Was that supposed to be a pep talk?

The World Table Tennis Championships takes place over several days, with players playing at most three matches per day, to allow players to recover for their next match. But the GTTF believed in a more grueling affair. They scheduled the entire thing in one day. There were 128 players, so it would take seven rounds, one every ninety minutes. 

Danny was still playing the other Grod, Twenty-Two, the last match of the round. I went over to watch. The scoreboard showed Danny had won the first three games but lost the last three, and they were about to start the seventh and final game. The Grod must have gotten used to his tricky serves. 

I caught Danny's eye and mouthed, "Sorry!" He nodded but looked grim. 

The rallies were long and furious as they topspinned back and forth, but Danny fell behind early, 6-9, two points away from losing. 

Then Danny did something unexpected. For three straight points, he backed off the table and played backspin defense. The Grod, caught off guard and perhaps nervous, missed and lost all three points, 9-all. Still chopping, Danny popped a ball up the next rally, and the Grod wound up and smashed. From the backcourt, Danny lobbed it high and deep with topspin. The Grod smashed again and again, and over and over Danny lobbed it back, five in a row. Then the Grod smashed wide to Danny's forehand, and he dove and pulled off the shot of the tournament, an incredible counter-smash that the Grod could only watch go by. It was 10-9, match point for Danny!

A hundred thousand fans jumped to their feet cheering, and the billion people watching on TV probably did the same.

The Grod served. Danny faked an attack and the Grod took a step back to counterattack. Instead, Danny dropped the ball short—and the ball hit the net. For a split second it balanced precariously, teetering about . . . and then it dribbled over. 

Such were the fates that such a great match was decided on a lucky break. Match to the human, 11-9 in the seventh—Danny yeehawed when he won, but we couldn't hear from outside. The crowd went crazy as the human and Grod shook hands. I thought back to my match—had the fans also been cheering? I couldn't remember, I'd been too focused on the match. 

As they left the bubble, Danny grabbed his lasso from his playing bag and lassoed the umpire, who, perhaps warned in advance, took it with a smile. 

"Nice comeback," I said, giving him a high-five. 

"Yeehaw!" he shouted. Then, in a lower voice, "That's another $10,000. Not sure if the ones inside the bubble count since nobody could hear them. Can I treat you to something?" 

"The food booth has great dumplings," I said. 

"Dumplings it is!" Soon I was gorging on another full plate.

"They're pretty greasy," said Danny.

"That's what makes them so good." Coach Sun would have a fit if she knew how many I'd eaten. 

"How do you eat so much and still play?" he asked. 

"It's my super-power!" 

Most of the rest of the day went by in a daze. In the round of 64, I beat the squid creature. Coach Sun was right, its forehand and backhand were better than any humans, but it was slow in covering the area between, and I quickly adjusted to the super light gravity—similar to exhibitions I'd once done on Moon Base—and wearing a mask in the nearly non-existent atmosphere. I celebrated with more dumplings. 

Alas, Danny lost badly that round, four straight to Egrayu. On the last point, Danny down 3-10, they played an exhibition point, with Egrayu smashing over and over to Danny's forehand while he lobbed them back from the barriers. Toward the end he began waving to the crowd between shots. Then he suddenly counter-smashed one, but Egrayu did a quick counter-smash to Danny's backhand and the match was over. On the way out of the bubble he lassoed Egrayu—not easy, considering his height—and gave out a piercing yeehaw. Egrad did not look pleased, but Egrayu's huge mouth seemed to smile. 

In the round of 32—winner gets a million dollars, but I quickly put that out of my head—I played what looked like a short, flattened elephant that played with the paddle in its trunk. We played in double gravity and a thick, sauna-like atmosphere, and so I mostly just stood at the table blocking every ball back until it missed. It staged a comeback, but then I discovered that gravity pulled the ball down so fast I could smash almost anything and it would stay on the table—and its defense wasn't as good as mine. 

After the match, I shook hands with its trunk, which was like shaking hands with a damp sponge. Then, it put its paddle on the ground, and while staring unblinkingly at me, it stomped one of its huge legs down on the paddle, shattering it. 

It was only after the match that I noticed President Zhang and his delegation again watching. So were Egrad and Egrayu, with Wang next to them. 

More dumplings. Another lecture from Wang about the importance of my play and what would happen if I won . . . or lost. I saw him giving the same lecture to Fan. 

