I awaken each morning to the rhythmic “thwack, thwack, thwack”, of a hollow plastic ball bouncing off a foam paddle; caroming back up off a wooden table;only to be “thwacked” back again.

Laughter and shouts interrupt the tin echoes of the endless bouncing ball. Young children are playing ping pong, not 20 yards from our tent.

We’re at the Lair of the Bear, a camp for Cal Alumni, located ‘neath sugar pines, high in the Sierras.

As the camp fire song goes (to the tune of "There is nothing Like a Dame": “There is nothing like the Lair.”

I first arrived here some 40 summers ago, a fuzzy faced Cal kid.

Not unlike the lost tribes of Israel, after 40 years of aimless wondering, once again, I’ve arrived home in the land of Ping and Pong.

Back in ’67, my only concern was that the toilets remained unclogged, that the dishes were washed, and that the female staffers understood that I was the sexiest thing this side of Paul Newman.

I was a minor success in two out of three.

Yet, even back then, when my focus was not on children playing silly games on table tops, even I understood that “There was nothing like the Lair.”

The Lair is not unlike thousands of “family camps” across the country. It is humble—like Cal--not ostentatious. Families stay in wooden tent cabins with canvass tops.

Dust is the coin of the realm. Aluminum chairs give it that trailer park feel—which has driven more than one of our friends away after less than one night.

Despite the lack of luxurious accommodations, over the years, certain families have figured out one can’t put a price on “ping pong”.

Anthropologists could do worse than do a study on “ping pong” ‘neath the Ponderosa pines. It is worth partying attention to.

Kids love it.

Why?

My guess is because it is so fair and democratic. Plus, there’s lots of sex.

I don’t mean sex in either the reproductive or prurient sense. I mean young children acting out adolescent and pre-adolescent rituals in the sacred fashion that they have done from time in memoriam, be it be in Baghdad, Bangladesh or Berkeley.

Ping Pong is unfailing fair. The game goes until one person gets twenty-one points. At that moment, no matter how handsome you are; no matter how charismatic; no matter how strong or powerful; the loser must relinquish her spot.

An eight year old who has been waiting his turn might take her place.

It is true that male pea cocks strut their stuff as they swing their paddles. It is also true that many “hapless” females may be rooting them on. Alas, post Title IX, it is not uncommon for a spunky lass to uproot the macho, muscular would be male champion.

This is cause for the leveling of many here-to-fore unconquerable egos.

Watching a teen age Lothario brought to his knees by a 14 year old girl is one of life’s sweet pleasures.

It is common place at the Ping Pong Table.

When children play ping pong, the first thing any adult notices is the lack of arguments. There is little disagreement despite the disparity in strength or power of the players involved.

Those waiting to play, sit on the sidelines. With such a crowd, regardless of their ages, no bully can get away with calling a ball which hit the table “out.” After all, every everyone can hear—so calling an “in” ball “out”—simply doesn’t cut it.

To those of us of a certain age, Pin Pon has a special meaning. It’s what’s allowed Nixon an Kissenger to go to China, when even acknowledging China was strictly taboo.

Well, ping pong diplomacy is still alive at the Lair.

The kids seem to figure it out—and surprise, surprise, without the help of parents. In fact, one might even suggest that the beauty of the sport is that there are no parents involved.

Even the worst helicopter parents have not been able to wreck ping pong. The kids have it wired.

Those parents who yell and bark at little league games and soccer matches are rendered helpless by ping pong.

Here, meritocracy rules. Hit twenty-one and you stay—fall short and you sit. Next one in line is up—no matter who it is.

Everyone doesn’t get a trophy. The parents can’t intercede and demand that their kid get playing time.

Sure. An occasional brat will throw a paddle, or bang on the table, but those are the exceptions, not the rule.

Talent counts.

That’s why we are awakened each morning. The kids with the least amount o talent are there taking “the court”, practicing on their own—trying to get better.

They know there is no government program at the Lair which will get them equal time at the table.

Only ability matters. And ability is directly proportional (in most cases) to effort and practice. The game can be mastered by anyone willing to put in the time.

The best eight year old understands that he may not beat an average 14 year old, let alone a mediocre 18 year old. Yet, he knows if he applies himself, he’s got a shot to not sit all day.

I suppose we could complain about the noise. Some days it would be nice to sleep in.

Why should we put up with the worst, or the youngest athletes in camp waking us up, just because they are practicing at the only time the table is available, and the more talented ones are still asleep?

It’s all about meritocracy—and mostly about the fact that (unlike soccer and little leagues)—there are no avenues for parents to interfere and screw it up.

Funny how kids do well when they are given they chance, sans parental interference.

I love them both: Ping and Pong.