Bloodminton
Nobody saw it coming.
No, that’s not true. The little girl in the front row did see it, but it was too fast for her; her lips didn’t even have enough time to form the first two consonants of “..it!”
“Out! Seven - Eight,” announced the umpire.
“No, no, no!” I whispered loudly and slowly walked over to his ‘throne’.
“That can’t be right. I just served!” I must’ve sounded like a young John McEnroeat the time because the crowd went silent. I tap-tapped the rubber soles of my shoes with my racket and shook my head with a tad of disbelief. “I just served. He can’t get a point on my serve, you…It was just ‘Eight - Six’ in my favour.”
“It was out,” he stated promptly, pretending to write down something on an invisible piece of paper. No eye-contact.
“I know I hit it long. He can’t get the point, though. You’ve made a mistake. It was my serve. He can’t win a point on my ser–”
“Seven - Eight.”
“Fu - cker,” I said softly. “And you?” I pointed my racket in the direction of my opponent, a tall and lean Chinese immigrant who speaks Thai worse than I do. “What do you have to say?”
“Mai roo,” he said, adjusting his pink head band while simultaneously ‘re-stringing’ the strings of his pricey Yonex. He shrugged, too. Cheeky twat.
“I don’t know either.” I walked back and loosened my legs a little, stretched my back, and then walked over to my chair to get a drink of water.
“C’mon, man. Don’t let them get to you! This is the provincial championships. Crush him!” shouted someone in the crowd.
“Serve,” instructed the umpire.
Lin Ho, my opponent has an excellent, flat serve. The shuttle cock comes over the net with blistering pace and one tends to lose sight of it as it rockets its feathery behind over the white tape that stretches along the top part of the net, keeping things tight, so to speak. If one gets it wrong, the cock just shuttles back at a perfect angle for Lin Ho - pink outfit and all - to smash it back into one’s body with a smile. He will then let out an annoying, self-satisfied grunt that sounds a bit like a war cry, punch the air and will turn around and wink at his opponent, and finally mutter something in his southern Chinese accent.
Serve. Lob. Smash. Smile. Grunt. Punch. Wink. Motherfucker.
“Eight all.”
-2-
The first set went to Lin Ho. As much as I hate light pink Nylon shorts with red Hond Jazz labels (I mean, really!), I must admit that he absolutely destroyed me in the first set. His service game was consistent, and when I did manage do give some kind of resistance, he toyed with me all over the court.
“Fifteen - Nine,” announced the umpire with a smirk (and I swore I saw him wink at my opponent). Like a true champ, Lin Ho did his punching the air routine, walked up to the net, and let out a grunt that would make Monica Seles go into cardiac arrest.
I ignored his tarty behaviour and made for my chair (pretending to practise some shots on my way over, of course).
“C’mon, you can beat this pansy! Khun soo dai!” shouted the same voice that had supported me earlier on. I shot a quick look in the direction from where the voice was coming from. I suspected the dialect to be north eastern Thai, very unusual for my town as most people here are of Chinese descent (or Burmese ‘workers’).
By chance I spotted an old man between the swinging ‘designer’ feet of the crowd, under the unsteady pavilion to the left, as I was walking off. His features confirmed my suspicion: a larger flatter nose, high cheek bones, a dark skin tone and a smile. He raised a tiny brown bottle and for some reason I raised my racket; I had seen him before.
I didn’t pay attention as I brushed past Lin Ho, right under the umpire’s chair, for the familiar face with the tiny brown bottle had taken my mind off things. Lin Ho-Tart lowered his shoulder into mine, sending me crashing into the wooden frame of His Highness’ throne and bouncing back (to avoid humiliation) - cartwheeling, actually - into the calming drone of a light blue Cornetto freezer who embraced me in a cold-fingered grasp.
Ask any South African (even those cowards living abroad), and he/she will tell you that one stands up with pride.
I also looked over my shoulder (as one does after tripping or falling) and saw Lin’s Physio giving him a rub-down.
With my eyes shut - focusing on playing my game - I raised my water bottle to my lips.
It felt heavier.
And then the old man whispered in my ear,
“Kha man loei! Kill him!”
-3-
The water tasted orange for some reason, and my head span immediately as the strange liquid soothed my throat. I lifted my water bottle into the insect infested spot lights.
Clear.