In the round of sixteen I beat somewhat easily a giant snake that held the paddle in its tail. It used echo-location—sonar—to locate the ball, chirping out high-pitched sounds like a bat. I don't think that's as fast or efficient as sight, and while it maneuvered its tail about rapidly, I was quicker, and it had trouble when I kept the ball short and it had to reach over the table with its tail. So, more dumplings!

In the quarters I was up against basically a giant squirrel, which had beaten one of the three Iths the round before. It had an airhole on top of its head, like a whale's, and when it won a big point it would shoot flames out of it. It scampered about the court at speeds no human could match, attacking everything with its forehand. The match went the full seven games, but in the seventh, at 5-5, Coach Sun called a one-minute time-out—you are allowed one per match. She had me serve short to the forehand, bringing the squirrel in over the table, and then attack long to the backhand, jamming it and forcing it to play backhand. I won, 11-8. This in-out play seemed to give many of the aliens fits. This put me in the semifinals. Then it was more dumplings. My good luck charm!

There was another lecture from Wang, though I don't remember a word he said.

President Zhang watched all my matches, often clapping for me. Egrad also watched every match. Often Egrayu would join him after finishing his matches, which were over quickly as he bludgeoned each opponent into submission. Wang would always be around them, talking nonstop. 

Fan had beaten the other Ith in the quarterfinals in another seven-game battle. Afterwards he said, "Not all Ith play like gods." But in the semifinals, he was up against Egrayu—and the Ith played like a god and won easily, 11-9, 11-7, 11-2, and the final game 11-0! The alien would stand about three meters behind the table, lower its head on its long neck, and move it side to side to each ball. Since its arms were just below its head at the end of the neck, it could get to any ball and make relentless, powerful attacks. It was almost unfair—humans and others had to move to the ball with their legs but the Ith simply moved their fast, powerful necks, like an athletic pendulum.

After the match I saw Wang go over to Fan. I expected him to be angry—but instead he shook Fan's hand. I guess semifinals was good enough. But it wasn't enough for me! I was just two matches away from being . . . I had to stop to imagine it . . . Galactic Champion! 

Coach Sun broke my reverie. "The scores tell a tale," she said. "Egrayu have trouble with Fan's backhand early on, and so Fan had chance. But once he got used to it, Egrayu wins easy. Do you see the lesson here?"

"Play best two out of three?" I suggested.

"Vary your play so he never gets used to you. But now, let us focus on Spider-Alien."

There is nothing creepier on Earth—no, the galaxy—than playing table tennis against a giant spider. We would be playing in light gravity. There had been some controversy before the tournament about the Shhh because they played a little differently than most. The rules allowed for only one paddle, but the Shhh had ten interchangeable arms and legs. They balanced on six and played with four paddles. A compromise was reached, and they were allowed to play with two. I don't think that was fair. It meant that it had extra reach, with a paddle on each side. 

But there was a bigger problem. My stomach was beginning to rumble. How many dumplings had I eaten that day? 

"One more round," said Wang, who had sneaked up on me again. He always seemed to be hovering somewhere between me and Egrad. "If you win this match and make the final, you will get thirty million prize money."

"Oh, great!" Did Wang have to bring that up, just before a match? I'd have to clear my mind and try to forget. C'mon, sports psychology training, do your thing!

But so much money!

"And if you lose. . ." he walked off without finishing that statement. 

Great. More pressure. 

There was only one thing left to calm my nerves, and that was my good luck charm. My stomach and I argued for a moment, but I won. I went back and ate their last plate of dumplings, reminding myself to never again make fun of Fan about his lucky dragon-blue socks. 

Before the match I saw Coach Sun and Danny talking. Then they came over. 

"It has long arms," said Coach Sun. "It takes time for nerve impulses to go from brain and down those long arms."

"Plus, it has to decide each point which paddle to use," said Danny. 

"So, the key is to play every ball quick off bounce," said Coach Sun.

"Don't give it time to react," said Danny. 

My head shot back and forth between them like watching a ping-pong match as they gave me a dizzying number of things to remember. The one that stuck with me was to rush the spider with quick shots. It was hard to even think because . . . I should have listened to my stomach. I felt like I'd swallowed a couple of jackhammers. 

And then we entered the bubble and the low gravity, and it was like going into freefall. My stomach felt like it turned inside-out. Give me credit; I didn't throw up inside the air mask I wore against this methane-breathing alien. Barely. 

