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133															<h2 class="entry-title"><a href="https://thestacksreader.com/the-real-life-marty-supreme/">The Aristocrat of Hustle</a></h2>
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135					By David Hirshey The Daily News Sunday Magazine March 15, 1981 In his new Oscar-baiting film, Marty Supreme, Timothée Chalamet plays a ping pong prodigy who, much like the actor&#8217;s 2024 Oscar-nominated performance as young Bob Dylan, is a complete unknown. Well,...				
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248    sessionStorage.setItem('h5ab-print-article', '<div id="h5ab-print-content"><h1>The Aristocrat of Hustle</h1>' + "<div class=\"cl-metadata\"><label>By <a href=\"\/category\/david-hirshey\/\">David Hirshey<\/a><\/label><br \/>\n<label><a href=\"\/category\/the-daily-news--sunday-magazine\/\">The Daily News Sunday Magazine<\/a><\/label><br \/>\n<label>March 15, 1981<\/label><\/div>\n<p><em>In his new Oscar-baiting film, <a href=\"https:\/\/www.esquire.com\/uk\/culture\/a69496464\/timothee-chalamet-marty-supreme\/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\" data-saferedirecturl=\"https:\/\/www.google.com\/url?q=https:\/\/www.esquire.com\/uk\/culture\/a69496464\/timothee-chalamet-marty-supreme\/&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1764943772765000&amp;usg=AOvVaw02eI5E1GENvW5G-FjwvEKG\">Marty Supreme<\/a>, Timoth\u00e9e Chalamet plays a ping pong prodigy who, much like the actor&#8217;s 2024 Oscar-nominated performance as young Bob Dylan, is a complete unknown. Well, unknown, that is, to anyone outside the famously insular table tennis community and even then, you&#8217;d have to be in your late 50s to be passingly familiar with the legend of Marty Reisman, whose life loosely inspired the movie. A high-stakes hustler, provocateur, bon vivant, and holder of 18 national and international\u00a0 table tennis titles, Reisman was the sport&#8217;s charismatic guru for more than half a century starting in the 1950&#8217;s. Three decades later, David Hirshey, then the editor of the New York Daily News Magazine, went deep into Reisman&#8217;s world and emerged with this award-winning profile of the man who may soon be known for winning Chalamet his (first) Oscar.\u2014A.B.<\/em><\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">The Fat Kid stepped off the bus triumphant. He was a little car-sick and his pants were too short and he had to squint up West End Ave. through thick black-rimmed glasses, but a smirk crossed his face as he watched the bloated yellow school bus rumble off.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cSo long, suckers,\u201d he said softly. He had humbled them all in Bunk 6 at Kezar Lake Camp, cut through the competition with such impudent ease that not even the redoubtable Herbie Schwartz had dared face him across the peeling Ping Pong table.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Now as he dragged his duffle bag up to 96th and Broadway, he could feel the thick red Butterfly paddle his father had given him for his Bar Mitzvah (\u201cNow that you are a man, my son, you can use sponge instead of sandpaper\u201d). He pulled it out and hit a few imaginary smashes. Then The Fat Kid drew in his breath and stepped down into the dark basement beneath an old movie house. Awe descended, along with a shower of paint chips from the ceiling.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">The Riverside Table Tennis Club. Enter here and find a chump.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">This was not the Y, not your genteel basement rec room where secretaries pushed demure volleys at each other during lunch hour. The Fat Kid knew this was the place the players came, a subterranean inferno where only the best could stand the heat. Reputations rose and fell with each scorching smash. Losers slunk up the stairs and disappeared from the neighborhood; winners left at dawn, their pockets crammed with cash. And the most hardened bettors suddenly were overcome in the middle of a gut-wrenching match. Some fell to their knees on the cracked linoleum floor, others had to be pulled, quaking, from bathroom stalls.<\/p>\n<h5>Marty Reisman. Transcendent guru of Pong. Showman, actor, raconteur, author, gourmand. Marty Reisman. Money player, high stakes con artist, backroom action guy.<\/h5>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">The Fat Kid peered into the smoky room. Dangling 60-watt bulbs fought the gloom as little white spheres flew through the air at speeds The Fat Kid had never dreamed of. Tables dipped at precarious angles, propped by the stumps of broken paddles. People leaped, lunged, raced about, grunting in six languages. Korean masters dueled romance language professors; pinstriped stockbrokers pulled off their shirts and wiped their faces on monogrammed towels. In the corner, two gang members in leather jackets contested a point fiercely, a pile of chains and blades nestled in a sweatshirt beneath the table.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">The Fat Kid sensed action. He craved it.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cAnybody want to lay three to two on a five spot?\u201d yelled a skinny guy in a beret. He was holding a trash can lid. \u201cI\u2019m giving 18.\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">A murmur swept the room; the plickety plock stopped.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cEighteen is a helluva spot with a garbage can,\u201d someone said. But nobody came forward.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cI\u2019ll take that bet,\u201d The Fat Kid heard himself saying. So what if the guy was three times his age, The Fat Kid thought. Hadn\u2019t he brought all the counselors to their knees at Kezar Lake? Who w
