It’s all about London 2012! The Olympics! Woohhoo! Ok, I am yet to watch a single competition, match, game, meet, etc. but there’s something special about the good ol’ Games. There’s something about the world coming together this way, and not necessarily to war against some region within it. This morning I was listening to the BBC’s reporting on the Olympics and they shared a piece on the first scandal of the Olympics: ‘the Badminton scandal’. Apparently, players from China, Singapore and South Korea were, “not giving their all,” in order to advance to the next round or something like that.

Now, I ask: how is it that badminton is an Olympic sport and baseball isn’t? There is a conspiracy against the DR in all this, I can sense it. ; ) The BBC badminton scandal coverage induced a Marcel Proust sorta moment—minus the cookies—when a story from my earlier days came to mind. I could have been the one Olympic badminton player from the Dominican Republic. Seriously. How, you ask? Well, well, well…

I was about 13-14 years old when my friend Ado’s friend, I think her name was Orquidea, an older teen who was a really good tennis player came into my radar. She was older, cooler and apparently played tennis really well. My family had just gotten a membership at the country club near our house and they had tennis court. In fact, the social club was named Olimpia, how appropriate for my story.

Anyway, I had become a bit obsessed about playing tennis and in my perfectionist nature I wanted my own racket. My parents were not buying it—literally and figuratively. So, I ask my grandmother who loves me dearly to send me one from the States. I don’t think my grandma had ever touched a tennis racket before but, heck, that was my seemingly only chance. I waited for her next trip to the island, and really, really hoped that she would bring me this racket I longed for. The day came. She had her big maletas and there was mention of rackets, not a racket, but rackets! I was beyond disbelief. Not one but plural (!) rackets.

The moment where my long awaited, and now more-than-one, rackets came to my possession appeared. She had a huge smile on her face and I was loving it. The room and clothes from the maletas had that distinctive “Nueva Yor” smell. I don’t know what it is but something happens from the time I pack my suitcase here to my arrival in DR but they acquire this scent that’s different from maletas over there. It’s like fresh linen imitation scent or something similar. But I digress. My grandmother hands the box. The box, you ask? Yes, a box. A rectangular, tall box with the image of the cutest neon pink rackets you could ever imagine. They were bright pink, slender and with a very long neck. Immediately, I noticed that these were not the rackets I had in mind. They were not tennis rackets, they were badminton rackets. The box had cute blonde teens and other adults playing with this little “birdie” thingy over a tall net. I was puzzled. However, my disappointment was relatively short-lived since now I had the assignment of finding out what this was. Apparently, my dear grandmother solicited the help of other relatives to buy me “rackets” and they all thought I’d like pink. Alas, the determining factor for my prospective badminton career had been determined by a supposed affinity of mine to the color pink—bright, blinding pink. Nothing could have been farther from the truth. My favorite color throughout adolescence was, get this, black. I took the rackets, birdie and net out, trying to make sense of how to put it together. Finally, in our yard the wobbly net stood. With a friend, I ventured into the world of rule-less, clue-less badminton. It was fun. Then we decided to take it to the parking lot in front of the house—my parents had a business with a parking lot in front. Needless to say, everyone that passed by wondered what the heck we were playing; what in la Virgen’s name we were hitting—it was not a ball so what the heck? We played, and played. The birdie sometimes went to the neighbor’s roof when someone hit it a bit too hard. The net was retired, and the operation was now of a more free-spirited, high-flying nature. Those were the days. As I listened to the BBC and the badminton scandal I could not help it but to smile and remember my badminton “experience”.

So maybe I was not Olympic badminton material, per se… but I had a heck of a time with it. However, I always wanted that tennis racket. If only my grandma had known that I did not like neon pink.