But the advice worked. The raging volcano in my stomach made moving to attack difficult, but it didn't affect my blocking as much. I beat the Spider-Alien, 11-8, 15-13 (whew!), 9-11, 11-7, 11-8, putting me in the final. President Zhang and his delegation stood and clapped. 

"Nice match," said Coach Sun. "Is this new between-points meditation technique, where you grab stomach?"

"I think I ate too many dumplings." 

"How many did you eat?"

I shrugged, and then winced as that hurt my stomach. "All of them." 

"Then-"

"Excuse me," and I ran off, barely making it to the bathroom in time. 

Xu Chenhao was waiting for me outside. I'd practiced with him numerous times to prepare for the tournament, but he'd always been grumpy. Even though he was used to my style, I still beat him sometimes, and these were serious matches—loser had to crawl under the table!

"I want to apologize for how I've acted since they put you on the team," he said. "You've done really well, better than I would have."

"I have a unique style," I said. 

"Maybe I'll learn your style," he said. "Will you teach me?"

"Definitely! Heck, I'm scared I'll play someone like me, and I won't know how to play it!"

Shortly before the final there was a press conference. I sat in front of the press room next to Egrayu, feeling like a baby duckbill next to a T-Rex. I answered all the questions, but I don't remember any of it. 

Afterward I raced to the bathroom again. 

The final was at 7:30PM, me versus Egrayu. He was from a higher-gravity planet, and so I'd be playing at about 20% more weight. Thankfully, we had similar atmospheres. It meant more blocking, less moving—my stomach was grateful for that. Before the match, I went for a walk, past the food booth.

"We have more fried dumplings!" one of the workers called out to me. 

No! My stomach was screaming in pain. 

But . . . I'd pulled off win after win, each time after eating a plate of dumplings. A top athlete doesn't change something that works, whether it's a lucky dumplings or socks.

"They're really good!" said the worker. They smelled so good and yet made me queasy at the same time. Once again, my head and stomach argued. 

My stomach won again. I'm so stupid!

Just before reporting to the bubble, I had to sprint for the bathroom again. I didn't have to look to know Coach Sun was giving me the eyebrow-raising stare. It was still there when I returned. 

"More dumplings?" she asked when I returned. Danny stood next to her, grinning. 

I nodded. "If I eat one more, I will die." My stomach was juggling those jackhammers.

"If you eat one more, I kill you myself," she said. "Now, let us prepare for final match. First—"

"I need to talk to Li," interrupted Wang. The guy should be a professional spy the way he sneaked up on people. 

"Not before match," said Coach Sun.

"Now," said Wang.

"Okay," Coach Sun said, "I wait here while you benefit her your years of bureaucratic experience and explain to Li how she beat this huge monster with powerful shots. Perhaps you supply her with stapler and she prick him to death?"

Wang grabbed my playing arm and yanked it, forcing me to follow. It was either that or lose my arm. 

"Where are you going?" It was Egrayu, through his translator as he lowered his head down to us. His salty sea smell washed over us.

"Nothing, just some last-minute advice," said Wang. 

"Is he also your coach?" Egrayu asked. 

"We'll be back shortly," Wang said. He led me a distance away, more gently now. 

"Look, I know, it's the most important match of my life," I said. "I must win or I'm off the team, and so on. Glory to China, and—"

"Shut up," he said. "And listen. You have done great. But remember those extra requirements I once mentioned? I have a business deal worked out with Egrad—"

"You mean between Egrad and China?"

"Yes, of course. But the situation is tricky." In the distance I saw Egrayu watching us. "Egrad is a bully. Bullies hate losing. If you beat Egrayu, it'll ruin the deal."

"You want me to lose?"

"You have brought great honor to us and shown Egrad that China must be taken seriously. But you play for Team China, not for yourself. There is nothing more important for China than opening business relations with Egrad and the Ith and ending the Earth embargo. Only Egrad can do that. And nothing is more important to him than his son winning this championship. If he doesn't, there's no way he'll partner with us or close down the Earth embargo. I want you to keep it close, get his respect, but you must lose."

"No way!"

"You will get twenty million bonus for losing, matching the extra prize money if you'd won."

I took a deep breath. That was a lot of guaranteed money. 

"If you win, you will never play professional table tennis again. You will never leave China. Your parents were janitors, and so will you be. Keep it close but lose . . . or face the consequences. Glory to China!" He turned and left. 

I could only stare off into the distance. What was I to do?

