Newfound Respect for a Chicken’s Sport

I used to think badminton was a game for old ladies. I think that may have something to do with Disney’s Robin Hood. The hen, Clucky, whose famous line is “absence makes the heart go fonder,” is playing badminton and the birdie goes down her shirt. She looks pretty silly hopping around to get it out. Actually, I always identified with her for some reason. But maybe that has something to do with when I was little, and my older brothers and sisters always gave me the undesirable roles to play in our childhood games. Like Clucky, or the ever-eating Chet from the Hardy Boys, or Mr. T from the A-Team. Although, I must admit now that Mr. T is pretty darn awesome. But the point of all these digressions is that badminton is most certainly not a game for old ladies. It is sweet torture.

Now, bear in mind that this is not the first time I’ve ever tried my hand at the sport. Last summer, at the Indonesian language boot camp in Wisconsin, I played every Sunday afternoon. At that time, I thought my comrades were pretty formidable opponents. Not that I think any less of them now, it’s just that those games were all about relaxation and fun. Here, badminton is serious business.

The first day I showed up at the courts, I hit the birdie around a bit with a sympathetic young man. Shortly thereafter, the head trainer came over and told me that if I really wanted to play, I would have to take lessons first. Sadly, I realized the truth of his statement, but was not convinced that this was really the way to go. Did I really want to devote the time to learning the sport properly, given my many other interests at the moment? I mean, shouldn’t I be focusing on Sundanese dance and gamelan? Common sense lost to a passing whim, when the next morning I returned to the badminton courts and asked the cost of lessons. “Let’s play first,” said the trainer, “and then we’ll talk about price.”
Two hours hours, I found myself sitting on a bench, hot, sweaty, and frustrated at my inability to get the proper technique down for the serve. Attempting to replenish my bodily fluids with several bottles of water, I discussed the finer details of life with my teacher. Like, how many more curse words there are in Sundanese than in Indonesian, and why all the English words sound the same, like had, bad, sad and dad. Tentatively, I brought up the question of price again. The teacher only replied that he really wouldn’t feel comfortable charging me for lessons yet, and when I got a lot better, we could attempt the conversation again. I had to laugh; I was so bad, he had to take pity on me and give me lessons for free! So we postponed the question for some unknown day in the future.

That day was today! After three weeks, the instructor told me I have finally reached the beginning of learning how to play badminton. I ran drills for the proper footwork, drills for the serve, and drills for advancing and retreating for three hours, until my arm and legs are ridiculously sore and there is a war wound of a blister on my racket-gripping thumb. In celebration of finally reaching the beginning, I willingly paid my monthly dues, and learned a new Indonesian word, “puas.” In the dictionary, puas means contented, or satisfied, but according to my badminton teacher puas means “lebih daripada perasaan capai” or “even more than the feeling of being tired.” Both seem about right to me.