Goodable

This restaurant in New York City has no chefs. To cook in this kitchen, there's only one requirement: you must be a grandmother. When Joe opened up this restaurant almost 20 years ago, his mother and sister had just passed away. He was full of grief. But then. he started inviting grandmothers into his kitchen. And it changed everything. Thank you Enoteca Maria Restaurant! Made possible with the support of Ontario Creates.

<p>This restaurant in New York City has no chefs. To cook in this kitchen, there's only one requirement: you must be a grandmother. When Joe opened up this restaurant almost 20 years ago, his mother and sister had just passed away. He was full of grief. But then. he started inviting grandmothers into his kitchen. And it changed everything. Thank you Enoteca Maria Restaurant! Made possible with the support of Ontario Creates.<br></p>

This New York Kitchen is Run By Grandmothers!

CTV News

Melanin Bee starts with a stretch, her spine arching like a cat’s, and then lets out a burst of exaggerated, high-speed giggles: “oh, hoo hoo hoo, eeh, ha ha ha.” At first, it’s pure performance. Then something shifts — and she’s actually laughing, kicking her feet in joy.

This is Laughasté, a laughter-meets-yoga routine the Los Angeles comedian and speaker created. It borrows from the laughter clubs that began in India in the 1990s, where people intentionally laughed in groups to relieve stress. The awkwardness is part of the process.

“It’s about allowing yourself to be OK with being awkward,” Bee said. “Then you’re going to find some form of silliness within that is going to allow you to laugh involuntarily.”

Intentional or not, the health benefits of laughter are no joke.

Dr. Michael Miller, a cardiologist and professor at the University of Pennsylvania, compares laughter to a workout. “Like we say, exercise at least three to five days a week,” he said. “Belly laugh at least two to five days a week.”

Laughter therapy has come a long way since its early days. Stanford psychologist William F. Fry, a pioneer in the field, began studying laughter in the 1960s. He drew blood from himself while watching Laurel and Hardy films, and found laughter boosted his immune system.

Three decades later, Mumbai physician Dr. Madan Kataria was editing a magazine article on stress when he decided to try laughter as therapy. In 1995, he launched the world’s first daily laughter club in a local park. The group grew from a few people to over 150 within weeks.

When they ran out of jokes, Kataria invented exercises to keep people laughing — breathing routines, silly gestures, and movement games designed to activate the diaphragm and prompt laughter.

“We were faking in the beginning and within seconds, everybody was in stitches,” he said.

Now there are laughter yoga classes and laughter clubs around the world, including dozens of free online sessions every week.

Beyond mood-boosting, there’s strong physiological evidence that laughter can lower blood pressure, reduce inflammation, and even protect your heart. Dr. Miller’s studies found that laughing triggers endorphins in the brain and increases nitric oxide in the blood, which helps vessels relax.

“It’s like you’ve taken pain medication,” he said. “When you’ve had a really good laugh, you feel very relaxed and light.”

And it turns out that “forced” laughter may be just as powerful — maybe even more so — than the real thing.

Jenny Rosendhal, a senior researcher in medical psychology at Jena University in Germany, found that laughter-based therapies led to lower stress hormones, less chronic pain, better mobility, and overall improved mood in her meta-analysis of 45 studies.

“The well-being comes through the back door,” she said. “You start with an exercise, and then the spontaneous laughter comes later because it’s funny to see people laughing.”

That makes laughter yoga especially helpful for people dealing with depression or illness, where humor might feel out of reach. But laughter doesn’t have to come from a joke to be real — the body responds either way.

Kataria recommends starting small. One easy exercise: look someone in the eye and say “ha” for a full minute. Or inhale with your hands at your chest, hold your breath, and then exhale in laughter as you push your hands outward.

Participants in his classes might greet each other like aliens, crawl like animals, or tap their foreheads and shout “Aha! ha ha ha!” They might even laugh at things that usually aren’t funny — like a credit card bill. Kataria mimics it with a wide-eyed gasp and a roaring laugh.