I noticed Egrayu staring at me from near the bubble, a good distance away. "I'll be there in a minute," I shouted. 

Coach Sun and Danny came over. "Whatever advice Wang give you," Sun said, "do opposite. If you play smart, alien will shatter like glass." 

I nodded. Win, lose, what did it matter? I had done well to make the final, but Egrayu was unbeatable. I would lose either way and get the same money. Glory to China. Or at least to Wang. 

"You don't look too confident," said Danny. "Stomachache?"

"Thanks for reminding me." If nothing else, Wang had taken my mind off the jackhammers in my stomach. Now my stomach was jumping up and down yelling, I'm still here!

"So," I asked, "how do I play Egrayu?"

Danny sighed. "Playing him is like using kung fu against a mountain. I couldn't make a crack."

"No matter how tall the mountain," said Coach Sun, "it cannot block the sun. Be the sun." She paused. "Not me, the bright one in the sky!"

"Anything more specific?" I asked. 

"Okay," said Coach Sun, "against anything deep on the table, his attack is best in galaxy." 

"But he's not so good over the table," said Danny. "He doesn't have room to swing like he wants to with the table in the way."

"I've told Li that one thousand times," said Coach Sun. "Some have to hear one thousand and one times before they listen."

"So, keep the ball short, and be ready to attack with the forehand," said Danny. "Attack his middle, too, make him choose between forehand and backhand." 

"You can win this," said Coach Sun. "No matter how good Egrayu is, remember that even a rabbit bites when cornered." 

"So, I should bite like a rabbit," I said. "Great. Any more nuggets of advice?" I grabbed at my stomach. "Maybe it'll get my mind off this." 

Coach Sun shrugged. "He who attacks first tells the winning tale."

"Stop hitting hard, start hitting smart," said Danny. 

"The bigger they are, the harder they hit, and the more they go off the end," said Coach Sun. "If you like, I have whole book on table tennis tactics I can read to you. Or you can instead go into bubble and play ping-pong. Talk does not cook rice."

"Just relax!" said Danny. "Hey, how many hands do you have?"

"Huh?" That was an odd question. "I have two." I held them up. 

"I have four hands." He pretended to hit several forehands. "See, these are my forehands!"

I groaned but also laughed. 

"Tomorrow you can really relax," said Danny. "Maybe you can invite me on a tour of the Great Mall of China. I hear you aren't considered Chinese until you've hiked its entire length."

"I don't think so," I said. "It parallels the Great Wall of China for five hundred miles. After today, I don't think I'll be able to walk ten steps."

"I hear the restaurants in the Great Mall have great dumplings," said Danny, grinning. "Big, greasy ones."

"I will never eat another dumpling the rest of my life!"

"Thank you," said Coach Sun. 

"Now go beat him!" said Danny. 

Egrayu and I entered the airlock. I had a sudden thought. He'd been staring at me after Wang's latest talk. 

"Do Ith have better hearing than humans?" I asked him. "Did you hear what Wang said to me?"

"Our hearing is no better than humans," he said. "And we do not read lips either. Good luck, human."

Egrayu won the toss and decided to serve first. I decided to test him—I needed to see his vaunted attack. So, I returned his first serve aggressively to his wide forehand. He lowered his head to the side, swiveled back slightly, and then pivoted into the ball like a tornado. 

I'd never seen a ball go by so fast. Or rather, not see a ball go by. It was just a blur. 

"What was that?" Coach Sun called out. "Play smart!"

There was no way of dealing with his attack. So, I'd have to play smart if I wanted to keep it close. Using my long pips on the backhand, I returned his next serve short to the forehand. He reached in and attacked it to my forehand, and it was my turn to rip a forehand. But my shot wasn't as powerful as his, and he made a defensive topspin return. I forehand ripped it off the bounce to his wide backhand and he could only watch it go by. 

He was only human after all. Let's win this thing. Or rather, almost win. 

And ignore the molten magma in my stomach. 

I returned his serves short over and over with the long pips, drawing him over the table. Then I'd attack, and he'd have less time to react. When he attacked, I'd cover much of the table with my long pips backhand, dead-blocking them back—the more topspin he put on the ball, the more of his own spin he'd get back as backspin, and he had trouble with it. On my serve I usually attack, but sometimes I'd serve and drop shot, and then attack. He was more used to inverted surfaces, but I could see him slowly adjusting. I went up 10-5 but had a scare as he scored four in a row. At 10-9, I walked around the court, grabbing at my stomach. Ignore it, I told myself. The umpire yelled at me that play was continuous. 

