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Badminton. The Game for Lovers.

July 8, 2011
badminton undies

Badminton undies. Apparently the exist.

I finally, FINALLY talk my boyfriend into playing badminton with me.  So we walk to the park, just outside our marina, and start playing. I pick a shady spot to tie the dog and put my premixed, extra spicy, Clamato Caesar while the BF gets out the rackets, the tangled net, then yells (at the top of his lungs) “Net, we don’t need no stinkin’ net!” He hands me a racket and we proceed to play, sans net.

Of course my BF refuses to put down his Heineken, which puts him at a distinct disadvantage. As the birdie goes wild, I quickly learn that this is actually my disadvantage. I am running, panting and sweating all over the park, while he just stands in one spot, racket in hand, distractedly swiping the birdie every once in a while. Finally, I feel the need to gently and lovingly nudge him to be a more involved opponent. “Finish your fucking beer and play, you…you…shuttleCOCK!”

The BF swallows the last of his beer and starts to play for realsies this time. He hits the birdie, dramatically grunting as if he were playing professional tennis. I hit the birdie back. It peacefully sails straight towards him yet he runs in circles yelling “Mine! Mine! I got it!” until the birdie makes contact with his racket. He grunts, “UNGH”, and I am running half way across the park. I manage to hit the birdie but I am off my mark. It shoots up in the air and lands about three feet away from me. I angrily glare at my BF. “Yours,” he says.

He gets more into the game. My BF is a whirlwind of long legs and swinging arms as he runs to and fro. We get a rhythm going and the birdie is now sailing back and forth. The only noises to be heard are the consistent “thwack” of the racket making  contact with the birdie and the obnoxiously loud grunts, groans and shouts of my boyfriend. I am acutely aware that everyone in the park now thinks they know what my BF sounds like in bed. Wait. Why doesn’t he sound like that in bed? Distracted with my thoughts, the birdie sails over my head to land in the grass behind me.

“Game, match, point,” hollers the BF, unhooking the dog’s leash. The dog immediately runs to the birdie, ripping it to a million pieces.

“We weren’t keeping score, you jerk.” I mumble, putting the rackets away.

As we make our way back to our boat, we bump into friends who dock at the same marina.

“We saw you playing badminton,” says male friend.

“We heard you playing, too,” says his girlfriend, winking knowingly at me. Now it is my turn to groan. Girlfriend then turns to her boyfriend and says, “Why won’t you ever play badminton with me? They looked like such a happy couple out there! That could be us.”

“You can borrow our rackets,” I say. “But you will need to find a birdie.”

“That was so much fun,” says the BF, draping an arm around me as we leave our friends in the park. “Want to do it again tomorrow?”

“Sure,” I respond. “I’ll pick up some birdies.”

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