“Really, it’s not about forcing yourself to laugh,” he said. “It’s like activating your laughter muscles, getting rid of your mental inhibitions and shyness.”

That childlike, uninhibited laughter, he says, is where the magic happens.

And if it feels weird at first? That’s kind of the point.

No Joke: Forced Laughter Can Lower Stress, Pain, and Blood Pressure

Sunny Skyz

John Nimmo doesn’t remember much about the day his heart stopped while driving through Roswell, Georgia. But he’s never going to forget the man who helped bring him back.

Nine days after suffering a heart attack behind the wheel, Nimmo had an emotional reunion with Dr. Kehinde Idowu — the doctor who witnessed the crash and rushed to perform CPR while waiting for first responders to arrive.

“I counted down the days,” Nimmo said, moments before meeting the man he credits with saving his life. “We communicated back and forth a few times, but I couldn’t wait to finally meet him.”

The two embraced, a quiet moment full of gratitude and relief. For Dr. Idowu, a physician who often doesn’t get to see what happens after an emergency, it was a rare and meaningful experience.

“It’s not always that we get to see outcomes like this,” he said. “To be able to see him, to share this joy with him and his family — it’s overwhelming.”

The crash happened more than a week earlier, on a busy road in Roswell. Nimmo lost control of his car after going into cardiac arrest, and it was sheer luck that Dr. Idowu happened to be nearby.

After helping stabilize him, Idowu later listened to Nimmo’s heartbeat himself — a powerful reminder of how close the call really was.

Nimmo said the experience has changed everything for him, especially heading into the holidays.

“This Thanksgiving feels like a bonus,” he said. “Every Thanksgiving, every Christmas — they’ll all be because of you.”

Dr. Idowu, though, was quick to shift the spotlight away from himself. He praised the efforts of everyone who helped that day — bystanders, police with a defibrillator, EMS crews, and hospital staff. And he emphasized his faith throughout it all.

“All of it came together in his favor,” Idowu said. “God really is the one who gets the glory.”

Georgia Man Reunites With Doctor Who Saved His Life After Heart Attack Behind the Wheel

GoodGoodGood

A team of Smithsonian scientists wants to send the DNA of Earth’s most vulnerable animals to the moon — and they’re taking cues from both the Voyager Golden Records and the Svalbard Global Seed Vault to make it happen.

The project, called a lunar biorepository, would store cryopreserved animal cells in a secure, radiation-shielded facility on the moon’s surface, acting as a backup for life on Earth.

"Initially, a lunar biorepository would target the most at-risk species on Earth today," said Mary Hagedorn, a cryobiologist at the Smithsonian’s National Zoo and Conservation Biology Institute. “But our ultimate goal would be to cryopreserve most species on Earth.”

Hagedorn is part of an 11-member scientific team that’s spent decades shaping the idea. Their latest findings were published in BioScience in August. The vision is ambitious, but its premise is simple: climate change, extinction, and ecological disasters are accelerating, and Earth needs a global, off-site safeguard for the planet’s biodiversity.

It's a concept that echoes two major scientific efforts from the last century. In 1977, NASA launched the Golden Records aboard Voyager 1 and 2 — phonograph discs filled with music, greetings, and sounds from Earth. Five years later, in 1984, conservationists began freezing seed samples in the Arctic Circle on Norway’s Spitsbergen island. That facility, now known as the Svalbard Global Seed Vault, houses over 1.3 million seed samples from every country on Earth.

Now, the Smithsonian group hopes to do the same for animals — but in space.

To start, the team has been cryopreserving skin samples from a marine reef fish called the Starry Goby. Those samples are now stored at the National Museum of Natural History. But the moon, Hagedorn said, presents an entirely different set of challenges.

Temperatures swing dramatically between day and night on the lunar surface, and samples would need heavy-duty protection from radiation, micrometeorites, and potential mechanical failure. The team says packaging, temperature control, and transport protocols for astronauts or robotic missions would all need to be engineered with extreme care.