248as this joker with the garbage can anyway?<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">The Fat Kid served first. He cradled the ball in his palm, tossed it in the air and made a slashing motion with his paddle. The ball spun this way and that like a gyroscopic egg. He never did see the return, just heard the clunk of the garbage lid and the gasp of the gallery. 18-1. And so it went. 18-5, 18-11, 18-17, 18-21. Clunk. The Fat Kid slumped over the table, lighter by two weeks\u2019 allowance.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cWho was that guy?\u201d The Fat Kid muttered to no one in particular.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Sixteen years later, I found out.<\/p>\n<hr \/>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Marty Reisman. Transcendent guru of Pong. Showman, actor, raconteur, author, gourmand. Marty Reisman. Money player, high stakes con artist, backroom action guy. Play him for $100? You bet. Need a handicap? Take 15 points. Not enough? He\u2019ll play you with a shoe, a Coke bottle, his glasses, trash can lid. In the gospel according to Marty, you get them on the table at any cost. Toy with them, tease them with a couple of close ones. And then turn it on. A good hustler will kill you with confidence, with slow deliberate points, plucking wings off a fly.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cPutting the lock on,\u201d says Reisman, \u201cdescribes the state of the art.\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Like the time Marty put the lock on with the monkey. This is art: Reisman is at the table, in the middle of a big money match. In runs Betty the Monkey Lady. \u201cHey Marty,\u201d she says, \u201cI got to see the painter today. Can you take care of the monkey?\u201d Betty\u2019s living with an organ grinder and having an affair with the painter. Plunks the little ape on Reisman\u2019s shoulder and takes off. He can\u2019t quit so he decides to play with his right hand and hang on to the monkey with the other. More action. The monkey howls.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cI beat the guy easily,\u201d says Reisman, \u201calthough my shoes got a little wet.\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Lest you think this is a circus, take a better look at the man. This is no glitzy hustler, no polyester cowboy who swats golf ball-sized truffles for some oil execs in a Houston hotel suite. Marty has credentials-17 national and international titles-and Marty has taste. Expensive taste: $100 custom shirts, 30-year-old wines and the kind of women who get a rash from anything less than silk.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cMarty,\u201d says Reisman\u2019s long-time exhibition partner Doug Cartland, \u201cis the aristocrat of hustlers.\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">The overall impression is long and loose. The delicate, long-fingered hands of a pianist dangle from bony wrists cuffed with silk. Billowing sleeves suggest balletic grace and indeed, when he lands after leaping to parry an impossible shot, there isn\u2019t the slightest whisper from his custom suede sneakers. The ubiquitous beret never changes its angle; the man never breaks a sweat. His gaunt El Greco face looks as though it\u2019s never seen a moment\u2019s sun; the crease in his pants is as precise as his game. It has been 16 years since the Great Trash Can Hustle, but Reisman still has the same garden hose physique. Only the place looks different. Watching Marty shield his eyes like Dracula at dawn, I realize what it is.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Windows. The place has big picture windows, filtering sunlight into the room. You could no longer spend three days at Reisman\u2019s and think six hours had passed. And all those fluorescent lights shimmering above $150 Harvard Professional Tables. How was a guy to turkey his opponent into playing uphill anymore? More alarming was the clientele, the fresh-faced, nicely clothed people. People with children and coordinated jogging outfits. People drinking apple juice and munching granola bars between games. Then I knew the place had really gone to seed. It was handling family trade.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cDisgusting, isn\u2019t it?\u201d asks Reisman. \u201cThe old place had a lot more panache.\u201d The old place on the north side of 96th St. was torn down four years ago, but Marty simply packed up his blue and purple pimpled rubber Hock specials and headed across the street. Sent out the word that he was opening a new parlor.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cWithin six months,\u201d he says smugly, \u201cI had effectively closed down the two competing joints in town.\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Since that fabled shootout, things at Reisman\u2019s have settled into its owner\u2019s natural pace. It opens soon after he rises at about 4 p.m., or whenever Reisman can pry an eye open long enough to toss someone the key. Early evening is slow. An elderly Chinese man curses softly in Mandarin at a malfunctioning black and white TV set while two Spanish kids overturn the coin-op soccer game to retrieve a ball. Someone punches the C
