1.65 Meters - Chapter 3: Middle School — “How Could Someone That Short Possibly Win?”

Chapter 3: Middle School — “How Could Someone That Short Possibly Win?”

On the first day of middle school, my deskmate, Chen Hao, asked me,

“What sport did you play in primary school?”

“Badminton.”

He smiled.

I knew that smile too well.

The corners of his mouth moved first, then his eyes narrowed, as if he'd just heard a joke.

After laughing, he said,

“No way. You're so short. How could you possibly beat anyone? I could beat you too.”

He was half a head taller than me, with arms a full circle thicker than mine.

As he spoke, he even patted his own chest.

I said nothing.

He continued,

“Seriously. I played badminton in primary school too. I was on the school team and finished in the top three in the district.”

“What have you won?”

“City championship.”

He froze for a moment.

Then he laughed even harder.

“City championship?”

“You?”

“Who are you kidding?”

The bell rang for the end of class.

I stood up and pulled my racket from the side pocket of my schoolbag.

It was old.

The grip had been wrapped several times.

There was a scratch on the frame from the primary school final, when I'd crashed into the court surface while trying to save a shot.

“Come,” I said.

“Where?”

“The court.”

He froze for two seconds.

Then he stood up, smiling confidently.

“Sure. I'll show you what real badminton looks like.”

There were two outdoor badminton courts beside the school field.

They had concrete floors.

The nets were made of metal.

The middle of each net had already sagged a little.

Whenever the wind blew, the shuttlecock drifted.

Chen Hao stood across from me.

He took off his school uniform jacket and tossed it onto the ground.

Then he loosened his wrists and ankles, looking quite confident.

He served.

I returned.

On the first rally, he served a high clear.

I stepped backward.

Jumped.

And smashed.

The shuttle hit the ground beside his feet.

He didn't even have time to raise his racket.

He froze.

“The wind is strong.”

“Doesn't count.”

Second rally.

He served short.

I moved forward to the net.

With a flick of my wrist, I sent the shuttle skimming over the net and dropping near his forehand.

He stepped forward to save it.

His racket reached the shuttle.

But it had already hit the ground.

He looked at the shuttle on the ground.

Then he looked at me.

Third rally.

He served and tried to sneak the shuttle into the backcourt.

I moved into position.

He waited for my return and smashed hard.

I blocked it diagonally toward the net.

His entire body rushed to the left.

The shuttle landed on the right.

He stood there without moving.

“Again.”

Fourth.

Fifth.

Sixth.

The shuttle never stayed on his side for more than two shots.

His expression changed from confidence to confusion.

From confusion to anxiety.

From anxiety to silence.

11–0.

When I put my racket away, he was bent over with his hands on his knees.

Sweat dripped from his chin.

The concrete was too hard, and his sneakers squeaked against the ground with every movement.

“You…”

He was breathing heavily.

“You really won the city championship in primary school?”

“Mm.”

“How did you play like that?”

“I practiced two hours every day after school.”

“Four hours on weekends.”

“I wrapped grip tape until my fingers grew calluses.”

“I swung my racket until I couldn't lift my arm.”

He straightened up and looked at me.

His expression had changed.

That smile was completely gone.

“Then why didn't you go to a sports school?”

“I did.”

“They thought I was too short.”

He fell silent.

I put the racket back into my bag and pulled the zipper shut.

He stood there holding his racket.

The net swayed back and forth in the wind.

“Badminton doesn't count,” he suddenly said.

I turned to look at him.

“Badminton depends on technique.”

“If you're short, you can make up for it with movement.”

He threw his racket onto the ground.

“But soccer is different.”

“Soccer has physical contact.”

“Short is short.”

“No matter how fast you run, it won't help.”

I said nothing.

“Our primary school soccer team made the district final and finished second.”

His tone hardened again.

“Have you ever played soccer?”

“Yeah.”

“Striker?”

“Mm.”

He laughed again.

This time it wasn't as arrogant, but the corner of his mouth still curled upward.

“Striker?”

“You were only in the 1.5-meter range and you played striker?”

“Can you win headers?”

“Can you take a defender's shoulder?”

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

“Fine.”

He picked up his racket.

“There's a class league next week.”

“Come.”

“I'll see how you play striker.”

I looked at him.

I remembered the tall opponent I'd beaten to tears in the primary school final.

I remembered his coach shouting,

“Don't rush. Stay steady!”

I remembered someone in the crowd saying,

“Did he report a younger age?”

I said,

“Okay.”

He froze for a moment.

Maybe he hadn't expected me to agree so readily.

He opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something.

In the end, he only said,

“Don't cry when the time comes.”

I turned and walked toward the classroom.

He shouted from behind me,

“Are you not taking your racket?”

I lowered my head and looked at my hand.

At some point, the racket had somehow ended up back in my grip.

I put it into the side pocket of my schoolbag and pulled the zipper shut.

“I'm taking it.”

Later, in that class league match, I scored four goals.

Chen Hao was our goalkeeper.

I scored all four against him.

When the final whistle blew, he sat inside the goal.

He took off one of his gloves and threw it aside.

Then he lowered his head and said nothing.

I walked over and reached out my hand.

He didn't take it.

But I didn't leave.

I crouched down and looked him in the eye.

“Badminton doesn't count,” I said.

“Does soccer count?”

He raised his head.

His eyes were slightly red.

His lips moved.

After a long struggle, he finally forced out one sentence:

“How the hell do you do it?”

“Run with sandbags every day.”

“What?”

“Two-kilogram sandbags.”

“I tie them around my ankles.”

“I've been running with them for a year.”

He lowered his head and glanced at my feet.

My school uniform pants covered my ankles, so he couldn't see the sandbags.

But he saw the hole worn into the side of my soccer shoes.

And through that hole, he could see my blackened foot.

“You're crazy,” he said.

“Maybe.”

I stood up and held out my hand.

This time, he took it.

I pulled him up from the ground.

He was heavier than me, so it took quite a bit of effort.

But I pulled him up.

He brushed the grass off his pants.

After staying silent for a while, he asked,

“You coming to training next week?”

“Yeah.”

“I've switched to defender.”

He said, “Goalkeeper isn't for me.”

“Okay.”

“From now on, whenever you score, I'll be the one passing you the ball.”

I looked at him.

He wasn't smiling.

His face was completely serious.

That Chen Hao who had laughed on the first day of school and said, “How could someone that short possibly win?”

Seemed to have disappeared with those four goals.

And after that, he really did pass me a lot of balls.

Throughout our three years of middle school, he became my best passer.

After every training session, the two of us would sit beside the field drinking water.

He would always say,

“You know those sandbags you use?”

“Get me a pair too.”

“You don't need them.”

“Why?”

“You're not short.”

“Neither are you,” he would say.

“You just run faster than everyone else.”

“Jump higher than everyone else.”

“And you score more fucking goals than anyone else.”

I said nothing.

The setting sun dyed the running track red.

He tapped his water bottle against mine.

“Next match is against Class Three.”

“Give me a few more passes.”

“Okay.”

(End of Chapter 3)

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