My chest heaves, and with each breath I take, my body trembles slightly. I force myself not to breathe quickly. My lungs burn as I force in slow, controlled breaths. Control is what I need. I fight the desire to give up my control and allow just a few quick breaths but I can’t risk it.
My muscles shake, each one begging for a rest. My knee hurts the worst, swollen and burned from the times I slid on the court. I want to stop moving and pause, but that’s a gamble. If I do, my muscles will relax and stiffen. I learned not to relax in the middle of a game. That will only make me slower. Resting them won’t help. It will only make it worse. It will make me lose control.
The crowd behind me is quiet, drowned out by my loud heartbeat that rings in my ears. I can hear my breathing being controlled. I can hear my creaking knee and wrist. I’m not allowing my body to relax. Not until I collapse on the ground. My teammates think I’m crazy for that. Coach said I was crazy too. Maybe I am, but I need control. I’d do everything I can to hold that control. I crave it more than the way my body craves rest.
I brace myself, one foot planted slightly behind the other. My back foot is balanced on the toe, ready to propel me forward. I need to be fast if I want to get the last point of the match. I ignore my pulsing knee and the sweat slowly crawling down my back. A teammate in the crowd cheers my name.
I don’t have the time to shout back. I need to focus. I rap my racket three times against my ankle to acknowledge her cheer. I need to focus and I have to keep control. I shift my attention away from myself and to the girl standing on the other side of the net. Her uniform is black and yellow, making it easy to see her against the white wall several feet behind her. I need to focus on her for the next few seconds.
She steps forward, one foot on the toes and the other planted firmly against the ground. She’s going to serve. I pause, my body fighting my order to stay. Everyone moves too soon when they play. I wait, watching as she extends her arm, holding out a small, white feathered birdie.
Win. is my only thought.
She plants her racket behind it, wiggling it in the air as a taunt. She wants me to move. My muscles tighten, waiting for her to hit it. I will move once she hits the birdie. I start looking above the net, she stands taller on her toes in challenge. Will I hit her serve? I look at where her dark eyes flick to. I know where to go before she even sends the birdie to my side.
I step back and smile. I stand still. She sees my smile as she hits it, a soft thwick! echoes in the white-wall gym. I take one last step back and then rush forward, dropping my right arm with my racket and throwing myself forward. I softly tap the birdie as it falls onto the center of my racket. It lifts into the air, hovering in place for a small moment before falling over the net. I throw my leg out in front of me, catching myself before I collide with the court. I need to stay on my feet. The girl in black and yellow races forward.
She told me her name before we played. I don’t remember what it is. Maybe I should. She grunts as she lunges. I step back again, keeping my broad smile on my face. My opponent throws her arm up, forcing the racket to connect with the birdie. It flies back up into the air. It’s too high for her liking, but she can only touch it once. It’s my turn. I wind my arm back and I raise my racket, ready to hit. The girl in black and yellow starts moving back. She’s anticipating my move.
I let a laugh escape me, knowing that she just made a mistake. Coach told me earlier that she would anticipate my moves. It was my turn to hit the birdie. She’s focused on the left side, the side opposite from me. The easiest place for me to hit the birdie. It was a logical choice. I should hit it where she was moving to. She knew what I wanted to do.
My arm is flying forward, already swinging to smash the small birdie far back. She smirks. She assumes she has the point. She thinks she has control. Another mistake. I slow my arm before I hit the feathered shuttle and shift my aim, throwing it down softly towards the right. She isn’t fast enough.
She lunges, the smirk long gone. She doesn’t have control.
I race back, setting myself up in the middle of the court. I watch, ready in case she can save it in time. I take a step forward, waiting to see if she can hit the birdie again. I want her to hit it again so that I can keep playing. It all depends on my opponent. For now, the game is out of my control.
My toe taps the bottom and top of my shoe anxiously. I watch her slow her run, heavy, uncontrolled breaths take over her body. She gave up. I know I’ve won, but I refuse to lose control over my body. I hold it, my muscles begging me for a break, my heart pounding louder than before, my breathing holding the same forced rhythm, and my eyes stuck on the girl in black and yellow.
She stops, glares at me, then slouches over, her hands on her knees, her chest heaving quickly, and her head drops. The birdie touches the ground. Girls in purple uniforms cheer my name and the talking crowd roars to life. My heartbeat is just a dull thud now and controlling my breathing doesn’t matter. I won. I got the final point. I laugh to myself and turn, looking over my shoulder to where one girl in purple shouts my name. I throw my hands up in victory with a smile that has never left my face. I was in control.