248oke machine. Nothing works well here but Marty, and he only gets rolling after 9 p.m. and a couple of stiff espressos.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Even then, his pace seems leisurely. That\u2019s part of the con. Take that huge pile of fluorescent lighting fixtures sitting against a side wall. The old place had odd lots like that, too &#8211; a gross of somebody\u2019s hot transistors, maybe 10 cartons of ballpoints. Judging by the dust, the lights have been here a long time, but like the best of hustlers, Reisman is a patient man. Some night, some sucker will come along who\u2019s opening a doughnut joint. Marty will work up a little action and he\u2019ll owe. But Marty will do him a favor, let him light up his doughnut joint with the whole lot for $500, cash. And hey, tellya what. Forget the C-note you just dropped on the table.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cTake a little, leave a little\u201d is Reisman\u2019s philosophy, developed soon after he had taken the governor of the Philippines for $3,500 back in 1952. During a break for dried monkey meat, it was strongly suggested that the skinny American leave the governor\u2019s pride and well enough alone. Reisman promptly dropped a polite game and flew off to Taiwan and the next scam.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">This and other tales are documented by the rogues\u2019 gallery of photographs that hang on the brick walls at Reisman\u2019s. They are all Marty Reisman, and he points to them often as if to verify his past. There is the serious table tennis champion in wire-rimmed glasses, posing with the trophy from the British Open; the cunning money player grinning like a mongoose from behind a banquet table with King Farouk; the steely-nerved smuggler posing innocently at a Buddhist temple in Hanoi; the grandiose exhibitionist leaping high above a table at Caesar\u2019s Palace; the spellbinding raconteur holding Johnny Carson rapt. Reisman has carved a dozen lives for himself with a pimpled rubber racket and a rum runner\u2019s wits. He has won and lost fortunes from here to Rangoon. Yet Reisman is still saving some picture hooks at the end of his wall.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cI\u2019m just about to blossom,\u201d he says, sensing yet another Reisman Renaissance. This is a phenomenon that occurs every few years. It happens when the media, bored by Hollywood hustlers and commercial dream merchants, sniffs around to find the real American hero. Inevitably they discover Marty. First, they exhume him from beneath a mound of yellowed clippings showing him playing footsie with the Maharajah somebody or other. Then they dust off a few bright and trite lines and voila &#8211; Mr. Original.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Last time it was China and Ping Pong diplomacy. This time, it\u2019s Hollywood calling. Marty\u2019s book, \u201cThe Money Player,\u201d is about to become a movie; Public Television is planning a documentary on his life; he\u2019s been asked to film a national beer commercial and play Vegas for a couple of thousand a pop.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cI\u2019m a born again and again and again Jew,\u201d he says. \u201cAt least five or six times in the last decade.\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Marty Reisman was born for the first time 49 years ago, just a double bounce from the Jewish Daily Forward down on East Broadway, son of a Russian emigre and a bookmaking cabbie who ran policy numbers and lost half his taxi fleet in a single poker game. Marty watched; he listened to the night sounds of crap games in stairwells and domestic arguments with the light of dawn. His mother left; Marty ricocheted between his parents and hotel rooms.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cGrowing up with those insecurities,\u201d says Reisman, \u201cI had a nervous breakdown before I was 9. I was so insecure I felt I was going to die, was obsessed with the thought that my heart might stop at any minute. It reached its culmination one day at school. I felt my eyelid flutter&#8230;\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">And he awoke in Bellevue.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cIt was a horror house,\u201d he says. \u201cI wanted to get out so bad I learned to control myself in a month, then I outgrew this thing they called anxiety neurosis.\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Not coincidentally, he began to play table tennis. It began with an inexplicable attraction to those little white balls that bounced onto the sidew
