I first saw Bernard Bukiet when I attended my first U.S. Open in Detroit’s Cobo Hall in 1963. At that time I was looking forward to leaving Indiana’s "hinterland" for my first encounter with the greats of U.S. table tennis. I had heard so much about them from my Indianapolis cohorts who were already on the tournament circuit. Players like Dick Miles, Lou Pagliaro, Bobby Gusikoff, Marty Reisman— all New Yorkers, as well as the current sensation from L.A., (the late) Erwin Klein. These people had all won U.S. championships—Miles no less than ten times (beginning in ‘45 and ending amazingly in ‘62, the previous year, when he was 37). I had also heard about Bobby Fields, Martin Doss, the Belgian Norbert Van de Walle, and a Chicago newcomer, Danny Pecora—none of whom had yet won the big one, but who were capable of defeating those in the first group in favorable situations. Ergo there were no clear favorites, and the New York betting machine cranked into life. (Please recall that back then the U.S. Open and the "Nationals" were one and the same; we were awarding only trophies, and thus not attracting world-class overseas talent.)

Cobo’s Hall "D" was immense to me. It had fast tables (the Detroiter "A’s" compressed wood had recently been introduced) and mediocre, diffused lighting from overhead fluorescents. The "arena," with two tables surrounded by portable bleachers, was reserved for the finals and other important matches. It was there that opening morning that I started seeing the U.S. top contenders in practice. My first recollection is of Gusikoff, a wonder to behold. He struck me as a skinny mass of flailing appendages that managed to summon their separate reflexes into coordinated motions that delivered super-smashing forehands and backhands, and an awkward looking but quite effective forehand chop. (Being skinny myself, he had my sympathy, but I sure as hell didn’t have his game.) The "Goose" enjoyed standing close to the table and engaging in rapid exchanges with his opponent until the latter missed, or Bobby could go for the kill. This was the "New York" style, as it was described to me—the precursor of the later-to-be-introduced heavy topspin exchange. Most of the racquets by then were sandwich sponge, with the pips either in or out. And the color didn't matter.

Then I saw Klein. He was playing with a new, all-blue, square shaped sponge (pips out, I believe) that he reportedly felt was going to raise his game at least a level or two. Here was a player who had it all: a southpaw with powerful drives on both sides, effective chops when he chose to use them, and an ability to counterdrive close in. And he had won the '56 and ‘61 Nationals. Yet Indiana’s own Richard Hicks had beat him at Chicago’s Net & Paddle Club. (Though Hicks would continue to win the Indiana championship some 25 years in a row [an achievement that will likely never be duplicated anywhere], it was during the 60s that he came the closest to being a national contender.)

Reisman’s game was interestingly unorthodox. He played with hard rubber, and, aside from being very good, especially at reading spin, he seemed with every stroke to do something startling, unexpected—something to catch the audience’s attention. His forehand drive was a deceptively simple upward motion that belied its speed, and his table game was a marvel to watch. Yet this Runyonesque, Bobby Fischer-like persona’s hour on the stage was nearing an end; I regret I never saw him in his heyday.

It was about then that I noticed a swarthy, stout, middle-aged player with thick black hair (whose shaved beard would always reveal a five o’clock shadow) walk—with a slight limp—out to stroke with Gusikoff. I could best describe his countenance as cruelly but charismatically handsome. He held his pips-in sponge racquet so that it was cradled between his extended thumb and index finger—with his middle finger also partially curling around the paddle edge and his two remaining fingers loosely securing the handle (an awkward way to hold a racquet—if you’ve ever tried it). The paddle didn’t seem an extension of his hand so much as it appeared to grow out of it. Gusikoff served and the man slightly shifted position and put the ball away with what appeared to me to be the smoothest, most powerful forehand drive I had ever seen. I said to someone, "Who is that stroking with Gusikoff?" "Oh, that’s Bernie Bukiet," I was told. Bernie then proceeded to stand near the table and exchange with Bobby—counterjabbing and blocking with his backhand on both his backhand and forehand sides with motions as economical as Gusikoff’s were exaggerated.