There’s also the problem of gravity — or rather, the lack of it. "Microgravity testing was performed on cryopreserved cardiac cells for only months on Earth,” Hagedorn said. “When these cryopreserved cells were launched into space and cultured on the ISS, they lived and expanded. Still, the long-term effect of microgravity on cryopreserved samples is not known.”

Logistics aside, the plan will also require international cooperation. The scientists say that acquiring and sending samples from around the globe can't happen without broad political agreement, funding, and a neutral governance structure. That’s where the Svalbard Vault comes in again — not as a technical model, but as a diplomatic one.

“For the lunar biorepository, we recommend a governance process that mirrors Svalbard's,” Hagedorn said. “The establishment of a collaborative planning process involving key stakeholders who will include public and private funders, scientific partners, countries, others providing samples, and public representatives.”

It’s not a moonshot aimed at repopulating another planet. It’s a biological insurance policy for Earth.

Hagedorn and her team are quick to clarify that this isn't a science fiction escape plan or a stunt to reach alien civilizations. Instead, it's a backup archive, a lunar safety net designed to preserve Earth’s genetic diversity in the face of mounting threats.

“Life is precious and, as far as we know, rare in the universe,” she said. “This biorepository provides another, parallel approach to conserving Earth’s precious biodiversity.”

The project remains in early stages, but the Smithsonian team hopes that by sharing their roadmap, they can draw more collaborators into the effort. The goal is not only scientific — it’s also deeply cooperative. A modern-day ark, not for a single nation, but for everyone.

Smithsonian Scientists Plan Lunar "Noah's Ark" To Preserve Earth's Biodiversity

People

The first baby in the world to receive a personalized gene-editing treatment is now making history again — this time with his first steps.

KJ Muldoon, now one year old, is walking at home just in time for the holidays, a milestone that seemed nearly impossible a year ago. In December 2024, he was spending Christmas in a hospital bed at the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia (CHOP), diagnosed with a life-threatening condition called CPS1 deficiency shortly after birth.

“It’s all been a miracle,” his father, Kyle Muldoon, told Good Morning America. “It’s the only way to describe it.”

KJ was born in August 2024 and spent the first 10 months of his life in hospital care. Doctors diagnosed him with severe carbamoyl phosphate synthetase 1 deficiency, a rare metabolic disorder that affects just 1 in 1.3 million babies. The disease prevents the body from removing nitrogen properly, leading to symptoms such as vomiting, fatigue, refusal to eat, and, in many cases, coma. Without intervention, about half of babies with CPS1 die within the first week of life.

KJ’s parents, Kyle and Nicole, were connected early on with Dr. Rebecca Ahrens-Nicklas, director of CHOP’s Gene Therapy for Inherited Metabolic Disorders program, and Dr. Kiran Musunuru, a gene-editing expert at the University of Pennsylvania. The two had been collaborating since 2023 to develop personalized gene-editing therapies for ultra-rare diseases.

Using CRISPR technology, the team built a custom treatment for KJ in just six months. He received three doses in early 2025, with no serious side effects reported. By June, he had grown strong enough to go home — a milestone CHOP described at the time as “incredibly encouraging.”

Nicole Muldoon remembered how quickly things improved after treatment. “By the next day he was up laughing, looking around, playing with his toys like nothing ever happened,” she told GMA.

KJ’s story was published in the New England Journal of Medicine in May, becoming the first documented case of an infant being treated with an individualized gene-editing therapy.

“While KJ is just one patient, we hope he is the first of many to benefit from a methodology that can be scaled to fit an individual patient’s needs,” Ahrens-Nicklas said in a CHOP news release at the time.

His case is also sparking a broader discussion about how regulatory systems might adapt to allow more patients with rare diseases to access custom therapies.

“We want each and every patient to have the potential to experience the same results we saw in this first patient,” said Musunuru. “The promise of gene therapy that we’ve heard about for decades is coming to fruition, and it’s going to utterly transform the way we approach medicine.”