248alk from the table on the roof of a neighborhood settlement house. Marty became obsessed with them; scooped them up and hoarded them in a dresser drawer. When his father\u2019s girlfriend discovered the cache she bought him a Ping Pong paddle for his 11th birthday. Pimpled rubber.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">The skinny kid practiced at the settlement house until at 13 he was City Junior Champion and an accomplished parks hustler, skimming a week\u2019s beer money off players twice his age. At 14, the kid took his act uptown.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Lawrence\u2019s Broadway Table Tennis Club, a former Legs Diamond speakeasy that still bore the bullet holes of late night raids, was the Runyonesque model for Reisman\u2019s own parlor. It was in Lawrence\u2019s that Marty got his degree in advanced hustling. The skinny kid became the Needle, and he could stick you bad. Reisman says it was the fear of going home busted that developed his kill shot, a devastating forehand smash clocked at 115 mph. The smash was his best offensive weapon, catching the ball low off the bounce and sending it back into an opponent\u2019s solar plexus like a heat-seeking missile. Later, the London press would call it the Atomic Blast.<\/p>\n<h5>Like many of the top Pong junkies, Reisman took to smuggling and playing money matches to support his habit.<\/h5>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">The Needle had a legit side, too. Or at least he tried. All was going well at the national championships in 1945. Reisman had made it to the quarterfinals of the junior division when the pressure of the competition momentarily addled his street smarts. He took his customary $500 bet and handed it to a man who surely looked like the bookie he\u2019d dealt with all week.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cS\u2019matter? Can\u2019t handle the action?\u201d Marty asked the red-faced man.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">The president of the United States Table Tennis Association called the security guards who dumped the kid on the curb. Reisman was 15. A year later, Pong\u2019s Bad Boy came back to win the national junior title and earn a place on the three-man U.S. team that sailed for England. Along with his rackets, Reisman disembarked carrying several dozen pairs of nylons.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Like many of the top Pong junkies, Reisman took to smuggling and playing money matches to support his habit. The week Marty won the British Open in 1949, he also did a brisk trade in crystal and ballpoint pens. At 19, he felt he could hustle the whole plickety-plocking world. So when the offer came for an exhibition tour with the Harlem Globetrotters, Reisman and his partner Cartland jumped at it.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Running with the Globetrotters, the pair worked a trail of hustles and hijinks across three continents and 65 countries: Living in cheap hotel rooms strung with socks and soup cans; beating the check at Maxim\u2019s; mayhem in Munich, two wacko Americaners playing five balls at once before 75,000 in a Berlin soccer stadium. They played \u201cMary Had a Little Lamb\u201d by hitting balls at frying pans; snacked on preserved locusts between matches in Manila. In Thailand, they played through an earthquake (\u201cI thought it was applause,\u201d says Reisman). Fifteen years older, Cartland was the straight man, a slow-talking Southerner who Reisman claims has the first nickel he ever made. Marty was the guy who tried to sneak into the harem; the incorrigible partyer with an itch for action and a near-fatal charm.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Those years were a high stakes hobo\u2019s dream. Then without warning, Reisman\u2019s life changed at the 1952 World Championships in Bombay. His nemesis: two round pieces of sponge rubber glued to the paddle of Japan\u2019s demonic Hiriji Satoh.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cIt was as if I were deprived of one of my senses,\u201d Reisman says of their match. \u201cYou\u2019re conditioned to react to the plickety plock and this sponge caused dead silence.\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">And deadlier spins. Reisman\u2019s Atomic Blast fizzled, impotent, off Satoh\u2019s sponge and Marty was humiliated. The consummate hustler had become the bewildered hustle. For Reisman, the era of sponge descended like a silent shroud. He dedicated himself to revenge.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Smuggling and stroking their way to Tokyo, Reisman and Cartland worked to set up the Big Sting &#8211; a challenge match against Satoh and world doubles champion Nobi Hayashi. The backer: the Japanese promoter who was already marketing Reisman\/Cartland dual signature Ping Pong balls. They bit. So did Japan; there were 50,000 requests for tickets and a live national radio hookup. \u201cWe were playing for the highest stakes,\u201d says Reisman. \u201cPure ego.\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">And Marty was ready. There would be no rash of smashes this time, no blind offensive barrage that would allow Satoh to turn his power against him. Goddamn sponge. You could kill a 115-mph forehand with every ounce of your bodily strength and some little guy would stand back there, hold out a little slab of foam rubber and the ball would rebound back in your face. So Marty would have to wait, to push, push, push, until he found the opening and then go for the throat. It worked. Unaccustomed to taking the offensive, Satoh slammed and slammed, spun and spun, a desperate man rendered helpless by an opponent armed only with a pimpled rubber and his indomitable hustler\u2019s spirit. Sayonara, Hiriji. The final scores were 21-9, 6-21, and 21-15 and when it was over, the wildly cheering Japanese fans picked Reisman up on their shoulders and carried him around the theater.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">When you\u2019re rolling a string of sevens, you keep throwing. Reisman and Cartland kept moving, flung themselves at every comer from Adelaide to Bali, cadging flights on military hops to play at U.S. bases, those great roosts of G.I. pigeons fattened on PX Pong tables. And not all the suckers wore dog tags. There was lunch with Prince Sihanouk;
