My Dad was always a sports nut. I always knew it would have thrilled him if I could throw a ball well or kick a soccer ball well, if I could do anything sporty well. I think I was good in badminton, least wise I fancied I had a pretty wicked back hand. Practising with a lefty will give you a good backhand and my practise partner, Gene was a lefty.
My Dad taught badminton in the gym at William Beagle Junior High for the badminton club I think it was. Gene and I were the only kids, so he set us to practising with each other. Gene was a nice enough kid, with dark wavy chin length hair.
I was tall for my age and had the same muscular physique my Mom did, but I was shy, awkward and though I hid it well, I think, had terrible performance anxiety. I wanted more than anything for my parents to think I was good at something. I could sketch, cartoon, write (I just wasn't a very good editor).
Every Spring I would coax my Dad out to play catch with me, determined to impress him. It always hurt really bad, Dad said I was just breaking in my arm and that it would go away after a while. It didn't, I kept waiting for it to go away. The reason it didn't was I had tears in my shoulder and calcium deposits from the repeat injuries.
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