sharing a different story

One of my more fun (and shareable) college habits was to enroll in a Phys. Ed. class each semester, giving me at least one class where the load was light but I still received academic credit — also a class I would knowingly, thoroughly enjoy. Hence, if one would ever pull out that dusty old transcript, they would find among others, each of the following, highly-esteemed classes on my resume:

• Racquetball
• Basketball
• Ballroom Dancing
• Bowling; and… (wait for it…)
• Beginning, Intermediate, and Advanced Golf

It was great! Each was co-ed, adding to the fun — even though I was one of only two females in my male-dominated basketball class; in fact, it was obvious that our talented male classmates — several who starred on their high school teams — weren’t especially thrilled with me and my female cohort. Yet one day when I was playing the shooting guard spot, I was able to block a notably stronger competitor — one of the undisputed, most athletic men in class. My male teammate was then able to slide around him, finishing with an eye-catching, monstrous dunk. My teammate, who had not spoken to me all semester, then finally made eye contact; he offered his sole words to me that spring: “Nice pick.” It’s one of the best compliments I’ve ever received.

Arguably, however, my favorite P.E. class was none other than Badminton. For whatever reason, there was just something endearing about this sport that I previously, primarily only associated with backyards and barbecues. I learned so much there. And it was there I learned that this casual summer sport meant so much more in other parts of the world; there is an entire World Federation, highlighting athletes graced with phenomenal fitness, agility, strength, speed, and precision… so much more than a mere light-hearted focus on that feathered, little shuttlecock in the summer.

I was befriended that semester by a young man who grew up playing competitively in Thailand. He played on the equivalent of an American AAU team. Erwin and I were fast friends, and so we often played badminton outside of class. Without a doubt, he sharpened me and my skills. I improved immensely — and came to love the game.

In the final weeks of that semester, the teaching assistant set up a round-robin tournament, in which we would play each class member one-on-one. I did fairly well, finding myself in a much-anticipated match against the #2 men’s singles tennis player at a Big Ten university. Obviously, while badminton was not his number one sport, he was very good. I was just an athletic competitor, loving intramurals, who had picked up the light racquet for the first time that semester.

The match was interactive and intense from the start… back and forth… back and forth. We were playing the best of 3 games, playing to 15, having to win by 2, with a person only able to score while serving. The match was intense; my time with Erwin had obviously paid off. Much to the surprise of the teacher, me, everyone in the auxiliary gym that day, and, that #2 men’s tennis player, this became an especially tight match. It went on and on, play after play — each strategically placing that shuttlecock in precise areas of the rectangular court. He won game one; I won game two. Next came game three.

By this time most other match-ups quietly paused to watch what was seemingly surprisingly evolving. I saw Erwin smiling often, cheering his precious protege on. And sure enough, as I felt the sweat increase on my brow — and actually saw it on my opponent’s — in addition to his altered facial expressions, realizing that this scholarshipped athlete (in tennis, no less!) was about to be beaten by a un-scholarshipped girl — my confidence increased exponentially. The match was over in less than an hour. Erwin and I embraced at game’s end. It was an awesome day.

For years I have proudly shared that story including the most memorable outcome, how this semi-humble Intramuralist beat a collegiately ranked, men’s singles tennis player in badminton. It was one of my favorite highlights. But in all reality, odd as this may seem, while I remember how I felt — and I remember the looks on the faces of the people in the room — I honestly cannot remember if I won or lost. I don’t know.

I have often wondered if that tennis player and I were in the same room again today, how he would tell the story. We were in the same place, same time, sharing the same experience, but sensing different emotions. He might say it differently. He might even say he won.

Remembering such — and remembering that one time badminton prowess — helps me give great grace to people whose perspective is different than mine… even when experiencing the exact same thing.

Respectfully…
AR