Doctors say KJ will need to be monitored for life, but so far, he’s developing normally. He recently celebrated his first birthday at home and has been hitting key milestones, including standing, laughing, and now, walking.

He’s also joined the rest of the family in cheering for their favorite football team.

“The day he was born, I ordered a Jalen Hurts jersey,” Kyle said. “I just didn’t know if he was ever gonna wear it.”

Now, as KJ toddles around in that jersey, his parents are watching what once felt impossible unfold in front of them.

“Just to see him do these things that we never thought were possible has been inspiring,” Kyle said.

Baby Who Received First Gene-Editing Treatment Takes His First Steps Just in Time for Christmas

When the Kanneh-Mason kids were little, their parents signed them up for everything — karate, gymnastics, soccer, tennis, even cricket. But it was music that stuck.

Today, all seven siblings from Nottingham, England, have become one of classical music’s most celebrated families. They’ve performed around the world, won prestigious awards, and played everywhere from the Royal Albert Hall to Carnegie Hall. Their rise is remarkable not just because of their talent, but because of how they got there — with no famous teachers, no elite private schooling, and no family fortune behind them.

Their parents, Kadiatu (Kadie) Kanneh and Stuart Mason, had some musical background from school, but no professional training. When it became clear their children had real talent, they knew they had to support it — even if it meant financial stress and marathon schedules.

“They told us this is what they wanted to do,” Kadie said. “So then, we had to be honest to say, ‘Well, if this is what you want to do, then you have to work hard.’ Because the reality is, if you want to be successful at anything, you have to go for it.”

They did go for it. Isata, the eldest at 29, started piano lessons at age six. Her younger siblings quickly followed suit: Braimah, now 28, chose the violin; Sheku, now 26, picked up the cello — partly, he joked, because it was “a bigger instrument” than Braimah’s.

“It helps [that] it’s objectively a better instrument,” Sheku quipped.

“I think the violin is more popular,” Braimah shot back. “There’s more repertoire.”

Each child practiced for hours every day while attending public school. On Saturdays, all seven made a two-hour trek to the Royal Academy of Music’s junior program in London. Any spare money the family had went toward instruments and lessons. At times, they nearly defaulted on their mortgage.

At home, they created their own version of music school. They held weekly “Sunday Concerts” in the living room, where each child performed for the others and received feedback.

“You have to get used to putting yourself under that pressure,” Isata said. “It’s so easy to just crumble under the nerves.”

Their musical environment was key, said Jeneba, now 23. “Because our environment was so intensely musical and loving and supportive, it was kind of bound to happen in one way or another.”

The Kanneh-Mason kids have never chased fame for its own sake. In 2015, they agreed to appear on “Britain’s Got Talent,” but only on one condition: they would perform classical music, not a pop medley. That same year, Sheku won the BBC Young Musician competition, becoming a household name. In 2018, he performed at the royal wedding of Prince Harry and Meghan Markle.

He went on to become the first cellist to break into the U.K. Top 10 album chart and continues to play to sold-out concert halls around the world. This spring, he will serve as artist in residence at the New York Philharmonic.

Still, fame hasn’t fractured the family. The siblings say they deliberately keep competition out of their careers.

“We draw the line at music,” Jeneba said. “Because our instruments are such, like, an integral part of ourselves. And it would be like deeply attacking the other person.”

Their bond is obvious in performance. Jeneba calls it “unspoken communication” — a kind of musical shorthand that only siblings could pull off.

Not all of them are pursuing music full-time. Konya, 25, now focuses on writing fiction. Aminata, 20, took a brief detour into acting school but returned to conservatory. Mariatu, 16, is still in training. But four of the siblings are now professional musicians, recording and touring around the world.

And while they made their public debut as a group, they’re now developing as individuals.

“I think it’s something that probably gets easier as you get older,” said Isata. “Because you start to just get more confidence and more knowledge about what kind of things you want to be doing.”

The Kanneh-Masons haven’t lost their sense of unity — but they’ve proved that even in a family of prodigies, there’s still room for individual voices to shine.

