The UNIversity Champion
A humor story by Gasper Crasto...26.10.2025
My wife, Esparansa, has always claimed—with the confidence of a Bollywood star promoting her own film—that she was once a University Champion in Badminton.
I knew she was a State Ranker in BA, and that achievement has at least 100 newspaper cuttings, even some ‘fossiled’ garlands, and relatives who won’t stop reminding us.
But about this badminton business? I never found a single photo, medal, not one dusty certificate, or even a rusted old shuttlecock to prove it.
But like every husband who values peace at home, I believed her. After all, marriage runs on two things: trust and selective hearing.
But deep inside, my sporting ego itched. I had myself won a few badminton tournaments in my youth (village-level, mind you—when men wore shorts so tiny and tight they looked borrowed from LKG class).
I’d decided, one day, I’ll test this so-called champion.
That ‘one day’ came on our vacation in Goa.
Kids in our neighborhood had set up a badminton net right across the road—between the compound walls of our house and the neighbor’s— like a roadside version of IPL franchise.
The court was marked systematically with white paint on the tar road; the spectators were ready (basically all the aunties peeping from their verandahs).
The stage was perfect.
“This is it!” I told myself. “The day of truth has come. Now or never.”
Next morning, like a man on a mission, I went to the sports shop, bought two brand-new, shiny rackets and a shuttlecock that still smelled of Chinese factory plastic.
DOUBLE FAULT DAY
That evening, as the kids were setting up their net, we were sipping tea on our verandah—me, Esparansa, my AI (Artificially Intelligent) sister-in-law, my overly-curious daughter, and my ‘put-the-fan-off’ mother.
I stood up, chest out, like a WWF wrestler about to challenge The Undertaker.
“Hello,” I said to Esparansa, dramatically, “get into your tracksuit. It’s time to show the world the champion you are.”
She gave me one long look; the kind wives usually reserve for husbands who’ve said something stupid at parties. But she went inside anyway.
I laced up my tennis shoes, went outside, and started warming up with the kids—smashes, flicks, drop shots, backhands—you name it, I displayed them all.
My daughter clapped like she was watching Rafael Nadal.
My sister-in-law whispered to my mother, “He’s behaving like India’s Sindhu.”
“Siddhu Sardarji, he is cricket nhu gho?” my mother quizzed.
“Mai, P.V. Sindhu – Badminton champion.”
“Is he good?”
“Ai Saiba.. ..she’s a girl, never mind..”
As I warmed up, one eye was secretly glued to the door, waiting for the ‘champion’ to arrive in slow-mo glory, hair-blowing-in-the-wind entrance—and smash the shuttlecock… or accidentally hit the neighbor’s cat.
Five minutes passed. No Esparansa.
Ten minutes. Still no sign.
Half an hour.
WAITING GAME
By now, the neighbors were glued to their balconies like they’d bought tickets for Wimbledon, some had started distributing popcorn, and ‘chonnem-biknam.’
A bhel-puri ‘gaddo’ appeared from nowhere and parked itself proudly on the side of the court drawing more spectators than a local Carnival ‘khell-tiatr’.
Excitement all around—a University Champion was about to bless our humble street court with her grand appearance.
But where was Esparansa?
I stormed back inside the house, racket in hand.
“Where is the champion?” I demanded.
From the bedroom came a royal voice: “Coming… coming……”
Finally, she emerged—still not dressed for the match. Not even close. She looked like she was going shopping in Margao market, not playing badminton finals.
“What is this?” I asked, checking the setting sun. “It’ll be dark soon. The streetlights here are dimmer than the moon. Hurry up!”
Then came her legendary excuse. She folded her arms with the authority of a Parish Priest and declared:
“I must warn you… see the conditions outside.”
“What conditions?” I asked, confused.
“I cannot play…”
“Why !!!”
“The wind is not in my favor.”
The entire verandah went silent. Even the dogs on the street stopped barking.
THE CHAMP’S REASON
“The wind?” I repeated, blinking.
“Yes,” she said firmly. “Badminton is an indoor game.”
“So…”
“Champions don’t play in the open street. The shuttle will fly away like a plastic bag in a cyclone. It will ruin my wrist technique.”
Before I could argue, my mother, sipping her tea calmly, nodded like the Chief Guest at a college function and delivered another blow:
“She’s right. You can’t expect a University Champion to play on the road. A champion is a champion. Respect the level.”
My sister-in-law, usually the one to stay quiet, added her own two paise, “Correct! Indoor champions must be protected, what if a bike comes and hit her!”
My daughter leaned in and whispered—loud enough for the entire audience and the passing evening ‘poder’ (breadman) to hear:
“Mama, if you are a champion… shouldn’t you be able to beat even the wind?”
The street froze for two seconds—like someone had hit the pause button on life—then exploded like a Diwali firecracker factory.
Even the stray dogs joined in, howling as if they’d finally understood the family drama.
‘DEFENDING’ CHAMPION
My mother, red-faced but undefeated, grabbed my daughter and whispered, “Agho, you stand here quietly, or mama will beat the wind out of you!”
By then it was too late—the laughter had gone viral, echoing down the street like someone had pressed the ‘giggle’ button on the entire neighborhood.
The verdict was unanimous. The University Champion was declared winner by ‘technical knockout of the wind.’
I stood there holding two new rackets, a shuttlecock, and a heart full of unfulfilled smashes, while Esparansa walked back inside like a queen who had defended her title without hitting a single shot.
No scorecard, no winner’s trophy, just a wife who proved her point in the most ridiculous way.
The kids across the road yelled, “Uncle, want to play with us instead?”
And I did. Because, apparently, the only champion in our family was Esparansa’s imagination.
That night, as I sat sulking after the Rosary prayer, my mother patted my shoulder and said, “Arreh baba, in this house, there’s only one real champion…”
I beamed back at her, chest swelling with pride, ready for my coronation.
“…One real champion… and it’s not you,” she declared, driving the final nail before striding straight to her ‘champion’ daughter-in-law and embracing her.
I looked down at the rackets, the pristine shuttlecock, and all my glorious dreams of beating the University Champion… crushed faster than a mosquito under a slipper.
Even the ceiling fan seemed to sigh in sympathy.
:::HAPPY WEDDING ANNIVERSARY dearest esparansa:::
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