I served and backhand attacked at his middle. He did a soft topspin return, which I blocked short with the pips. He reached in and made a weak return, deep and wide to my backhand. I flipped my racket and pummeled the ball with the inverted on the backhand side, catching him off guard. 

Game one to the human. 

But I could see how quickly he'd gotten used to me. And yet . . . my long pips gave me a surface designed for keeping the ball short and changing the pace, the only way to stop his unstoppable attack. 

There's nothing more boring than point-by-point descriptions of table tennis, interspersed with lurid descriptions of my stomach, which I took to grabbing between every point and sometimes during. The more my stomach hurt, the harder I concentrated. I played the best of my life. So, we'll skip to game seven. Yep, I made it to the seventh! But what now?

I glanced over to the stands, and there was Wang, sitting next to Egrad. Seeing me, Wang stood up and slow-clapped. 

Keep it close, he'd said. I wonder if anyone had told that to Li Furong? Way back in the stone age of table tennis, in the early 1960s, he'd been in the final of men's singles at three straight world championships, losing all three times to teammate Zhuang Zedong. Zhuang was considered the greatest player of all time for many years—until later on, when many Chinese players claimed that Li--my namesake—had been ordered to dump to Zhuang, since the latter was a member of the Communist Party and the government's favorite hero. Zhuang was still great, but his legacy was tarnished. Li Furong was largely forgotten. 

Was I another Li?

I wasn't sure, but I didn't have to decide yet. I no longer had anything to lose. If I won, I won. If I lost, I won. See, I told myself, just relax and have fun, and what will happen will happen. Tomorrow all will be well, and I'll visit the Great Mall with Danny. As if by magic, the stomach cramps went away. 

Eighteen points later and the score is 9-9 and I'm serving. I'm unbeatable, but so is Egrayu. 

I look around, see the screaming fans, but can't hear them. I see Egrad—his neck is trembling. Wang is next to him. He jumps to his feet when he sees me looking over and holds his arms out in a questioning gesture. I see President Zhang and his delegation. He is sitting absolutely still. 

It's me and my ego versus the needs of billions of Chinese. I have no choice. The decision is made. 

A supernova goes off in my stomach. I grit my teeth and prepare to serve. 

I serve fast and deep, well off the end. I'm down 9-10 championship point. Egrayu slowly moves back and retrieves the ball. I stare at my feet. 

I hear a rumbling and look up. Egrayu has walked to my side of the table. 

"Do not do this!" he roars. Only the umpire, scorekeeper, and our coaches can hear us. He tosses the ball to me. 

"I have no choice," I say. This time I'll serve into the net. Egrayu returns to his side of the table. I toss the ball up. There is a loud slapping sound just before the ball hits the net.

"Fault!" cries the umpire. It is over. Only . . . he rewards the point to me. I am stunned. "Hand on table!" continues the umpire. As I served, Egrayu had smacked the table with his free hand, which is illegal. Since the ball was in play from the time it left my hand, and he did this before my serve went into the net, it is my point. Deuce. 

"What are you doing?" Coach Sun calls out. 

"Call for the referee," says Egrayu to the umpire. While the umpire keeps score and makes sure the players follow the rules, the referee is the final arbiter in any dispute. But what is the dispute?

Coach Sun comes to the table and asks me what the problem is, but I have no answer for her. Egrayu's coach, another Ith, also comes out. Soon the referee arrives—a British gentleman. Following him are Egrad, Wang . . . and President Zhang. 

As they enter, Egrad bumps Zhang aside as he had once done to Wang, sending the president sprawling, and continues stomping in. Zhang gets up, brushes off his clothes, and follows. Then, after catching up with Egrad, he throws his body into the alien. 

It was like running into a tree. But the alien falls back slightly even as Zhang bounces off, barely keeping his feet. Egrad stares down at him for a moment. 

"Very good," the Ith says with a quick nod of his huge head, and they continue toward the table. 

"What is the problem?" the referee asks. 

"This human, Mr. Wang, has blackmailed my opponent into dumping this match," says Egrayu. He points at Wang. There is a shocked silence. How could he know about that? 

"Mr. Wang . . . is this true?" Zhang asks. 

"He's lying!" Mr. Wang says. "If she were dumping, why would it be so close?"

"Because you ordered her to keep it close," says Egrayu.

Egrad turned to me. "Were you ordered to dump to my son?"