248 an audience with Pope Pius XII, a command performance for Egypt\u2019s King Farouk.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cYou can\u2019t name a maharajah that I haven\u2019t played for,\u201d says Reisman.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">And outside the palace gates, a little side action. Watches and perfumes crossed borders with impunity on the customs-free military flights; $500 watches nestled safely in the toes of Reisman\u2019s socks. For $1,000 a trip, he carried 20 pounds of gold bars from Hong Kong to Rangoon, strapped to his bony frame in a custom-made vest. At 27, Reisman was at peak form, Errol Flynn with pimpled rubber, carving up the world.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cMy whole life has been flirting with danger,\u201d Reisman says. \u201cI\u2019m not a guy to skirt through life hitting all the edges. I\u2019m not into buffoonery like Bobby Riggs. There\u2019s an aura of chintziness and stealing about the hustler. But the money player &#8211; he\u2019s a gladiatorial hero, bare-chested to the enemy. It\u2019s like going there in a hail of bullets. When I\u2019m out there, the money is not as important as the excitement and drama. I\u2019m a frustrated thespian. I need the attention, the recognition and applause. When you\u2019re on before a crowd, the body and mind reach astonishing heights. You\u2019re constantly working, tightening all your forces, all your craftsmanship. It rises to a peak where you\u2019re eliminating all the imperfections in your game, a nirvana of concentration&#8230;\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Then sometimes, life intrudes. The light of dawn appears around the cracks of the door. For Marty Reisman, it was a woman.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u00a0She was beautiful and willful, the kind of dame who wouldn\u2019t answer Bogart\u2019s whistle. Yet she left a multimillionaire husband for an itinerant Ping Pong player. There was a marriage, and the pressure to provide. And there was a baby daughter.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cI was trying to make money in all directions,\u201d says Reisman. \u201cGambling, hustling, playing. Bought the Riverside club and worked the joint 14 hours a day. No sleep, hardly eating. There were physical symptoms &#8211; blurred vision, forgetfulness. I was running myself into the ground.\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Comes a big money match in Las Vegas. It could set them up for a year, keep the kid in booties. Reisman walks out to the table and suddenly, again, that flutter of the eyelid.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cI felt a palpitation and it seemed an interminable time until I felt the next heartbeat. I screamed, \u2018Help me, save me, I\u2019m dying.\u2019 I clawed my way through a mob to get out of the arena.\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">And straight to a hospital. Once again, life had put the lock on Marty Reisman.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">It was a year before he could pick up a paddle; soon after, his marriage was tabled for good. Serious national competition ended in 1960 when Reisman threw in the sponge he had used to defeat Bobby Gusikoff for the American title. Sponge had taken over, but it wasn\u2019t for him. \u201cI refuse to prostitute my skills,\u201d he announces. \u201cA sponge racket is like gravy covering up bad food.\u201d And he hated the silence. It was as though the steady plickety plock of pimpled rubber echoed the heartbeat he was straining to hear, confirmation of his existence.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cI\u2019m not bitter, I guess I\u2019m just a romantic,\u201d he says. \u201cThe players of yesteryear had a more romantic image. Maybe it was the primitive weapons, the pimpled rubber. It transmitted more of a struggle to the audience. Today, with a sponge, the player\u2019s armed with a technological weapon. It\u2019s like soldiers who meet with submachine guns instead of two guys from the Wild West popping shots at each other.\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">So Reisman opted for the casual shootouts of the Wild West Side, ensconced himself below ground as a legendary star with orbiting weirdos &#8211; hustlers, physicists, pimps and sociologists drawn by that compelling gravitational pull: ACTION.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">It is these Riverside habitues who populate his life now; the maharajahs are in their declining years; his family broken. Reisman\u2019s daughter Deborah disappeared mysteriously two years ago at the age of 15, brainwashed, he believes, by religious cultists called the Oms. For nearly a year, Reisman worked with the police and the FBI trying to infiltrate the group which he believes is in the business of black marketing the babies its women produce. The last time Reisman saw Debbie, she could only hum.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cI think she\u2019ll be back unless she\u2019s dead,\u201d he says. \u201cIt remains as the only real sore point in my life.\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Before he can get too morose, Marty begins pointing out the regulars in his place. He talks 