Kanneh-Mason Siblings Keep Music In The Family With Violins, Pianos And Cellos

At just 18 years old, Nima Rinji Sherpa stood atop Annapurna, completing a record that took the previous title-holder nearly a decade: summiting all 14 of the world’s highest mountains. And he did it in a little over two years.

It’s a staggering feat for anyone, let alone someone barely out of high school. But Nima is far from a typical teenager. He’s the latest in a long line of Sherpa climbers pushing the limits of what's possible at the top of the world — and trying to redefine what it means to be a Sherpa.

Sherpa is a lot of things. It’s an ethnic group, a last name, and a job description. For decades, Sherpas have risked their lives to help foreign climbers reach Himalayan summits. Nima’s family has been at the center of that legacy. His father once became the youngest person to summit Everest without supplemental oxygen. His uncles were the first brothers to climb all 14 of the world’s highest peaks. One of them, Mingma Sherpa, started out as a yak farmer before carrying 90-kilogram loads for $1 a day as a porter. Eventually, Mingma rose through the ranks to become a lead guide — a job he calls a matter of life and death.

“Every step is do or die,” he said. “Every step is maybe we are alive or not alive.”

Together, Mingma and his brothers built Seven Summit Treks, a Nepalese mountaineering company now responsible for about a third of all Everest expeditions.

They see Nima as the next step in a longer mission: to prove that Sherpas aren’t just support crew for Western climbers, but stars in their own right.

That goal has deep roots. As a child, Nima was inspired by the story of Tenzing Norgay, the Sherpa who climbed Everest in 1953 with Sir Edmund Hillary. Hillary’s name became legend. Norgay’s didn’t — at least outside Nepal. “I think it was because of him who made the Sherpa a brand today,” Nima said. “For me, he was always a very big motivation.”

Nima’s own journey started in 2022, when he summited Mount Manaslu at age 16. While other teens were sitting in classrooms, he was entering the death zone — a stretch above 8,000 meters where oxygen is scarce and the body starts to shut down. He battled muscle cramps, lung pain, even chest pain, but something kept him climbing.

“I knew I belong in this industry,” he said. “Everyone has their own reason. And the reason has to be really big so that you don’t give up.”

His record-breaking ascent of all 14 peaks wasn’t without risk. He’s witnessed avalanches. He’s seen climbers die. “You have to be more careful when you’re in the mountains,” he said. “Every time you go, you are so energized… then when you see someone pass away, you feel like, ‘OK, this is real.’”

In fact, Sherpas make up about one-third of all deaths on Everest. Many bodies are never recovered due to the dangers of retrieving them. In 2023 alone, 18 people died on the mountain.

Yet the spotlight still tends to fall on Western climbers — the ones planting flags and posting photos. Conrad Anker, a veteran American mountaineer and one of Nima’s mentors, has seen the imbalance firsthand.

“It’s the value of what they do,” Anker said. “A Western climber dies, and the community rallies up. There’s fundraising. Yet for the Nepali climber, it’s not recognized in that same sense.”

Anker founded the Khumbu Climbing Center in 2003 to help shift that dynamic, providing technical training to Sherpas to improve safety and recognition. Nima trained there and graduated top of his class.

Still, the disparities remain. Nima is hoping for major endorsements but knows they take time. “I don’t want to rush,” he said. “But I know my time is going to come.”

In the meantime, Nima and others are embracing innovation to improve safety on Everest. Drones are now being used to transport gear and supplies — ladders, ropes, even trash — to high-altitude camps.

“They’re helping the icefall doctors,” Nima said, referring to the elite Sherpas who build and maintain the treacherous route through the Khumbu Icefall. “The job has not gone away. It’s just making the job easier, and safer, and faster.”

A porter might take hours to carry a load from Base Camp to Camp One. A drone can do it in minutes. That shift could help prevent some of the deaths and injuries that have long plagued high-altitude expeditions.

But recognition — and equality — still feel a long way off.

