When we were thirteen, I told Denny O’Malley the idea of badminton was to try and keep the birdie in the air for as long as possible. I didn’t know if these were the rules but I wanted them to be the rules. Denny said nothing and played by these rules all day long. We laughed and had a good time, kidding each other when the shuttlecock missed a racket and fell to the earth where it stayed until our laughter picked it up again. Because of my joy, I forgot I made up the rules.
The next day Denny returned with a different look on his face. He told me I was wrong and my rules were stupid. How could anybody win with such stupid rules?
This from a thirteen year old?
I was wrong. He looked it up. “It’s just like tennis. You score it pretty much the same way.”
I winced slightly looking at him, fearing, preparing for what might happen. “We had fun, didn’t we?”
“We’re going to have more fun today.”
I didn’t fear Denny would hit me or beat me. That was not Denny’s way. What I feared was another tearing away of the joy of childhood another day of boyish laughter never to be repeated or known again.
Not exactly true. That whole day we played by my stupid rules I waited for that crushing blow, the slap on the face of my mother shouting, “You did it again, didn’t you, you little bastard. You wet the bed and you said you wouldn’t. God damn what’s wrong with you, boy? I’m going to put a clothes pin on that thing of yours and you won’t pee in the bed again!” from the porch as I played with my friends and followed by the laughter which bit deeper than any shark’s teeth, which punched harder than any fist could.
I knew Denny would go look up the rules. He was having too much fun not to.
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