248in caricatures rather than names: Freddie the Fence, Herbie the Nuclear Physicist, Betty the Monkey Lady, Louie the Commie, Tony the Arm. \u201cI require constant intellectual stimulation,\u201d Marty says. Having quit school at 15, he sops up random knowledge like a desk blotter.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">The result: a dizzying collage of the trivial and the sublime. He can quote you today\u2019s price on the London gold market, or a snippet of Proust. \u201cIt\u2019s all part of my gestalt,\u201d he explains.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cI\u2019ve studied Marty for 20 years and he\u2019s always been a likable meatball,\u201d says Joe the 80-year-old archaeologist. \u201cHe likes to be around people who are authorities on all sorts of subjects. He\u2019ll pose as an expert on the Middle East if he\u2019s had a dish of couscous. Still, Marty\u2019s a likable meatball.\u201d<\/p>\n<hr \/>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cMahty.\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Leaning out to the steamed-up doorway of the Empire Szechuan Gourmet Restaurant on upper Broadway, a smiling Chinese woman draws Reisman and two visitors inside.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cAh, Mahty.\u201d His waist is encircled by the arms of a smiling young girl.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cMahty.\u201d Her sister is pulling out a chair, beckoning. Marty eats her often, frequently at 2 a.m. when the family has ushered out the last customer. Like a slender street cat, Marty slips in the door and takes his places at the table with the family, eating the \u201creal Taiwanese stuff\u201d that the chow mein trade won\u2019t touch. These people, too, are part of the polyglot collection of sweethearts and strays that make up Reisman\u2019s extended street family. Casually, they \u201cdo\u201d for one another; a meal here, taxi fare there. And tonight, a Chinese cornucopia for the newspaper guy and his wife.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cSpecial for you only, Mahty,\u201d the waitress says as she sets a perfect golden flounder before him.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cWas Marty famous for his Ping Pong in Taiwan?\u201d I ask.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cOh, yes. But much more for smuggling gold. Mahty was the best.\u201d<\/p>\n<hr \/>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\"><strong>Uptown, Friday night. 9:00.<\/strong> I spot Marty strolling along Broadway, cigarette dangling from his lips, head wagging like one of those rubber dogs you hang from a rear car window.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cHad a macrobiotic dinner tonight,\u201d he croaks. \u201cNeed espresso quickly.\u201d We duck into a Korean coffee shop.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cEspresso, straight, yes?\u201d says the counterman, who knows.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cMake it a double,\u201d says Reisman. He slaps at an empty pocket and instantly, one of the Koreans is at his elbow with a pack of Tareyton longs.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cCaffeine and nicotine,\u201d sighs Reisman. \u201cNow I\u2019m ready.\u201d<\/p>\n<hr \/>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\"><strong>10:00.<\/strong>\u00a0 Back at Marty\u2019s place, things are disappointingly dull. Some serious-looking law students; a few couples on a cheap date. Marty settles into a game of gin at $25 a hand. After nearly an hour, he is restless. He springs up, and strides over to the center table. Without a word, he holds up a Tareyton, a conductor commanding his orchestra\u2019s attention. All the action stops at surrounding tables and he starts to play the gallery.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cEver see me break a cigarette? A startingly audacious trick.\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Dead silence as he sets the cigarette on the table edge and walks to the other side. He bounces the ball, swings, misses the cigarette by a foot.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cI know what you\u2019re thinking. I\u2019m washed up. A failure.\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Two more failed attempts. A fourth and he is visibly annoyed.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cAshes to ashes,\u201d yells Joe the Archaeologist. \u201cDust to dust!\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Reisman smiles. \u201cThree to two for five bucks?\u201d he says softly. Dave the Writer bites. Reiman stares down the table, drops the balls, swings. The cigarette snaps cleanly in half.<\/p>\n<hr \/>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\"><strong>11:30.<\/strong> \u00a0Back to the gin table. \u201cLet\u2019s face it,\u201d Reisman says. \u201cWhen I don\u2019t play, this place is Dullsville. What am I doing here every night?\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Herbie the Nuclear Physicist speaks up. \u201cThis Ping Pong parlor is just an externalization of your soul,\u201d he tells Reisman. \u201cConstant movement, constant turmoil. It\u2019s a womb to you. You could have moved this dump to a hundred better sites but you elect to stay in this environment. You can\u2019t leave because it\u2019s you.\u201d<\/p>\n<hr \/>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\"><strong>Midnight.<\/strong>\u00a0 A disheveled, seedy-looking guy taps at the door and Marty gets up from his gin game to meet him. He reaches into his pocket, peels off a few b