“There’s an invisible community with an invisible center helping invisible people,” Nima’s words echo from a different conversation, but they apply just as well to the Sherpa experience in mountaineering.

He may be the youngest to summit the world's tallest peaks, but Nima Rinji Sherpa is climbing for something bigger: to make sure the people who got him there finally get the credit they deserve.

He's the Youngest to Summit the World's 14 Highest Peaks, and he's Redefining Mountaineering Legacy

A Seattle-area hygiene center that was on the brink of closure has been saved — not by a major institution or a city council vote, but by a surprise donor who turned out to be one of the region’s most well-known residents: travel writer and TV host Rick Steves.

Last week, the longtime public television personality revealed himself as the anonymous buyer who had stepped in to purchase the property housing the Lynnwood Hygiene Center, which had been told to vacate after the land was sold to a developer. The center provides hot meals, showers, and a safe indoor space for people without homes — essential services for the 700 individuals who depend on it each year.

Steves bought the property for $2.25 million, saying he only learned about the hygiene center’s existence by chance — through a local news story. Despite living nearby, he hadn’t known the facility existed. And like many people, he hadn’t known what a hygiene center even was.

“I vividly remember what it's like as a kid backpacking around the world to need a shower, to need a place to wash your clothes,” he told a crowd gathered to celebrate the center's rescue with cake and the words "fait accompli" piped in red icing.

Reading about the center’s closure plans, Steves said it hit him just how hard it would be to replace a place like this. “I realized, oh my goodness, there's an invisible community with an invisible center helping invisible people. And it's not right. It needs to be kept alive.”

The Lynnwood Hygiene Center had operated rent-free since 2020. But in November, the Jean Kim Foundation — which runs the center — announced it would need to close after the property changed hands. The news sparked deep concern in the community, especially among those who relied on the center for basic needs.

Sandra Mears, executive director of the Jean Kim Foundation, said she had been told to plan a farewell event. “I didn’t want a goodbye party,” she said.

Now, with the purchase secured and over $400,000 in additional donations from the community, that goodbye party has turned into a celebration of survival. The funds will help renovate the space and expand services. Mears said the center currently provides around 16,000 hot meals and 10,000 showers annually — numbers that are likely to grow.

“It’s huge,” she said.

Steves called the donation “the best $2.25 million I could imagine spending,” but he also made clear that he doesn’t see this as a long-term solution.

Private donors, he said, shouldn't be the ones deciding whether people get access to basic necessities like food and hygiene. “If we don't have [$2.25 million] for a whole county to give homeless people a shower and a place to get out of the rain and a place to wash their clothes, what kind of society are we?”

In a series of posts on Bluesky, Steves said he was struck by the idea that a facility providing such critical care had been so easily overlooked — by the public, by local leadership, and even by someone like him, who lives just down the road. “It’s a failure of priorities,” he said.

The Lynnwood Hygiene Center is expected to remain free to those who use it. Mears and her team are already planning for the next chapter: renovations, extended hours, and possibly more services, depending on how far the funds can stretch.

For Steves, the experience was an unexpected but meaningful detour from his regular work, one that made a lasting impression. “This place is needed,” he said. “And now, it’s here to stay.”

TV Host Saves Seattle-Area Hygiene Center From Closure, Pledges Support For Community Needs

Science Daily

A groundbreaking study from McGill University is changing how scientists understand the role of dopamine in movement — and it could reshape treatment strategies for Parkinson’s disease.

Published in Nature Neuroscience, the research suggests that dopamine doesn’t directly control how fast or forcefully we move, as long believed. Instead, it acts more like a foundation that enables movement to happen at all.

“Rather than acting as a throttle that sets movement speed, dopamine appears to function more like engine oil,” said senior author Nicolas Tritsch, Assistant Professor of Psychiatry at McGill and a researcher at the Douglas Research Centre. “It’s essential for the system to run, but not the signal that determines how fast each action is executed.”

