My 11-YEAR-OLD daughter's face fell the minute we walked into the hall.

Balls were being batted back and forth at the 16 table-tennis tables in a flurry of furious effort. Scores were being flipped over by the youthful umpires while the judges on their high platform oversaw the proceedings. It all seemed very, very serious.

We threaded our way through the spectators to reach the other members of the club. They were equally glum. Not only was this the first competition my daughter would compete in, it was a national ranking competition and worse was yet to come. Not only did they have to compete, but each competitor also had to umpire at least one game.

We can't do it, ran the general reaction. Let's go home. And, no, we're not taking off our tracksuit bottoms to play in our shorts, as the rules specify.

Once their coach persuaded them they could in fact count to 21 and flip the score charts at the same time, they agreed to stay - but dubiously; when their names were called out, they sheepishly filed out to the tables, minus their tracksuit bottoms, clutching their bats like lifesavers.

Meanwhile, we parents seated ourselves on the hard wooden benches and began our vigil. It was to be a long day. Success would mean a series of matches, while failure would also mean a series of matches as the losers played for the "Plate".

Meanwhile, the 15- and 16-year-old pros behind us unscrewed their drink bottles and began to eat their sandwiches. Being amateurs, we were lacking provisions. Our children would have to starve and so would we, the uninitiated parents.

However, following the investigations of one brave mother, we learned we could buy sandwiches, hot dogs and drinks.

In the hall, things were also looking up. My daughter was being beaten by an under-12 ranked third in Ireland, but she looked as if she was enjoying the match. Her umpiring skills also proved equal to the task.

For those on the sidelines, the endless pinging of balls began to lose its novelty and the hard bench seemed to become harder. Tempers began to flare - not among the competitors or the parents (who were mostly bemused by the proceedings) but their coaches. There were mutterings about cheating and finger-prodding and much head-shaking. Confidential mutterings in the corner centred around the crime of coaching an under-12 during a match.

The competitors talked rankings, spin, forehand and backhand, and parents wondered when it would all end. Next time (and there will be plenty of opportunities) I'll bring the ham sandwiches, drinks, a good book, maybe a cushion . . . or, better yet, send her father.