Played badminton for the first time in, uh, ever last weekend while I was in Germany.  My friend Christian talks about the game like it’s the end-all, beat-all sport of the century.  He got me so fired up about playing that I demanded we put a match on the itinerary.

Badminton is a game that requires skill, dexterity, flexibility and coordination.  I don’t have any of those, nor do I enjoy them in unison.  Christian, meanwhile, is lithe and nimble, so to throw him off I started talking smack earlier in the day.

“Bitch, I used to play badminton in college,” I taunted while eating an entire bag of Gummibears.  “You are going down.  You are going down-TOWN.  It is ON.  Bring it.  It’s ON like Donkey Kong!”

Christian, being wholeheartedly German, just looked at me blankly.  I forget he doesn’t understand my stupid American lingo.  Or maybe he just doesn’t tolerate it.  I think he knew I was bluffing.  It didn’t help that I had a nervous laugh and facial tick leading up to the big game.

In Germany, people take badminton deadly serious.  I watched a few games before we stepped on to the court and players were out for blood.  Christian reserved our court for 9pm.  (Yes, you have to reserve courts.  And, yes, we played at 9pm.  Lord.)

I figured it was a lot like tennis, where you hit the ball as hard as you can directly at your opponent.  I’ve won many a match by putting out my opponent’s retina.   In badminton, if you hit the birdie especially hard it sails out of the court and into the sauna in the next building.

“You might want to try ‘flicking’ your hand a little more,” Christian suggested.  “Youmaywannaflickyourhannnnddalilmore,” I mocked under my breath.   “What did you say?” Christian asked.  “I said, ‘Good idea, sport-o!'”

The first match was a complete blowout.  Final score was 21-2.  I was incensed that Christian had the audacity to hit the birdie to the absolute furthest point away from me on the court.  That meant I actually had to walk over to pick it up after it landed.  The second match went a little better because I managed to hit the shuttlecock a couple times, which made me squeal with glee.  The mean-looking girls in the other court stopped to watch my antics and point.  Then they proceeded to beat the weakest player in the group to death with their bare hands.

By the third match, I had mastered the fine art of the “flick”.  My limp-wristed technique that had failed me so often in life finally came in handy.  Sure, Christian still won most of the points, but at least I made him work for it.  He patted me on the butt at the end of the game and said, “The game went a lot better once you actually started moving around the court, dontcha’ think?”

I would have decked him with the racquet, but I knew it wouldn’t be as fulfilling as the birdie that landed in the sauna.