When I lived in Atlanta I played ping pong ( during the Olympics you call it Table Tennis). I would go to Keith’s house and on the way I would stop at the biggetst Farmer’s Market ever. I bought whatever looked good and I think I cooked it for everyone and then Keith and I would go downstairs and play “ping’ uh “pong” until we could not see straight. And. Sometimes he would win and, I gotta say it, a lot of times I would win…ok Fred et al.. I can hear you now, but come on, I won a lot of those games, even against you Fred. And I am returning to ATL next year for a conference and I expect the usual impediments to success. Anyway, what would happen for me is that my mind would rest and I would rest in the love of Keith my friend or Fred my friend or name any one of ten people whou would meet me at the popping and flowing ping pong table and my mind would stop it’s flow and my body would allow me to play…and play. And for a guy like me playing is a big deal. I could see it come and go and the winning and losing and the lack of it mattering and the emphasis on trying to win and the letting it go like letting the water run away from any fountain you have ever seen and the watching of that letting go and the love I felt/feel for Keith and Fred and all the men I knew then, in Atlanta, who encouraged me to play and who played with me and who I miss so much…your serve, 0-5, dammit,, I am coming for you.

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