This insight could simplify how Parkinson’s treatments are designed. Levodopa, the most common medication, has long been thought to work by mimicking short dopamine bursts that happen during motion. But the McGill team found that movement improved by simply restoring steady, baseline dopamine levels — not fast spikes.

The researchers tested the theory by monitoring brain activity in mice as they performed a strength task. Switching dopamine-producing cells on or off during movement had no effect on how the animals moved. But restoring overall dopamine levels did help, suggesting it’s the presence of dopamine — not its moment-to-moment fluctuation — that matters most.

With over 110,000 Canadians living with Parkinson’s, and that number expected to double by 2050, the study opens the door to more targeted, safer treatments that focus on maintaining consistent dopamine support — rather than chasing fleeting dopamine signals.

Breakthrough In Parkinson's Research Alters Understanding Of Dopamine

Smithsonian Magazine

In a smoky dive bar in 1940s Manhattan, a teenage Marty Reisman slapped table tennis balls with the speed and flair of a street magician. He wasn’t just playing for fun—he was hustling college kids and tourists for money, all while dreaming of becoming a world champion.

Decades later, that electric underworld of spin shots and side bets is coming to the big screen.

Opening in U.S. theaters this Christmas, Marty Supreme stars Timothée Chalamet as Marty Mauser, a fictional character loosely based on Reisman, one of America’s most flamboyant—and misunderstood—table tennis legends. The film is the brainchild of director Josh Safdie (Uncut Gems), who saw in Reisman’s life a chaotic, high-stakes world rarely depicted in sports movies. Fast-talking, fashion-forward, and ferociously talented, Reisman wasn’t just a player. He was a performer.

A Life Built on Spin and Swagger

Born in 1930 in New York, Reisman took up Ping-Pong (as it was still called then) at age 9, using the game to calm his nerves after a childhood breakdown. By his teens, he was playing nightly at Lawrence’s, a gangster-run bar where the best players in the country traded money, insults, and smashes.

That scrappy upbringing, filled with danger and swagger, infuses every scene of Marty Supreme. Director Safdie was fascinated by what he calls a “subculture of misfits” who bet big and lived on reflexes. While the film invents its own plotline—Mauser juggles a pregnant girlfriend, debt collectors, and a dream of going pro—it draws heavily from the energy and misadventures of Reisman’s early life, down to real events like his one-day stint as a shoe salesman and living in a hotel with his gambling-addicted father.

Reisman himself was a magnet for stories. He famously tried to place a $500 bet on himself at a national tournament—only to accidentally offer the wager to the head of the U.S. Table Tennis Association. He was escorted out by police. That didn't stop him: over the next five decades, he racked up 22 major titles, performed with the Harlem Globetrotters, and became a staple of late-night television, smashing cigarettes in half with pinpoint shots on The Tonight Show.

A Paddle, A Cigarette, and a Comeback

What set Reisman apart wasn’t just his skill, but his flair. He played in tailored suits and fedora hats. He could charm a crowd as easily as he could dismantle an opponent. But when table tennis was revolutionized in the 1950s by sponge paddles—which added blistering speed and spin—Reisman pushed back.

“The sponge made the game too fast,” he once said. “Before, there was a dialogue between two players… Today, a point is made or lost with an imperceptible twist of the wrist.”

Despite falling out of step with the changing game, Reisman remained a force. In 1997, at age 67, he won the first U.S. national hardbat championship, using the old-school paddle he never abandoned. He challenged then–top-ranked American Jimmy Butler to a match—and nearly won.

‘Marty Supreme’ Is Not a Biopic—But It’s Full of Truth

Safdie’s Marty Supreme isn’t a direct retelling of Reisman’s life. “It has its own engine,” says filmmaker Leo Leigh, who made the 2014 documentary The Life and Times of a Ping-Pong Hustler. But the film’s spirit mirrors Reisman’s—raw, funny, tense, and full of improvisation.

Key moments are pulled from real events: the underground hustle games, brushes with violence, and a high-stakes showdown with a fictionalized Japanese rival, inspired by Reisman’s infamous loss to Hiroji Satoh at the 1952 World Championships. Satoh, armed with a sponge paddle, blew past Reisman, changing the sport forever. Reisman would later get his revenge in a rematch—but by then, the era of the hardbat was fading.