248ills and comes back.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cWho was that?\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cJust a guy who\u2019s had a string of bad. Needed $26 for a room.\u201d<\/p>\n<hr \/>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\"><strong>2:15.<\/strong>\u00a0 Marty is engrossed in a friendly game of gin for $100 a hand with a gentleman from Yugoslavia who has a strange attachment to his briefcase, rubbing the clasp with one hand all the while he plays.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cJewel thief,\u201d someone whispers. \u201cHot rocks.\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">The phone rings and Jerry the Semi-Retired Stockbroker picks up.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cIt\u2019s for you Marty. Your girlfriend.\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Still holding his gin hand, Marty walks to the phone.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cNo, the place is dead. I\u2019m just sitting around talking to a reporter for the Daily News. These guys ask a lotta questions.\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">He hands Jerry an eight of clubs to discard, motions for him to pick up a queen of hearts.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cCards? Nah. Figured I\u2019d lay off after the last couple of nights. I know I promised you. Yes, I love you.\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Marty throws the queen and draws again.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cListen, baby, could you hold for a second?\u201d Marty cups his hand over the receiver and tosses his cards on the table.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cGin,\u201d he says softly.<\/p>\n<hr \/>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\"><strong>2:30.<\/strong> Enter two muscular black men in three-piece suits and fedoras. Marty introduces them around and explains that they\u2019re from Cameroon. The more sinister of the pair is a security man at the Red Apple Supermarket around the corner. A brown belt in karate, he is a sobering deterrent against shoplifting. However, he has found that 90% of the people he catches stealing steaks live in his building. Therefore, it is not wise to go home early. He waits at Marty\u2019s until 4 most nights, or until all the shoplifters have passed out on the stairs. Marty calls him the King of Voodoo and asks him to break the ceiling with his head for Dave the Writer, here. He fails, explaining, \u201cthe leaves aren\u2019t right.\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cGot to get some action going,\u201d cries Marty, jumping to his feet. \u201cThis place is dead. What do you say, Dave?\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cI\u2019d love to see you play a money match,\u201d I reply, a match being best two out of three games. \u201cI didn\u2019t say I\u2019d love to <em>play<\/em> you a money match.\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cC\u2019mon. It\u2019ll make a good story. What\u2019s five bucks to a major cartel like The Daily News?\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cFive bucks?\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cYeah, and I\u2019ll spot you 17.\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201c17 if you play with your glasses.\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201c18 sitting in a chair.\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201c19 standing up.\u201d I demand.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201c19! My God, that\u2019s an *impossible* spot. Nobody gives a 19-point spot. I have to play a perfect game. No margin of error.\u201d A sigh. \u201cOkay, 19 points.\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">In the gospel according to Marty it says the easiest people to con are con men. Which is nice because I am trying to con Marty. I am no rank amateur. For one glorious week in 1971, I was actually a ranked amateur. No. 99 in the Pennsylvania State tournament. Only a cad would mention that there were 100 contestants.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">During the five-minute warmup, I am careful to grip the racket like a meat cleaver, an old Reisman trick that fools no one. I cleverly hit my backhands off the table so that Marty can detect the soft underbelly of my game.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cLike the way you hit through that backhand,\u201d Marty says, flashing a private grin that suggests \u201cKid\u2019s obviously got no forehand.\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Turning to address the gallery of 15 insomniacs, he asks, \u201cA
