The Space Between Our Rackets

Before our first doubles badminton practice, I had already chosen the moment I wanted: me leaping, my racket snapping down, the shuttle landing beyond everyone's reach. I pictured a spectacular smash. At eleven, I had spent months practicing that shot against my cousin. Now Coach Elena had paired me, Yasmin, with Dae, who said he preferred playing close to the net.

Coach handed us a practice sheet with the heading Sharing the Court. Beneath a photograph, a caption explained that one player could cover the front while a partner covered the back. I glanced at the picture, then practiced my swing. Nobody watching a game, I figured, would cheer because someone had stood in the correct place.

During our opening game, Dae stood near the net with his knees bent, bouncing slightly on his toes. Nervous, I decided. From behind him, the court looked cramped. Every place I wanted to send the shuttle seemed to have Dae in front of it. I wished he would move aside and give me room to do something impressive.

A soft return floated just over the net. I rushed forward, although Dae was already there. He pulled his racket back, and the shuttle dropped between us. Our opponents earned the point. As we collected it, I thought his hesitation had spoiled my chance. I didn't mention that I had crossed most of the court to reach his spot.

“Why didn't you hit it?” I asked. Dae looked at my racket, which was still stretched across his side. “It wasn't hesitation. I stopped so our rackets wouldn't meet,” he said. “You can take the deep shots. Let me handle the short ones.” He sounded practical, not embarrassed. That didn't fit the nervous player I had invented in my head.

Coach asked us to try the arrangement for five points. Dae explained that he wanted to intercept weak returns: reach them near the net before they traveled farther. “When you hit hard from the back, they sometimes send back a short shot,” he said. “I can be ready for that.” His bouncing knees, he added, helped him stay ready to move.

On the next rally, I hit from the back and stayed there. Our opponents sent the shuttle low over the net. Dae stepped sideways and tapped it into an open corner. No leap. No thundering swing. Just a quick touch, and a point for us. I raised my racket toward him. He grinned.

After that, I began noticing things that hadn't seemed worth describing before: Dae's small, deliberate step toward an uncovered space; his call of “Yours!” when a shot sailed deep; the way he ducked slightly when I prepared to swing behind him. The court hadn't grown, but somehow I had more room.

We still lost our practice game. I missed two deep shots, and one of Dae's taps caught the net. Yet our last rally lasted longer than any of our earlier ones. We moved forward and back without both chasing the same shot. For once, I wasn't counting how many points came from my racket.

While packing up, I found the practice sheet under my towel. This time I studied the space between the players in the photograph. Dae leaned over. “Same arrangement tomorrow?” he asked. “Yes,” I said. I still wanted a spectacular smash. But now I could picture his contribution to it, even before my racket touched the shuttle.