Lesbian Ping-Pong

I was once a member of a women’s Ping-Pong league. I played for about 10 years, say, from when I was 60 to 70. I’d been baby-sitting my 10-year-old grandson and took him to the local pool hall, where I knew they had a couple of Ping-Pong tables. We could bond as we knocked ourselves out.

Four women alongside us, playing like gangbusters, were taking a lesson. “Why the lesson when you play so well?” I asked.

“My league wouldn’t let me play if I didn’t improve,” came a response. “You can join. Here, Sundays, 2 to 5.”

There’s such a thing as a Ping-Pong league? Just two blocks from where I live? Who knew?

Sunday 2 to 5 rolled around and I showed up. I saw about 30 women, some playing, some observing. I observed this: These women were all gay. I wasn’t. I became panicky, but so electrifying was the ping and pong from the tables, I ignored my anxiety. I decided on a reverse “don’t ask, don’t tell” approach.

Most of the players had short hair; wore mannish trousers; no makeup. My M.O., purple nail polish and bright red lipstick, was a definite no-no, so the following week I showed up plain. I was desperate to blend in. It took time. I kept to myself, spoke when spoken to, played fair; went overboard favoring my opponent when there was a score dispute. I suffered in silence.

Down the pike sparks of friendship came my way. Dinner was planned for one Sunday, and Patricia asked would I mind going to a lesbian restaurant?

“I don’t mind,” I said. “Do they have food?”

They knew! They didn’t tell me they knew, but they did, obviously just by the look of me. Now I could breathe again! I could be me! When Bev asked if I ever slow-danced with another woman, I simply took it as girl talk. Sexy. No offense taken.

“Not since high school,” I said.

After I assumed my place as one-of-the-gang-almost, I exemplified team spirit like there was no tomorrow. I hosted the end-of-season parties in the big loft I lived in (which I don’t anymore due to financial upset). I returned my hard-won trophies (after removing my name and accomplishment, which were merely taped to the underside) so they could be recirculated, saving the league a couple of dollars as they (we) were also in financial upset, and anyway I had nowhere to display them in my new closet of an apartment.

Another time at a “regular” restaurant I overheard a nasty crack about the lesbians from the next table and gave the bastard hell. Nobody’s going to talk about my gang like that.

One of the women pulled me away. “Hinda, we always get that. Ignore it.”

At about the same time I was outed as a straight woman the league moved to Chinatown. With the outsider pressure off, my game soared. So did my reputation. None of my friends or relatives ever actually saw me play, but the buzz was over the top: “You play Ping-Pong?” “Chinatown?” “You must be good.” I loved to tell it. I was on fire over there.

Then I wasn’t. The fire went out. My back went bad. I took time out to heal and eventually did, but I was never good as new. It wasn’t easy for me to stoop over and pick up the ball. I feared some might think I couldn’t handle it because of my age. I didn’t mind being an old lady, but I did mind being seen as one.

When I recovered, I emailed the league announcing my wish to return. A bill for membership arrived. While I usually pay when due, here I paid no attention. I got several follow-up emails instructing me to pay up, yet I resisted. Why? I had the money. A final email brought the firing squad: “We’ve dropped you from the roster for nonpayment.”

I tried to explain myself. You know me, you know I’m good for the money. But no. The treasurer was adamant. Bye!

As is my habit, I gave thought to my behavior. Maybe I just didn’t want to play anymore. Some things have a life of their own and then it’s over. Ten years was enough. Maybe my back would cave in from a bad reach and then I’d be good for nothing. Still, I didn’t quit the league. They quit me.

I stewed over the banishment. It definitely outweighed the crime — too harsh after all I’d done (the parties, the trophies, let alone persevering through the not belonging segment of the early years).

How long could I stew? I got a couple of emails from some of the women offering condolences, which touched my heart. I faced up to my portion of the blame, which I could now see was just about 95 percent (the other 5 percent was on them because I knew I would pay eventually, why didn’t they?). So I caused my own downfall; fired myself, so to speak.

During my run, I got to know these women as no different from myself. I was an outsider because I didn’t allow myself to be known. I don’t know if it was my own bigotry or my own innocence that caused me to be scared of a group of women who were only out on Sundays 2 to 5 to play Ping-Pong. The afternoon was not about me, or about gender identification. It was only about keeping your eye on the ball.

Hinda Gonchor lives in East Hampton and New York City. Her articles have appeared in The New York Times, Self magazine, and other publications.