“Pii Set. Special,” the old man declared with a hint of apprehension in his eyes. “Look, I know what they’re doing here. They’ve flown in this - ” he flashed an angry look over at Lin Ho who looked as if he’d just fallen in love with his physiotherapist’s busy hands on his thighs, ” - this…tart from China to make sure you don’t become the highest ranked player in the province.” He lifted his chin and took a sip from his brown bottle, smacking his lips after swallowing.
Rice Whiskey. Nasty.
“You didn’t put any of that in my water, have you?” I asked.
“Bo maen. Yaa Boraan. No, of course not. Ancient herbal medicine.”
He took another swig of his beverage, and this time I noticed the scar over his throat. Thick and purple; if it had been a knife, it was blunt. Glass, I guessed - small brown bottle glass. “You just play your game. Don’t let him get to you. I’ve watched you for a long time, here’s–”
“How come I’ve never seen you around?” I interrupted, “I only play here at the temple.”
“That is not of importance. I chose to be seen.”
At these words I became so light-headed that I sincerely considered, in that tiny fraction of a second, to throw in my complimentary light blue Colgate “Big Smile” face towel. I wanted out.
I also wondered when the retarded (I don’t like using that word, but honestly!) umpire was going to call time.
As the old man spoke again, everything came to a standstill. “Here’s the secret. Don’t let him get to you with his serve. Make sure you keep yours. Everybody has a flaw in their game. There are four sets left. You have to win three. During the next set you have find out what Lin Ho’s weakness is; it’s easier said than done - he disguises it very well. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”
“I…think so. I’ve been try–”
“You’ve fuckall! You concentrate on his strength and imagine that you will find a weakness! If you keep doing that, he will become stronger!
He will destroy you completely! If he wins a point, let it go. Try to remember where his game looked off; where he mishit a shot, how he slipped - focus on his facial expressions, his body language. Do not even dare think about how he won apoint or serve.”
“What you put in my water…is that cheating?” I asked as his words started to sink in.
“Cheating?! The fucking tart won a point off your serve! Kill him!” shouted the old man again, “Kha man Loei!”
“You don’t mean that, do you?” I frowned.
“You’ll see,” replied the old man and with that disappeared.
“Time!” shouted the umpire.
I choked on my herbal mix and piss-pissed in my Y-fronts as I walked to my side of the court.
-4-
The smell of shuttlecock is unique.
Rubbercorkbird.
"Pharang (foreigner) to serve!" shouted the umpire.
Having heard that derogatory word more than a million times before, I ignored his remark and decided to focus on my game (I was going to throw him with my shoe).
Fingering the white-dry ends of the feathers, I tripled around while drying my playing hand on my sweaty shorts.
Orange filled my lungs; I suspected the drink.
Lin Ho was rearranging a fresh, pink headband, clearing his throat loudly as he raised his racket into the spotlights, checking the strings. He grunted and went into his usual stance, knees slightly bent, the left foot just in front of the right, racket raised at such an angle in order to strike at anything with the speed of a spitting cobra.
I took position in the service court and noticed that the squeaky noises my shoes were making, irritated him a little. Of course, then, I had to overdo it. The crowd covered their ears, and I could see Lin Ho reaching for his bottom jaw, frowning as if in excruciating pain (I imagined the sharp sound acting as root canal treatment, a little angry needle going in-and-out-in-and-out rapidly puling out nerves and pulp tissue.)
"Serve!" bellowed the umpire again.
Lin Ho smiled. A trickle of blood was running down the side of his mouth, but he didn't seem to notice. He nodded with 'bring it on!' eyes. I blinked (as you do) - the blood was dripping onto his shirt. With a quick drag of the heel, I inserted my dentist broach file. Lin Ho flinched, groaned and wiped his mouth on his arm band. A rusty-coloured racing stripe of blood clumsily covered his forearm. I felt queasy; took another breath and served. I sent the shuttlecock high, gambling a bit because the risk of hitting it long is high if one's timing isn't perfect.
My eye caught the old man's face, hunched next to my chair and nodding his head in approval, simultaneously pointing out (with his eyebrows and an odd grin) that I'd better focus on what Lin Ho was going to do next.
Lin Ho had caught the shuttlecock in his mouth and was slowly removing it as if he'd swallowed it and had a difficult time retrieving it from his feminine throat.
It was only then that I realized that he was dressed in a pink kung-fu suit with white slippers.
His one hand was behind his back, his other holding a fan in front of his face, only revealing those evil black slits. He took a step forward - heel first and toes barely making contact with his own reflection on the polished wood.
