In Antoine de Saint-Exupery’s The Little Prince, the pilot narrates that at age 6, he abandoned his drawings after he realized that adults were unreceptive to them. Although our circumstances greatly differed, the pilot and I shared a common frustration in having to give up childhood dreams, and only later being led towards fulfillment by the hand of a small boy. Described as a children’s fable for adults, The Little Prince appealed to me through the parallelism that it drew to my personal experiences, as well as its reminiscence for childhood that spoke about the importance of love, innocence, and friendship.
In the following years of my sports life, badminton occupied very little space except for few brief periods of play using borrowed racquets (I was afraid I’d break them). There were other – in Saint-Exupery’s words – serious matters that needed attention. My father taught me the "Gentleman’s Game" of tennis, but my interest lay in volleyball. In my narrow-minded adult perspective, I considered badminton child’s play, very slow, too easy. Unchallenging. This was until my own little prince helped reveal a great secret to me. Actually, several great secrets.
My son was growing up and needed exercise to make him run and sweat. How about a game that would be easy to arrange in our yard, which required no special gear but house clothes and old sneakers? A game like badminton, perhaps. No need to buy expensive sets, as the cheaper steel racquets could surely stand some degree of abuse should be lose his temper and throw his racquet in rage. Of course, I would train and discipline him to keep tantrums out of the court. So, lacking a badminton net, we hooked up the old volleyball net across the lawn. Unwittingly, I had breathed new life into my badminton career.
At first, he was slow and awkward, fumbling with his racquet and missing easy shots. "I didn’t see that," he’d declare.
"Eyes on the Shuttle!"
Several times, his swing caught only air and he would complain, "I’m tired."
"But we just started!"
As he slipped, more grumbling: "My sandals don’t match!"
"No excuses!"
"Dad, it’s beginning to rain!"
"I said no excuses!"
I was hard on him. After he missed the shuttlecock and it would bounce on his head, I would tell him "hit it back with your racket, not with your head!" As the weeks passed, his play improved; his strokes became smooth and precise with his growing confidence. Soon his shots gained direction and speed. Once, I lunged to return an on-coming missile, but it zipped past me, brushing against my cheek. "Dad, hit it back with your racquet, not with your face!" the little rascal was teasing me; I stuck out my tongue at him.
It fast became a learning encounter for I grew to appreciate the shuttlecock’s deceptive uniqueness. When struck gently, it flew slowly; when hit hard with perfect timing, it could travel over 322 kilometers per hour, then after a short distance would quickly decelerate and drop to the court.
During a match, he sent the shuttle repeatedly beyond my reach. I stood still in realization – didn’t this happen when I was 8? But now, I wasn’t about to throw my racquet in anger, for I resolved to be faster, smarter, and stronger than him. After all, I was still the teacher and he my pupil.
He hit the shuttle hard, but I stuck to it like a leech and kept the rally going. I returned his every drive, then I recalled from tennis that many players encountered problems on their backhand side, their weak side. I sent the shuttlecock flying to his far left and he missed.
He listened as I explained the lesson. Once more, we exchanged shots. I returned the shuttlecock high, then he smashed it back. I passed him a low shot so he would not smash, he returned the shuttle to my backhand side and this time I missed. I was humbled, for it revealed my weakness, too, but I felt elated as a teacher, because he had absorbed my words like sponge thirsty for water.
With the passing months, our rackets succumbed to the demands of the game, as strings snapped and shafts bent or broke. Our lawn, which once displayed a thick green spread of grass, now bore bald patches trampled by non-matching sandals and old sneakers, a small price to pay for my son’s improving game.
For his eleventh birthday last August, I gave him a carbon graphite racquet worth ten times the ordinary steel racket we previously bought, but still reasonably priced for its durability, flexibility, and light weight. It was a far cry from the titanium or specially allow racquets that cost a fortune (some almost P6,000). But I reminded him that the game pivoted on the arm that wielded the racket, less on the racquet itself.
Just as Saint-Exupery’s Little Prince tamed the fox by "creating ties" that made them more special to each other, I tamed my little boy by becoming his teacher of the game and its techniques, sportsmanship and discipline. The time and effort I had invested in caring for him made him more special to me. In turn, he – as my pupil – taught me humility, patience, and a genuine passion for the sport, reminding me that while badminton is a contest to compete in, it is still a game for children’s enjoyment. Truly, what is essential cannot be seen by the eyes, but with the heart.
Soon my son will be able to beat me handily. I feel undaunted because everytime he wins, I share his victory.