Why I had not heard any of my local cohorts mention Bukiet, I wasn’t sure. But I was completely mesmerized by his play: his amazing reflexes producing an ability to read, control, and impart spin with an incredible economy of apparent body and leg motion, his occasional ranging back-hand chop, which was smoother looking than effective, and, most of all, his fearsome forehand. I was later to observe that Bernie’s forearm operated like a machine which seemed to have a life of its own—once completely "lubricated"; the body followed the machine just enough to stay with it.

Many of you might remember the ‘63 U.S. Open as the year the loop drive first came across the Atlantic—courtesy of two less-than-top-notch British players, Jacobson and Badderly (I don’t remember their first names). They had boasted in the Detroit Free Press that their heavy topspin would make mince meat of the best of the Americans. Well, both limeys did defeat most of our conventional choppers, who had never dealt with that much deceptively imparted spin. The latters’ returns sailed like Frisbees, far beyond the tables. Then Reisman was matched against Jacobson, and he simply short-circuited the Britisher’s loop by blocking it right off the bounce. And in so doing, Reisman showed that the rest of Jacobson’s game was far beneath championship level. Reisman’s "gallery" went ecstatic—myself included. One looper down. Then Van de Walle nullified Badderly’s spin by long-ranging chops with hard rubber. So much for the British threat. But their appearance that year changed the American game forever.

Anyway, the New York smart money had this as Gusikoff’s year. He was smashing everybody off the table, defeating, in turn, Pecora, another counter-driving comer—Jerry Kruskie, and Van de Walle. (An angry Pecora came off the table muttering to himself; he had expected to be in the finals.) Kruskie had defeated Miles in the 8ths. That left, in the other semis, Klein and Bukiet, following Bernie's defeat of Fields in the quarters. Inexorably through four games, the 44-year-old Bukiet got his machine lubricated and wore his 24-year-old protégé down. And Klein, staring at his square, blue racquet, also walked away from the table muttering to himself.

So it was to be a Gusikoff - Bukiet finals, and—from what I heard through the grapevine—the money odds started shifting to Bernie. I couldn’t see how Bernie could win; the Goose was on fire—and he was so much younger. And so it was in the first game: Bobby easily smashing from either side, and winning by 9 points. Game 2 also went to Gusikoff, but the point spread had dropped, 21-17. Then I began to notice that Bernie’s table game was tenaciously forcing Bobby more and more out of position. Moreover, Gusikoff was losing either his concentration, his stamina, or his will; his smashes were going off the table, and Bernie’s forehand was, more and more, taking its toll. Bernie seemed to know how to play to his opponent’s weaknesses. Game 3 to Bernie—by 10 points. Bobby then re-summoned some of his will in the fourth game and got 19 points. Game 5, however, was a complete anti-climax; Gusikoff had shot his wad—final score 21 - 4. Bernie was national champion for the second time, and he reveled at being once again on center stage.

In 1964 the Nationals was played elsewhere, Klein won for the third time (over Fields), and I didn’t attend. But Cobo Hall was again the scene of the Open in 1965, and I was there. By then Reisman, Fields, and Van de Walle were gone, and everybody who was anybody was looping the ball—some better than others. People like Jack Howard (who left the game but remains active on the sidelines) were on their way up with their effective, point-getting loops. And there was Bernie, whom I hadn’t seen in two years. Had he adopted the loop? Of course not. I had not seen his game in the hard-rubber days, but was told it hardly differed from his sponge game. Still he had developed an effective off-the-table block against the loop (much as Reisman had employed against Jacobson). And, in any case, that was a natural stroke of his, which he merely had to angle further. (His racquet angle reflex was a marvel of his game.)

