W hen it comes to formative experiences, nothing was more significant for me than playing table tennis in the Reading League in my early teens. I was a mixed-race boy from an anonymous suburban street, trying to figure out who I was and where I might end up.

I played for Omega, a club that consisted of a prefab shack with a single table: freezing in winter, roasting in summer. There was a single light over the table and no lavatory (we went around the back) but it was the place I spent hours each night after school and holidays, playing with the youngsters — boys and girls — who had been invited to join by Pete, the local coach.

And each Tuesday evening, we would

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