The table lived in the basement of the sports building—old, the net broken and sagging on one side. Nobody wanted it, which made it ours. Saturday mornings, most Saturdays, for four years.

Neither of us was any good. Mike had this serve he was so proud of, this whole dramatic wind-up with his arm, and then the ball would miss the table entirely. "Practice serve," he'd say. "Doesn't count." Every time. Four years of practice serves that didn't count.

The loser bought drinks from the vending machine outside. That corridor was always freezing, even in summer, so we'd stand there sweating and shivering at the same time, just talking. I think the ping pong was really just an excuse for the talking. That's where he told me about his retake year, when the exams got bad. That's where I told him about the girl I was seeing, when things fell apart. Mike isn't someone who says deep things. He'd just listen, go "mm," hit you on the shoulder, and say "one more game." That was his way. And somehow you felt better after.

One time, second year, we played so long we missed the last bus. Forty-minute walk, and it started raining. Mike didn't complain. He just did his serve motion the whole way home—no ball, just that ridiculous wind-up in the rain, calling out "practice serve." I was laughing too hard to care about getting wet.

A broken table and a vending machine. Those Saturdays are my favorite thing from those years.