The highlight of that tournament for me is the Bukiet - Doss semifinals, a match in which Bernie fails to appear when it is called. Where is he? Doss paces nervously near the table like a caged beast while Bernie’s fans are assuring the tournament desk that he’s on his way (he had overslept at the hotel, they said). It’s now a few minutes past playing time, and still no Bernie. There are heated consultations among the tournament directors. Still no Bernie. Finally a woman runs, out of breath, to the desk saying, "He’s in the building and on his way down." Doss, looking as though he was about to become unglued, is yelling, "Default him." Finally Bernie limps in, conveniently wearing his warm-up slacks over his playing shorts, and is not defaulted. He is smiling and Doss is scowling—and Bernie proceeds to beat his fellow German expatriate three straight. What entertainment! Does Bernie have more guile that I had thought? Was it all staged to play on Doss’s emotions—to "ice" him? Did Bernie really oversleep? Others suggested he actually was "sleeping" in a nefarious way at the hotel.  Could he have been sure he wouldn’t be defaulted? In any case, Klein beats Bernie in the finals—as he had in a number of past tournaments.

It is now February 1966, and I was fortunate enough to attend the Rubber City Open at Akron, OH. Sol Schiff and Bukiet came together— but in addition a young Oriental named Dal-Joon Lee—traveling with the Globetrotters—was in the vicinity and, for the first time (I believe), entered a USTTA open tournament. Lee had been South Korean national champion, and reportedly played at a level far above any American. With his penholder grip (and a diminutive square racquet covered only on one side), Lee was a master of topspin, and was holding most of his opponents to single figures.

Then, in the semifinals, it was Lee vs. Bukiet (Bernie, now 47-- and in excellent shape, had also breezed past his previous opponents). D-J started the match spinning his way past Bernie, but by the second game Bernie’s blocks were forcing some of Lee’s smashes to overshoot. Dick Hicks (whom I had traveled to Akron with) yelled, "Use your forehand, Bernie." And, by God, he did just that, especially in the third game, countering Lee’s topspin. It was the fastest exchange at the highest level of play I had seen up to then. And Bernie was scoring points with his offense—enough to win the third game. The gallery exploded; no one was expected to take even a game off Lee (and for the next several years few American players did in USTTA open play). In the end, of course, Lee prevailed. The finals, in fact, was an anticlimax: Lee vs. Doss—Lee, three straight. Doss again left the table muttering to himself.

1966 was a watershed year for the U.S. Open (again returning to Cobo Hall), and perhaps for U.S. table tennis in general. It marked the end of American dominance in the prestigious tournament. Lee was still touring in the states with the ‘Trotters, and did not enter the ‘66. This left in contention Miles, Pecora, Gusikoff, Bukiet, Klein, and a young, fast rising Dell Sweeris.  We must also include Pecora’s Chicago sparring partner, Jim Blommer.

In many ways it was again a rather even field. First off, Miles, using a heavy, pips-out sponge (as I recall, he then stowed his playing gear in a grocery sack), was clearly out to win his 11^th Nationals. Playing as aggressively as I had ever seen him, he chopped and chiseled as effectively as ever—then proceeded to countersmash everyone’s loop with his "patented," cartwheel forehand ("the stroke should end at your right ear"). Klein, having discarded his square racquet, and having won the title the two previous years, was obviously feeling his power.  Pecora was beating most everybody at one time or another, while Gusikoff had faded just a little. As for Bernie—he had reportedly been doing a lot of jogging. But he was 47, and, as many reported, "aging."

So, in the eighths, it was Bernie against Blommer. The Chicagoan gave him all he could handle, with the match going at least four games. Though the play was a series of uninterrupted blocks and counters, Bernie’s machine—once he got the creaks out of it—was too much for Blommer. Then in the quarters it was Bukiet vs. Kruskie, a grueling five-game match, as fast paced as Blommer’s, with Kruskie playing as well as I’d ever seen him. It was point-for-point most of the way. As the fifth game wore on, Bernie, sensing his quarry was fading just a little, started putting away forehands—one after another. And, in a remarkable example of tenaciousness, he won the game--and the match--21-10. Did he have enough left to go on?

In the meantime it is Miles vs. Klein in another quarterfinals, and the present four-time national champion seems to be looking beyond his match with the venerable ten-time champion. But the pattern of their exchanges soon becomes obvious. Klein jabs at Miles’ well-honed chisels, then leads with a loop—and the New Yorker plasters it with his cartwheel. Strangely, Klein didn’t seem to have an answer for it. I can’t remember if the Californian took a game, but his tactics weren’t getting the job done.  Klein was suddenly out of contention.  No three-peat this year; again he walks off the table muttering to himself—and Miles is in the semis against his New York sparring partner Bukiet. Which turns out to be one of the most thrilling matches I’ve ever seen.

