When I was in primary school, I was a sickly child. At the time so delicate was I that, from time to time, I fell prey to all kinds of bacteria and viruses. It then seemed to take me forever to shake off a common cold.

One year, Dad enrolled me in a Ping-Pong club. For one thing, he has a mania for the sport. Dad learned how to do it with his buddies as a child in the countryside. Ping-Pong has become such an indispensable part of his daily routine that I got familiar with his ritual very early on. First thing after work, Dad changes, gets his bat, and heads for the gym. Like a drug addict, he could not possibly survive without the daily dosage of Ping-Pong. For another, doing the sport could build up my body, in his opinion.

At first, I showed zero interest in the sport. Therefore, Dad accompanied me at the training sessions at the club, watching me learning and playing. He tried to arouse my interest in Ping-Pong but in vain. Still, he stayed with me when the coach was teaching me the basics of the game.

The baby steps were so tedious because I had to do each single stroke hundreds of times before a large mirror. Every time I finished a training session, Dad would satisfy one of my small requests, such as getting me one of my favourite storybooks. Step by step, I was enticed closer and closer to Ping-Pong.

Even the coach was surprised by the time Dad devoted to attending my training sessions in person. When my interest in the game gradually went up, the coach was incredulous. My beginning steps had convinced him that I was a hopeless learner.

When other kids in the neighbourhood were loitering around, I was practising Ping-Pong. If I whined about the monotonous training process, Dad would say, “When you grow up, girl, you will appreciate the benefits a good hobby brings, especially after you start college.”

Looking back, I could not be more grateful for Dad’s wisdom. Thanks to Ping-Pong, I am no longer the poorly being that I was. Better still, I own an avocation that will serve me well lifelong.