Playing badminton
in our backyard is my family’s favorite summer ritual. On the first warm weekend afternoon that we set up the net, our two daughters
rush over with their rackets and birdies, ready to test their skill.
I settle into a nearby lounge chair to watch their game. They remind me of my own childhood summers playing badminton with my older
sister. She was an excellent player, with a hard, fast swing I longed to imitate. Many times the birdie would whiz by—I had no time at
all to react and was left swinging the racket well after the birdie had sailed past. Another of my sister's specialties was a long,
slow pop up that took its time coming down from the sky. Sometimes I'd get the timing just right and pop it back; other times I
misjudged and it would come down fast and close and land on my chest (or, worse, my head).
My sister and I played badminton every summer weekend as adolescents; sometimes I felt frustrated that I was not as good as she was, but
gradually I learned by watching her special moves. I still remember that wonderful sense of accomplishment I felt when I was able to
match my sister's skill and return each of her serves.
I'm delighted to see my 'tween daughters working toward that same goal. As I hear the birdie whiz over the net, my younger daughter
sings out “Oh, yeah!" and does a little dance in surprise and gratification, since she, at 9, is still learning to play. Her aim is
good and she's a fast runner, so she's bound to improve quickly this summer.
My 11-year-old daughter shrugs off her miss, secure in the knowledge that she is still the better player. It's her love of the game
that inspires us to play at the most unusual times: we've faced each other across the net on a foggy summer's dawn after we've said
good-bye to relatives making an early start home. In the fog, the birdie shows itself at the last minute. There's no planning ahead.
It's pure reaction and it makes us laugh, though we can barely see the other's crazy movements. She's also persuaded us to play at
night, with only the house spotlights illuminating the white shuttlecock. In the dark, we must avoid bumping into our partners when
we lunge for the birdie.
As I lounge in my chair, I’m content to be a badminton spectator. But then I see my husband stroll out of the garage, holding two
rackets, "Wanna play?" he asks, wiggling the rackets and trying to entice me out of my languorous state. It's the perfect time of
day for playing: the sun is still a couple of hours from setting, but low enough that it doesn't shine in your eyes. The long shadows
shade the grass green and cool the air.
"Oh, good one," my older daughter says to her sister. "Mom, did you see that? We actually got that one back and forth four times!"
"Yeah, we're the best," her sister responds. "Bet you guys can't play against us!" They've noticed their dad with the badminton
rackets and are doing their part to get me in the game.
That's all the encouragement I need to leave my comfy chair and head onto the grass. I kick off my sandals so I can grip the soft warm
grass, since barefoot is the only way I seem to be able to play. As soon as I take up the racket, the girls give a cheer. I feel like
I'm ten again as I swing the racket back and forth, feeling its lightness and loving the swooshing sound it makes. I'm ready to serve
the birdie fast or softly tip it over the net so that it falls in front of the stunned player on the other side. I'm ready for those
high pop ups. Of course, I can't run as fast as I used to, but I'm willing to try. And I can still wow them with a few good
moves—although I imagine that will be history by the end of the summer.
We laugh a lot during our game and toss around compliments and encouragement--luckily, there's no squabbling, perhaps because we each
make some blunders and everyone has plenty of opportunities to improve. We get some exercise, have some fun, and in a small, simple
way become a more united family.
We play for a while--parents against kids, one parent with one kid--until we're too tired from running around or until the mosquitoes
set in, whichever comes first.
"Play again tomorrow, Mom?" my younger daughter asks when we're done.
"Sure," I reply. It's an invitation I'd never pass up.
About The Author:
Karen Knowles is a mother of two and a freelance writer of fiction and personal essays.
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