My stomach explodes. I take a deep breath. "Yes." 

"Prove it!" cries Wang, his face turning red. 

"I can't," I say. It's a mere player's word against the word of the respected president of the Chinese Table Tennis Association. At best, Egrayu can say he suspects I missed my serve on purpose, but neither of us can prove that. 

"In that case," says Wang, "for your false accusation, and as the table tennis representative of the country that gave you everything in return for nothing, I am defaulting you from this match."

 The referee scratches his head for a moment, then says, "He has that authority."

"Mr. Wang," Coach Sun says, "If you do this, I will make sure you regret it."

"I also have this authority," Mr. Wang says. "You're fired."

Coach Sun gives a small nod and turns to me. "Why didn't you tell me this was happening?"

"I'm an idiot and I had no proof!" I cry, clutching at my stomach, which is doing painful backflips. "But it's true, he blackmailed me to keep it close but lose."

"Prove it!" cries Mr. Wang again. But his face is no longer red. He looks confident.

"I can prove it," says Egrayu. His translator voice is deep and quiet but carries. 

After a stunned silence, I say, "How?"

"It took me a moment to find it."

"What proof could you possibly have?" Mr. Wang asks. "I will have you banned from this planet, you—"

There is a loud rumbling. "Mr. Wang!" roars Egrad.

"Sorry, I misspoke," Mr. Wang says. He's shaking, his face again red. 

Egrad turns to his son. "What is this proof?"

"I will play it," Egrayu says. He turns to me. "You asked if I have better hearing than humans. We do not. But we have better technology. My translator picked up every word of your conversation with your Mr. Wang. Here are excerpts I put together." 

From his translator comes Mr. Wang's voice: "Egrad is a bully. Bullies hate losing. If you beat Egrayu, it'll ruin the deal. I want you to keep it close, get his respect, but you must lose. If you win, you will never play professional table tennis again. You will never leave China. Your parents were janitors, and so will you be. Keep it close but lose or face the consequences. Glory to China!"

"Mr. Wang!" roars Egrad. I can barely hear him over the deafening crowd, which we can suddenly hear. I also hear a distinct, "Yeehaw!" 

"I've been broadcasting this live to your loudspeaker system and your broadcast networks," says Egrayu. "Everyone should hear. I also turned off the bubble's soundproofing. I think you'll also find Fan dumped to me in the semifinals, on Mr. Wang's orders, though he didn't care if that one was close. I thought so but wasn't sure at the time. That's why I had the translator listen in on Li's conversation with Mr. Wang."

"Mr. Wang arranged several private deals with me," says Egrad, "but with his own companies. Those deals are now void."

"It was for the glory of China!" cries Mr. Wang. He slowly backs away. 

"Dumping is dishonorable and cheats the players and the fans," says President Zhang. "Blackmailing one to do so is criminal. This hasn't been an issue for China since before we were born. You have brought great dishonor to our country."

"No, he has not brought us dishonor," says Coach Sun. "He has only dishonored himself. A bad dumpling doesn't make all dumplings bad." She gave me a quick smile. 

Zhang stares at her for a moment, then says, "You are right." Then he turns to Mr. Wang. "You're fired. And I definitely have that authority. We will also open an investigation into this. How are your janitorial skills?"

"President Zhang," says Egrad, "I believe we can do business together once we end the silly Earth embargo. No matter who wins between my son and your champion. I am especially interested in importing these strange long pips surfaces your player uses—they are unknown in the rest of the galaxy. I'm sure you have much we will be interested in, in return for warp flight, anti-gravity, and other technologies. Also, perhaps your team can train with us on Ith? We will meet and discuss in your office tomorrow morning."

"I'll be there," Zhang says. "We can also discuss how best to open up relations between Earth and the rest of the galaxy. We'll call it . . . Ping-Pong Diplomacy." 

"Great, our mortal enemies are now our friends," says Coach Sun. But she was smiling. 

"Afterwards, I'm inviting the Earth team out for lunch," Zhang continues. "You and your son are invited--I'm told you can eat the same foods we eat. There's a place on the Great Mall that makes the best dumplings."

I groan.

He turns to me. "What about you?"

I'm confused. "What do you mean?"

"Don't you have a match to finish?"

I glance at Egrayu and I hear a rumbling sound, but it's higher pitched, and I'm pretty sure he's laughing.  

We go back to the table and play the final two points. It is glorious. 

T\