Legacy of a Showman

Reisman died in 2012, but his influence remains. His club in Manhattan once hosted Dustin Hoffman, Bobby Fischer, and David Mamet. His style, showmanship, and relentless hustle made him a larger-than-life figure in a sport often overlooked in America.

“He was the one who attracted crowds to the game,” says Larry Hodges, a longtime table tennis coach and author. “He was a good talker, and he said witty things—even if he exaggerated.”

If Reisman were alive today, friends say, he would have hijacked Marty Supreme’s press tour with outrageous stunts and charm. “He would have been such a pain,” laughs Leigh. “It would have been hilarious.”

But there’s little doubt: Marty Reisman would have loved seeing a bit of himself, however fictionalized, taking center stage.

As Chalamet’s Marty Mauser says in the film, “Table tennis is the only place I ever feel like I’m in control.” That, perhaps more than anything, is true to the real Marty.

Marty Reisman Revolutionizes Table Tennis As Inspiration Behind 'Marty Supreme'

At Dell Seton Medical Center in Austin, Texas, the warm crackle of a spinning record is doing something no pill or procedure can: it’s helping patients feel human again.

Pamela Mansfield, 64, knows this firsthand. Recovering from a string of neck surgeries, she lies in her hospital bed swaying her feet to George Jones’ She Thinks I Still Care. Her hands are numb, her ankles stiff — but her smile grows with each verse.

“Music makes everything better,” she says.

The music is part of ATX-VINyL, a volunteer-led program dreamed up by Dr. Tyler Jorgensen, an emergency medicine physician turned palliative care fellow, who saw something profound happen when he wheeled a record player into a patient’s room three years ago.

“I think of this record player as a time machine,” Jorgensen said. “An old, familiar song starts spinning — and now you're back at home, you're with your family, you're out of the hospital.”

That first moment of clarity came with Thin Lizzy’s The Boys Are Back in Town, played for a patient who’d been shut down and struggling. The shift was immediate: he opened up, shared stories, and connected in a way that nothing else had sparked.

Since then, ATX-VINyL has grown into a full program with a collection of over 60 records — and counting. The most requested album? Rumours by Fleetwood Mac. Willie Nelson, Etta James, and John Denver are also frequent requests. During the holidays, A Charlie Brown Christmas spins on repeat.

Each visit begins with a conversation — nurses recommend patients who might benefit, and a volunteer carefully selects a few records from the cart. Then the turntable rolls in.

“There’s just something inherently warm about the friction of a record — the pops, the scratches,” Jorgensen said. “It just feels different.”

Mansfield’s pick was country — the music she grew up listening to with her parents. “I have great taste in music. Men, on the other hand… ehhh,” she jokes, laughing as the needle drops.

She’s one of many patients helped by the small, intimate power of vinyl. Some are in palliative care, facing the final stages of life. Others, like Mansfield, are fighting to get better.

After six surgeries since a serious fall in April, she recently stood for a full three minutes — her best yet. “It’s motivating,” she said. “Me and my broom could dance really well to some of this stuff.”

For Daniela Vargas, a UT Austin pre-med student and head of the volunteer team, the program is personal. She discovered music’s therapeutic value while playing violin for isolated patients during the pandemic.

“Being able to interact with the patient in the beginning and at the end can be really transformative,” she said. “Even though we’re not there the whole time, it’s a really intimate experience for them.”

The idea isn’t to distract from pain or avoid difficult conversations, Jorgensen says. It’s to create new memories — something positive that families and patients can share together, even at the end.

“Let’s play something for Mom. Let’s play something for Dad,” he said. “And suddenly, you are creating a new, shared experience in a setting that can otherwise be very sad, very heavy.”

Back in her room, Mansfield lets the music drift around her as her feet sway to the rhythm. “Music,” she says again, “makes everything better.”

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