Bad Minton

This post is contributed by Barnaby Porter from his archives. Read the previous post here.
We’ve been having a little trouble out on the badminton court lately; the games have been getting a bit rowdy, and today’s equipment just doesn’t seem to stand up to our brand of badminton. The rackets are bending, the strings are snapping, and the shuttlecocks, or birdies, are either getting stuck in the racket strings or their little red rubber tips are falling off and getting walloped into the woods. It kind of breaks up the pace of the game when you have to keep stopping to fix stuff, and that’s no good when we have a ripsnorter going after supper on a mosquitoey evening.
I tried to buy a proper badminton set in town. The one I got looked great; it was very colorful, the net looked beautiful, but everything else came apart in the first few minutes of play. I had to take it back to the store and explain that what I was looking for was some serious equipment, the kind that would hold up under the sort of athletic contests we were accustomed to putting on in the long, long days of summer.
These games we play are really rather extraordinary. There are no boundary lines, no rules, no limit regarding the number of players, and, when you get right down to it, what we play is pretty bad minton – violent, frenzied and a hell of a lot of fun – my kind of game.
Actually, our version resembles volleyball more than the prissy game of badminton. I like to serve overhand by tossing the birdie about 6 feet in the air and spiking it. This usually elicits screams of “No fair!” …until my son, Lije, responds in kind from the front ranks of the other side, driving that poor feathered thing about two inches into the mossy turf at my feet. That does it. I don’t much like getting aced.
From there on, the game gets more and more frantic, almost meeting the definition of “out of control.” We’re running and leaping like a bunch of gazelles on mushrooms, whaling that birdie into the trees, falling all over each other to make desperate saves and just doing whatever it takes to keep that thing up in the air and the play alive. The other night, my nephew, Beecher, had to resort to twirling around on his back like a break-dancer, whacking away repeatedly at the birdie until one of his whirling and flailing teammates managed to rescue him from his plight by popping the object of all our attention over the net. With no rules and no limit to such things as how many times a guy can hit the birdie, we get in some pretty long-winded games.
Still, though, we’ve got this problem of inadequate equipment. It could be we’re just too rough, but I don’t think so. I finally broke down and called a mail-order company to see if I could find a decent badminton set. The lady on the other end didn’t know what I was talking about – never heard of badminton, couldn’t even spell it. But I persevered. I finally convinced her there was such a game, and when at last it came up on her computer screen, she went, “Aha! Wilson… Spaulding… they both have them. Spaulding has bronze, silver and gold editions, tailored to your level of play. Which do you want?”
She read their descriptions to me. The Gold Edition definitely sounded the best. I figured it ought to be the ruggedest anyhow. And, despite our inattention to rules, this throng of teenagers I’ve been training certainly should qualify for some kind of Olympic rating by the time summer’s over with. So, I ordered it. Then I found myself poking around for some lime to line out a proper badminton court, 20 by 44 feet. It seems awfully small for the sort of game we play, but maybe all that is destined to change anyway.
Since we’re going for the Gold now, it would seem we might have to start playing regulation badminton. I plan to give it a whirl: the soft, underhand and underwhelming serves, one hit per player to get it over the net, two for a doubles team, the whole bit. I guess we’ll have to put a bench on the sidelines for the extra players. It doesn’t sound like anywhere near as much fun, but, hey, there’s nothing that says we absolutely have to stick to the rules. We’re just out for a good game of bad minton.
Artist and author Barnaby Porter has had a varied career in marine research, aquaculture, and woodworking, among others. Most recently he partnered with his wife Susan as co-owners of the Maine Coast Book Shop & Cafe in downtown Damariscotta. In October 2021, Barnaby completed his tenure on Coastal Rivers’ Board of Trustees after six years of service.
Image: Alfred Mainzer cats: Badminton Shuttle. Eugen Hartung, artist