The crowd, now jumping up and down frantically, was also dressed in traditional Chinese dress. A fat man shouted something and they went wild; arms started fishing for money and the realization dawned upon me that they were placing their bets.
Quickly my eyes searched for the old man and I saw him playing a strange form of chess at a rickety table, outside a rice whiskey shop that had magically appeared where the entrance of the court had been. Around his table stood at least twenty people, men and women (I thought I spotted my wife), placing bets as well.
The old man took a swig from his brown bottle, winked at me and moved his horse in an attacking position.
-5-
I was still dressed in my badminton gear, only just holding onto the sour-smelling grip of my racket.
Lin Ho was approaching, though in a very relaxed manner; one foot in front of the other as if bouncing on the balls of his feet. The silk of his kung-fu suit swished in tune with his delicate bones, moving under the soft white of his kung-fu slippers. With every step, he fanned himself, almost like a rehearsed move:
Three flicks of the wrist with his right hand, each movement perfectly timed - half-a-second apart. His left hand would then shoot up from behind his back, sending his right hand away in one smooth movement changing his stance. Then three flicks with the left hand (I cannot stress this enough, but his timing was impeccable), which in turn replaced right hand behind the back again.
I was sure he was shaking his ass as well, but no one else in the crowd seemed to have noticed. He paused at the red circle in the middle of the floor, bowed at no one in particular and placed his fanny hands behind his back.
I had a quick look over at the old man's gambling corner.
A roar of laughter had erupted at his table and I could see a stack of money in front of him. All eyes were now on him. Another drunk helped him up onto his chair, and the old man gestured for everybody to calm down and be quiet. To my amazement even the umpire, now dressed in the blackest Chinese silk shirt with golden dragon motif, seemed to be paying attention.
The old man spoke: "Today, ladies and gentlemen, is a very special day. These two gentlemen who've been fighting it out on the badminton court in front of you have been chosen by our Master to do battle.
Lin Ho is a very smart opponent - meticulous in his execution, arrogant and a bit of a sneaky prick. Ramon does not stop; he is the smallest tiger in the pack, but will go for the throat of the biggest water buffalo and take it down (probably breaking his back in the process). Things happen for a reason; we do not question it!" He took a swig of his bottle and looked me in the eyes, "He who is afraid to throw a dice will never roll a six. This is your destiny, gentlemen - there's nothing I can do to change the situation. Is that understood?"
"I-"
"Very good. Now, Lin Ho you will be fighting with two Bagua Iron Fans, a very useful weapon (and rather fitting, I must say) for both - defense and attack. In between the folds of the material of your fan are hidden darts; poisoned darts. You can't kill someone with them; however, they will turn an opponent's legs to jelly and his sight to a fog-like puzzle."
Lin Ho nodded, placed his left hand over his right in front of his chest, and bowed.
The old man smiled.
"Ramon!"
Suddenly, my racket felt heavier.
And longer.
My badminton attire ('bad' being the operative word here) started swallowing me, wrapping me in red silk. It felt good to the touch - several ooh's and aaah's could also be heard from the crowds, though it could have been me, for I was truly astonished.
I didn't like the sakura pattern at all, but I completely forgot about them when I saw my weapon.
"You will be fighting with a Golden Dragon Talon. The middle finger, as you can see is straight, and the other four fingers crooked--" - I immediately showed Lin Ho my new weapon - "--for grappling and thrusting. The middle finger, well, I'm sure you can figure it out. The weapon is quite long; 1.96 meters to be precise. Remember, with this weapon masters drip and beginners gush. You've been warned." There was finality in his voice and an anxious moment as all eyes were fixed on me.
"Ah. Oh. I apologize." I bowed quickly, Lin Ho-style, and made my way to the red circle. The umpire followed and stood between Lin Ho and I, firmly placing his palms on our chests.
A gong sounded.
Monks chanted.
Drums were beating.
A chair broke and someone broke a nose.
The umpire stepped away.
"Fight!"
-6-
The only sound in the dojo was now coming from the gambling den where three women were helping the old man to his feet. The table had collapsed under his alcoholic weight; he was now holding on to his nose, blood seeping through his fingers and trickling down his elbow.
He waved them away, not hiding the fact that he was annoyed at himself. One of the ladies, a petite woman with raven black hair and an orange silk belt undoubtedly nipping her in the waist, smiled apologetically and handed him a silver silk handkerchief.
