1.65 Meters - Chapter 2: Primary School — Can You Even Reach the Net?

Chapter 2: Primary School — Can You Even Reach the Net?

In fourth grade, I signed up for the city's junior badminton championship.

When PE teacher Old Zhou saw the registration form, he looked at me and asked,

“Are you sure?”

I said I was sure.

“Do you know how high a badminton net is?”

“One meter fifty-five.”

Old Zhou lowered his head and looked at me.

My height of 1.65 meters came later.

Back then, I wasn't even 1.50 meters tall.

Old Zhou was silent for two seconds, then signed the registration form.

On the day of the competition, I walked into the stadium and looked around.

Eight players.

I was half a head shorter than the shortest one.

Standing among them, I looked like I had wandered into the wrong movie set.

One of the taller players looked down at me, turned to the person beside him, and said something.

The two of them laughed.

I didn't hear what he said.

But I understood what he meant.

The draw came out.

I had a bye in the first round.

While I was sitting at the side of the court waiting, a parent beside me pointed at me and said to her child,

“See that?”

“If you don't practice properly, you'll end up like that little shorty.”

“You won't even be able to draw a proper opponent.”

Her child glanced at me and nodded.

I said nothing.

I took my racket out of my bag and started wrapping the grip.

The grip tape was old.

I removed it and wrapped it again, layer by layer, very slowly.

Halfway through, Old Zhou came over and crouched beside me.

“Nervous?”

“Not nervous.”

“You're playing that kid from the sports school in the first round, right?”

“You know he's been training for three years.”

“How long have you been training?”

“One year.”

Old Zhou sighed.

“Can you even reach the net?”

I looked up at him.

“Whether I can reach it or not, we'll know after I play.”

Old Zhou stared at me for three seconds.

Then he smiled, patted me on the shoulder, and walked away.

My first opponent was from the sports school.

He was more than a full head taller than me.

During warm-up, he smashed several shots.

Each one made a loud thump.

Everyone in the stadium looked over.

Every time he smashed one, his coach shouted from the side,

“Good!”

He smashed ten in total.

I counted them.

Seven landed on or near the lines.

Two went out.

One hit the net.

He served.

I returned.

As soon as the shuttle crossed the net, he stepped forward, preparing to smash.

I flicked my wrist.

The shuttle skimmed over the net and dropped near his forehand.

He had stepped forward too aggressively.

He couldn't stop himself in time and could only watch the shuttle fall.

He froze.

His coach shouted from the sidelines,

“Don't rush! Stay steady!”

On the second point, he served a high clear.

I took one step backward.

Jumped.

And smashed.

The shuttle slammed onto the edge of his backhand side.

He didn't move.

His coach stopped shouting.

First game.

21–9.

I won.

In the second game, he changed his tactics.

He began playing four-corner shots, trying to use his stamina and height advantage to wear me down.

I was shorter, so I had to cover more ground.

But whenever he sent the shuttle to the backcourt, I returned it to the front.

Whenever he dropped one near the net, I pushed it to the back.

His footsteps grew heavier.

His breathing became rougher.

At 15–15, he bent over, bracing his hands against his knees.

Sweat dripped onto the floor.

I gave him no chance to catch his breath.

Six consecutive points.

21–15.

I won.

When the match ended, he sat on the floor, his racket lying beside him, staring blankly at me.

I walked over and reached out my hand to pull him up.

He didn't take it.

He got up by himself.

As he walked back toward the sidelines, the parent who had pointed at me earlier was staring at me.

Her mouth was hanging open.

She couldn't close it for a long time.

Her child tugged on her sleeve.

“Mom, that little shorty won.”

She couldn't say a word.

My opponent in the final was last year's champion.

He was a head and a half taller than me.

His style was aggressive.

He loved smashing.

In the first game, I was completely suppressed.

His smashes were too powerful.

I mishandled several of them.

9–21.

I lost.

During the break between games, Old Zhou crouched in front of me and wiped the sweat from my face with a towel.

“He's much stronger than you.”

“You can't beat him by going head-to-head.”

“You need to make him run.”

In the second game, I stopped trying to return his powerful smashes directly.

When he smashed, I blocked it softly toward the net.

When he came forward, I pushed the shuttle to the backcourt.

Back and forth.

Left and right.

He kept running.

He was tall, which meant his center of gravity was higher and he was slower to change direction.

I made him run all over the court.

The more he ran, the more rushed he became.

The more rushed he became, the more mistakes he made.

21–17.

I took the second game.

In the third game, his stamina collapsed.

Every time I won a point, he bent over again.

At 11–5, his coach called a timeout.

He sat on the sidelines with a towel covering his face.

His shoulders shook slightly.

His coach said something to him.

I couldn't hear it.

After the timeout, he barely held on until 13 points.

On the final rally, I served a short one.

He stepped forward and lifted it.

The shuttle didn't go high enough.

I jumped.

One smash.

Game over.

21–13.

I won.

The entire stadium was silent for two seconds.

Then Old Zhou was the first to applaud.

His applause was loud enough for the entire stadium to hear.

I walked to the net and reached out to shake his hand.

He shook it firmly.

With his head lowered, he said,

“You played really well.”

I said,

“You're stronger than me.”

He looked up at me.

His eyes were red.

“But badminton isn't about who has the most strength,” I said.

During the awards ceremony, I stood on the highest podium.

I was still shorter than the other two players beside me.

Someone in the crowd suddenly shouted,

“Did he report a younger age?”

“How can someone that short possibly win?”

Old Zhou looked back at the person from below the podium and glared.

“You want to go up there and try?”

The person shut up.

I held up the trophy, with my racket tucked under my arm.

The trophy was heavier than I expected.

But it wasn't heavier than the arms that swung my racket a thousand times every day.

Later, people asked me how I won that match.

I told them,

“I ran an extra thousand meters.”

“I swung my racket an extra thousand times.”

“I rewrapped my grip an extra hundred times.”

They didn't believe me.

They only believed one thing—

That I was shorter than them.

When I went home that day, my mother had prepared a whole table full of dishes.

My father didn't say anything.

But he wiped the trophy again and again and placed it right in the center beside the television.

I sat on the sofa and looked at that trophy.

Then I thought of something.

They said I couldn't do it.

I won.

Next time, they would still say I couldn't do it.

But it didn't matter.

I would just do what I needed to do.

(End of Chapter 2)88Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡU7TngftKvb

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