248nybody want a piece of this action?\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cI\u2019ll take the kid for five,\u201d says Herbie the Nuclear Physicist. \u201cReisman hasn\u2019t played in weeks, he\u2019s out of shape. He\u2019s got his shoes on and he couldn\u2019t spot a monkey 19. Just relax, kid.\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">I take his advice and it\u2019s 19-12.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cJust keep it in play,\u201d I tell myself. \u201cWait till he makes a mistake or has espresso withdrawal.\u201d 19-13, 19-14. Marty is bored and starts a yawn.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cEver tell you about the time I issued that blanket challenge in Chicago? Said at a press conference I\u2019d play anyone sitting down and give them 17 points.\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Click. I\u2019ve gotten lucky. A looping forehand nicks the edge and I have him 20-15. One to go.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cSo anyway, the doorbell rings at noon and it\u2019s some smartass from the Chicago Tribune. Wants to know if the challenge still goes. Here I am, in bed, champagne bottles strewn around the room, a head like a tom-tom. I tell him okay and order breakfast. I figure if I beat him, I get a couple paragraphs, but if I lose&#8230;\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">A second blessed accident. I chop back a return of serve and it clips the net, hangs for an agonizing second and crawls over. Game, Dave the Writer.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cSo I let this chump beat me,\u201d Reisman continues. \u201cAnd he wrote a half a page. Sometimes,\u201d he says, peering over the net, \u201cthere\u2019s greater victory in losing.\u201d There\u2019s that knowing smirk again and Marty says<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cTen dollars with an 18-point spot.\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Marty is all business now, driving a fusillade to my forehand, bam-bam-bam. I go down meekly, 21-19 and the match is now even.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cHow about a rubber for $20.\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cI think I\u2019ve had enough, Marty.\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cBut we <em>always<\/em> play a rubber here.\u201d It isn\u2019t the statement that impresses me so much as the I\u2019ll-eat-your-kneecaps-for-breakfast look on the King of Voodoo. I agree.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Marty is working the crowd now, cruising the table, talking about everything and nothing. His plan is to slam and slam, driving me far enough back so he can drop a shot and tell an anecdote before I get to it. After 10 points, my body is soaked in sweat. My hands bleed, and a blister has developed on my left foot. I am near collapse. Marty is dancing.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cRemember the trash can,\u201d says an inner voice, and my resolve hardens. When Marty smashes, I race back six feet to return one, two, three slams. I keep giving him bizarre spins with my sponge until Marty pushes a backhand into the net. 19-15, mine.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cI know what you\u2019re thinking,\u201d says Marty. \u201cYou\u2019re thinking I\u2019m finished, washed up, over the hill. Can the aging champion recapture some of his former greatness and overcome yet another insurmountable obstacle? Ah, the drama.\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Marty runs off the next four points and Jerry the Semi-Retired Stockbroker is at my side with Band-Aids and paper towels. I feel like the Bayonne Bleeder getting ready to go back in against Ali. Marty is rolling. I serve and he whips off his glasses and returns the ball off the lens. He hits shots from behind his back, between his legs, nonchalantly flicks the ball back with the sole of his foot and shovels the ball at me with such heavy backspin that it hits on my side of the table and before I can get my racket on it, hops back across the net. 20-20.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cI have to admit,\u201d says Marty, \u201cI\u2019m the most charismatic son of a bitch who ever stepped on a table.\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Now it is down to two points and I silently congratulate myself on having fought the good fight. But what I don\u2019t realize is that Marty\u2019s concentration is eroding. He hits a flat, high shot to my backhand. Whap. 21-20. On game point, Marty serves from a kneeling position five feet behind the table, I drop the ball just over the net and am half
248way into my victory leap when Reisman scoops it back.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cCan you feel the tension in the air?\u201d Marty asks before ripping a forehand drive deep in the left corner, I chop it back and the ball &#8211; can it be? &#8211; brushes the top of the net and falls dead. I have beaten Marty Reisman.<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">He peels off a crisp $20, and hands it over with a histrionic flourish. \u201cFor the Fresh Air Fund, I assume?\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cYeah,\u201d I tell him. \u201cI\u2019ll send a donation. And I\u2019ll sign it The Fat Kid.\u201d<\/p>\n<hr \/>\n<p><em>[Photo Credit: Manny Milan]<\/em><\/p>\n" + '</div>');
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