"Why do you want to spoil something as beautiful as that?!" he snapped, and slapped her hand away. All three women bowed and stepped back inside the rickety building in such a manner that I actually wondered if they were real.
Hiding his face behind the fan, Lin Ho started to move in a clockwise direction, attempting to circle me. He put his right foot forward as if walking on glass and as he did, lifted his left hand from behind his back and covered the heartless smirk.
Left foot, right hand, pause, sneer; right foot, left hand, pause, snigger
I lifted my Golden Dragon Talon over my head.
Immediately it triggered a feeling of dejavu which, in turn, encrypted ancient movements in my muscles; every muscle twitched. I have been here before, I thought.
I bent my knees and clenched my jaws as millions of images infested my brain.
There was no sequence. However, they all nested there with the same theme:
Me training in the mountains with the same drunk old man; training with bamboo sticks and getting smacked in the ribs, winded and panting like a six year old boy on his first attempted bike ride, getting water poured in my face in the middle of the night to go running the stairs of the temple, ascending and passing monks coming down en route to their daily alms rounds.
"Morning, little tiger!" they greeted with enthusiasm.
"Morning," I replied, "What a beautiful day!" I bowed and continued up the stairs, a feeling of bliss cupping my heart.
I would then proceed to practice my kicking against a dead tree in the courtyard behind the temple until my shins and feet bled; there was no pain, only joy.
It was the exact same tree where I would receive instruction in meditation and various other breathing techniques to improve my fighting ability.
The day had come.
I tightened my grip over the gold coloured handle, "Ming Dynasty - I know this weapon!"
Well-oiled movements from my wrists started propelling the talon over my head; the hollow whistle it made caused a frown on Lin Ho's brow.
"The talon can speak, my boy," the old man had told me over a cup of rice soup and shredded ginger. I had no idea what he'd meant at the time; his eyes obscured by the fragrant steam hovering over the small table like a bad omen.
I knew now.
I step forward and lash out at my opponent's stomach.
In one liquid movement, the sneaky fox snaps his pink fan shut, leans to his left and taps the dragon's middle finger away without any effort at all. Only a nail of one of the crooked fingers rips through his pink silk.
He definitely knows what he's doing, for I am thrown off balance.
Lin Ho goes down on one knee down and uses the razor-sharp edge (attached to the open fan and acting as a kind of frame to keep the silk in tact) to strike at the back of my knees.
I dig in the end of my talon; get air-borne and recover perfectly by spinning over the arched back of Lin Ho. His fan only makes contact with the cool talon handle.
The sound of metal and metal, and the spark of its impact, send the crowd into frenzy.
I am perfectly poised; Golden Talon upright behind my back and over my head protecting me like a Naga. I am astounded at my own balancing skill; left foot perched on the straight knee of my right leg, toes just touching. My one arm is folded behind my back as if to say 'Come on Lin Ho, you coward! Is that all you've got?!'
Lin Ho gets up from his crouching position and starts his little prance again.
My muscles ache with anticipation as I take stance, more attacking than before, the talon now cool under my armpit.
-7-
In the furthest corner ahead of me, just to the right, a fight breaks out in the crowd. At first I only hear the angry shouts, but the instigators come into full view as soon as Lin Ho moves another (carefully executed) step.
"Fight!" commands the umpire, spraying the polished wooden floor of the dojo with his spittle.
I hear a strange sound, a furious whistle cutting through the edginess between my opponent and I. A sharp object is angling in at me - towards my neck. The middle finger of my Dragon Talon comes down instinctively fast, deflecting the poison dart that Lin Ho has so artfully sent my way.
What follows is a unified 'Ooooooh', and then a thud.
Sprawled between Lin Ho and I lies the man in black - the umpire - with a poison needle still quivering in his eye, his one fat cheek glued to the floor with his own saliva.
Lin Ho smiles, and so do I.
"No more rules!" he shouts in Mandarin and lifts his arms to the crowd.
There is a significant louder roar coming from the troubled corner just to left. He turns his back towards me and bows to his admirers.
"No more rules indeed, Lin Ho." I am not sure how I ended up there so quickly, but I am right behind him with the crooked finger of my Dragon Talon firmly hooked in his ear.
Silence.
"That is quite enough!" shouts the old man, hiccoughing between the 'e' of 'quite' and the 'e' of 'enough'.