First Bernie tries to quick hit through Miles’ chop, and the ball mostly misses the table. Bernie is a little nervous. Then, after a few jabs, Bernie tries to lead with forehand topspin—and gets it smashed down his throat, as with Klein’s loop. Everyone starts saying this is Miles’ year once again; he’s on fire; and Bernie’s going the way of Klein. But then, after losing the first game, Bernie changes his tactics. Instead of leading or topspinning in any way, he does nothing but jab the ball in his characteristic right-off-the-bounce manner, giving Miles nothing to counter. In addition he shows his outstanding table game by moving Miles all over the table. However, Miles is also a top notch chiseler, and the game drags on for—you guessed it--15 minutes; the ump calls expedite, and the psychology of the match changes. On Miles’ serve Bernie keeps jabbing until Miles tries a forehand lead—which Bernie counters, forcing Miles into a chop return. Miles can’t get the point by the 14^th volley. On Bernie’s serve it’s jab-chisel-jab-chisel, until Bernie is forced to forehand lead. But Miles, now perhaps a little more nervous, starts overshooting with his cartwheel. Bernie wins the second game, and the gallery is entranced.

And so it goes for two more games: Miles can’t get the point on his serve, and Bernie can. In fact Bernie gets so confident toward the match’s end that even on Miles’ serve Bernie begins to lead with his forehand, Miles reverts to chopping it, and Bernie puts it away— and wins in four. People talked about that match for a long time afterward.

In the other semis it’s Pecora vs. Sweeris, with Pecora finally prevailing in a match dominated by rapid exchanges and occasional heavy topspin. So, for the first (and only) time Danny Pecora finds himself in the U.S. Open finals. Against someone who’s been eligible for the Seniors for eight years. If Bukiet—with yet another chance at the title—is a bit nervous (he consults with New Albany, Indiana’s Bernard Hock, who’s been "custom" making Bernie’s racquets), Pecora is filled with angst to the point of distraction. Thus the finals are an anticlimax, with Bernie winning three straight--though the final game is a close 23-21. Some say Pecora had a plane to catch. With a shot at the championship on the line, does that make sense?

In any case this is one of Bukiet’s greatest moments of glory. Everyone is cheering him and he is standing by the table beaming--as it turns out, for the last time as a National singles winner. In a life so dominated by the sole activity that gave him recognition, he was now at one with the crowd—and with himself.

I later got to know him somewhat—enough for him to recognize my face even if he wasn’t sure of my name. And after I had introduced him to my then fiancée at Gusikoff’s New York club in 1969, he always asked about her afterwards. And he usually followed it with, "Are Heeks and Dess-champs (Hicks and Harry Deschamps, Indiana’s two best players for years) still playing well?"

I didn’t encounter Bernie again until June 1993, when the U.S. Open was held at the Indianapolis Convention Center. Now 74, a little paunchier, voice a little huskier, and wearing trifocals (his still-thick hair had stubbornly refused to turn all gray), his health and eyesight were too precarious to compete. Like me, he was there to watch, but in his case to be also a part of the only crowd he had ever felt at home with. Still, he could not let the game entirely go. Wearing his playing shorts, he got someone to stroke with him—and I saw that the fluid, elastic arm motion unique to him was still there. . .the forehand still had that long, smooth follow-through. And, after perhaps nearly 20 years, he still recognized me and asked how my wife was. Somehow, I sensed this was the last time I would see him, and I left the tournament feeling sad.

[Tom Aldridge was a part owner of two successive table tennis clubs from 1964 through 1980. His best rating was about 1600, and, because of a minor head injury, has been unable to play since 1988. He now does free-lance writing as an avocation. He wishes to acknowledge Tim Boggan, USATT historian, for providing some scores and related details for this narrative.]