Sunday Badminton
Feeling.
It started with a trip to the town hall, in the 11th arrondissement. A pop up badminton court.
« But it’s usually played indoors, » my friend said.
There was wind sun and homeless drunks, sipping their cans of Monster to wake up. They were watching people take turns to play. The shuttlecock flipping across the net. Them nodding their head side to side, a creative form of applause in stupor.
We played for ten minutes, letting two little girls have their turn. Two sisters, one much bigger than the other. They were giggling and jumping up and down, but the older one was seriously good, and glee turned to a competing grin.
« I’ll offer you a drink, » my friend said to me, as we were watching them.
There was choice of Coca Cola, and fruit juice. I chose passion fruit mango. We clinked our glasses and I continued to watch the sisters. This would be me tomorrow, for my first badminton initiation match.
I don’t particularly like the sport but it’s more a window to meet new people. Thank my friend for that push. Of course the cynic in me thinks because he’s pushing me out. Let other new people deal with him. But it’s a fun new experience as the ninety five degree heat funnels through the city and I’ll be leaving soon. From Paris to Boston. For how long I don’t know.
« I don’t want to leave, » I said. I’m not sure if it was just from my friend, but this idea I have to head somewhere else for an undetermined period of time. I suppose that’s part of letting go. I can’t control and maybe why I like this little pop up event at the city hall.
It’s just a random urban moment where I am not walking away from certain scars. Tattooing them over with new experiences.
Before I get into the badminton stadium I sit on a random Forge Royale alley and take in the sun for two minutes.
Passed a bookstore that on the surface looked sympa but as I walked in it was as if she couldn’t give a shit that I liked books. I looked at the bookseller’s selection and it was clear I wasn’t welcomed.
« Au revoir forever, » she said.
Shaved my beard except the moustache. New racquet sport look.
My friend played with me for the first couple of rounds. I was quite bad. Bad enough that I couldn’t blame the three other players on court for thinking what the hell is he doing here.
I have no idea.
There were 23 new people, that’s why, and an excuse to hang out with my friend. In a strange sense it felt like kindergarten. Just so many new people and I couldn’t control the frustration, or humiliation.
I couldn’t find the net on a shot. I double faulted twice in a row.
« Going to play with my regular partner, » my friend said. « We have a tournament in July. » He left me and I walked to the bench. I was so bad!
But why did I want to win so bad?
Was it my friend… did I not want to disappoint him. Or he was trying to be my coach.
« Try to place yourself there, » he said, pointing to the angle of the court. « No there. Attack. Yes that’s good. Don’t be afraid to attack. You’re afraid. »
Stop telling me what to do. No he’s trying to help. He’s just French. Direct. But I’ve had so many horrible coaches. The ones who just yell at you that I’ve tuned out all the coaching voices and was probably one of the reasons I became a tennis coach in the first place. I didn’t want to treat others in the same humiliating manner.
« Good job, » he said, putting out his hand. It was gentle.
After three hours of playing we got drinks and then he walked me to my next rendezvous, with a good friend who has kept me afloat in the city. Someone who’s been here 15 years. I started to break down.
I must’ve lost it in front of a whole crowd of tourists and Parisians but I didn’t care. The fountain was in front of me and it had no problem with what left its body.
« See you in September, » the badminton friend said. He dropped me to my friend but it felt like the death of a moment. Of the two years here, back to a home that was just a shell of my home. The conch horn that was pretty and shellacked pink but the eroded part that kept me intact. It also felt like my badminton friend never wanted to see me again. That was irrational. It was just too many emotions at once.
« Why are you so nice to me, » I kept repeating. My old friend had just sat down next to me.
« You’re at the two year point, » my friend said in a deep, calm tone, like a zen master. He looked straight out to the fountain.
« You’re this close, » he said, holding up a pinky finger. « You’re… towards the core of the culture in a way you don’t recognize. In a dangerous way. »
I knew exactly what he was saying and instead of nodding I started crying more because it’s all I could feel from the sheer amount of force in my body wanting not to be rejected by Paris, to be liked, to start school, get my visa, continue to make friends. To no longer be in the hospital.
« You’re like my sister, » he said. « She is emotional like you. Artist. »
We enjoyed a drink before one of his friends arrived. A « real » French person.
« Can I ask you? » I said to him. I had barely given him a chance to get to know me but I had a burning question. « What’re we foreigners like to you? »
« Exotic, » he said, with a big grin.
« You take an interest in us, and we to you! »
I watched the crowds pass us in a flurry snapping photos and holding their BVH Marais bags. I was just holding on to my internal force. I do sincerely hope I just hold on to my other friends and new directions , not too tightly, so afraid that I attack with control, rather than love.