"There shall be no cowardice during this...this...eve--"
Lin Ho strikes out at me, nicking me on the knee with a well executed, wristy move from behind his back. There is no pain, for the Bagua fan blade is too sharp, and that worries me. However, not before ripping Lin Ho's ear right off the side of his head.
He is completely off-balance, stumbling backwards and tilting his head in such a way as for everybody to see the gaping white of the flesh-hole in his head.
It feels like minutes before the blood starts flowing.
Both his and mine.
-8-
Finality dawns as our eyes meet; the moment of truth has arrived.
Rats scurry overhead on the heavy wooden beams, their shadows on the China red walls magnified by the thousands of holes in the rusted corrugated iron roof.
A dove coos.
From the corner of my eye I spot a concerned mother placing her hands over her son's face. He rips her hand away and steps on her toe, "I'm watching!"
A roar like rumbling thunder erupts as the crowd goes ballistic; money travels through hands faster than lightning and a cacophony of words rains down over Lin Ho and I.
Dark streams of blood run down the side of head, pumping out from underneath the dangling piece of skin flapping up and down with every gush. Lin Ho, who is still struggling with his balance, looks down in disgust at his stylish kung-fu outfit which is quickly being transformed into a soggy mess. He shakes his head; hair knotted with dark clots, and clicks his tongue.
A pain rips through my leg and in an instant I am forced to go down on one knee.
A smile greets me - a long smile that runs diagonally over the ligaments just under my knee cap where Lin Ho's Bagua had made contact.
For a moment the smile bears a brilliant white, only to be wiped away in a sea of red. I hear a grunt, my own, and desperately try to focus - the room is spinning, people are jumping up and down and shouting in distorted echoes.
My knuckles tighten around the grip of my Dragon talon - I manage to drag myself up with great effort, swaying from side to side as I hang onto my weapon with two unsteady arms, holding on.
Barely.
Irregular squeaky footsteps shouting "blood drenched kung-fu slippers" catch my attention. I lose my balance as I remove my hair from my eyes, and fortunately so. Another dart whizzes past my face, the quail feathers brushing my cold skin.
Lin Ho giggles.
I am half-standing, half-not-standing.
So there is but one thing I can do; alertly I listen to his uneasy approach.
The Dragon talon swallows and I take a single deep breath, fully aware that it would be the last one. The air is cool as it rushes through my nose and up, into my brain.
My weapon glows a brilliant gold sending a surge of energy through my body and into my head. As I let out the air slowly, warm now and burning like fire in my throat, the muscles in my good leg twitch. My injured knee is raised so slowly that I am not sure it's even moving.
The environment I find myself in is transformed into a furious red as the muscles in my jaws tighten. With both hands holding onto the middle finger of the Dragon's claw and propelled by my strong leg, my whole body is flung, almost horizontally, into the air. Lin Ho's sneering lips change into nervous desperation as my injured knee strikes just under the black hole in his head.
I lose my grip, and so the two of us are sent sliding over the only part of the floor that still looks shiny. There's a nauseating crash as Lin Ho's head makes contact with a bamboo table; I slam into the wall of the gambling den.
Everything goes black.
The smell of hospital food and a kind female voice wake me up.
"He's awake. How are you feeling? I am Nurse Tomoko, just relax. Everything is fine. You'll be fine."
Instinctively I reach for my head. 'Dear God, my neck!' I want to shout, but a dry swallow makes it impossible to speak. Bright red manicured nails clink on a glass of water that gets shoved in, under my chin.
Greedily I gulp it down.
"Who won?" is all I can manage as my bandaged knee comes into focus for a second, just before my eyes are forced shut by a splitting headache.
"Nobody," says a male voice, "but it was a hell of a game. You both got injured in the third set. That's why you are here."
"Are you the doctor?" I ask, aiming my question at Nurse Tomoko because the doctor was standing to the right of my pillow.
"Yes. You have damaged your knee rather badly. The quadriceps muscles and tendon have been damaged rather badly--" Judging by his voice I could tell that he was reading from a chart - "--The Patellar ligament has been severed. A clean cut - how you do that in badminton, I can't explain. I regret to inform you that you will ever walk normally again." With that he turned a round and strolled out of the room, and for the briefest of moments I thought I saw the neck of a small brown bottle sticking out of his white coat.
Nurse Tomoko neared my bed again; she bent over and whispered something in my ear, so close were her lips that I could feel the moisture of her red lips.
The End
