Game on.

Approaching the big steel doors of the sports complex, I immediately knew I didn’t belong. Walking into the new facility, the strong smell of paint overwhelmed my nostrils. Everything in this place seemed different to me, nothing could settle me down. I stood there feeling tense and unsure.

Walking to the dressing room, I was nervous. I felt the familiar nervous ball crumple up in my stomach again, the same ball I often get on the first day of school or new job. Only this time, I had a nervous feeling of knowing I was going into something already defeated. No one tried to tell me to relax, or to calm down, because I was about to compete with the best athletes in Canada. After all, this was the Canada Games. I could feel the shivers starting to cover my body, and the sweat beads beginning to cover my palms.

Upstairs on the third floor, before we headed into the dressing room, I remember walking past the gym.  I glanced two floors down at the open-concept area that housed eight badminton courts, six side-by-side, and two private practice courts in behind. Hundreds of spectators filled the bleachers, and at least a hundred more were lined across the upstairs viewing area. It was even hard for us athletes to get a glimpse of the courts we would soon be competing on. I couldn’t imagine the view from the courts, looking up at the hundreds of faces staring back down at you.

Pushing the door to the dressing room, the light gust of wind literally took the air from my lungs. I felt like I was being punched in the stomach over and over. Something was telling me to worry, to not bother competing. I was sure to lose. This feeling of loss followed me into the dressing room. The room was enormous. Endless rows of gray and blue lockers lined the walls, but nothing was in there to stay. It was a temporary place. A transitional room. Individual teams used the room for a brief period of time before grabbing their belongings to place into team piles in the gym. 

When I walked onto the court, I could feel it in my legs. I wasn’t warmed up. My legs felt like instant JELL-O, and I could feel my toes cringing in my court sneakers, like they had just stepped on tiny shards of glass and were quickly recoiling. The floor was a shock to me. It was something I had never played on before. Green and blue foam-like mats were spread across the hard wooden gymnasium’s floor. I remember thinking, why don’t we just use the hardwood? That’s what most of the athletes are used to. I knew I wasn’t prepared. But I kept trying to tell myself to stay positive. Were these nerves good? Did they have a hidden meaning? I read somewhere once that nerves were a good thing and that if you didn’t have any, that’s when you should start to worry. 

Warming up, I began to literally feel warmer. That must be the purpose of warming up? To get warm? Or is it simply a metaphorical figure of speech? I had never analyzed it. I was always too busy doing it. Either way, I was feeling a bit better. The ball in my stomach was slowly letting go, and my toes were lengthening back out to their normal state. My arms were now the target. They felt heavy. Not heavy because I had been rallying for half an hour, but heavy like each time I swung for the shuttle, I felt an intense weight and pressure pounding down. In particular on my dominant right arm.

As I tried to ignore my heavy arms, hoping that they would eventually work themselves out, I honed in on the smell of the gym. I could smell burning rubber from the court shoes all around me. I could smell wet feathers as the officials and coaches steamed the shuttlecocks before the matches began. 

Stretching out on the team bench, I could hear shoes squealing on the court. Couldn’t anyone pick up their goddamn feet when they moved? Apparently not. The non-stop conversations of teammates, coaches, and officials, mixed with spectator conversations allowed for a constant droning or buzzing sound that filled the open-concept gym.

“Kerry and McIver….” was repeated three times over the loud speaker. We were up. I didn’t know whether to act confident, or to show my fear. But I was terrified. Walking onto the court, and after meeting the four officials, and our opponents, we were as ready as we could be. The sound of the whistle went right through me, and I zoned out. There was no turning back. Game on.   

The time we didn't want to waste five bucks...

It all started in the summer of 2008 when I first met MJ. We met during my first PR co-op work term when I was back home in PEI. We immediately hit it off. One of those instant best friend relationships. We did everything together- lunch dates, coffee dates, hung out on weekends together, not just one of those “coworkers only” friendships.

Canada Day weekend was fast approaching, and we had no game plan. This was a first. We planned for everything. So why hadn’t we planned something fun on one of the biggest party weekends? Simply put? Beats me.

By the time Friday rolled around, we were willing to admit that we were losers. Until… we were told that someone in the office would win tickets to The Festival of Lights- a concert full weekend. It’s known as PEI’s biggest party of the year. Seriously. So much so that it’s now been turned into Summerfest, a family friendly event, due to all the rowdy and drunken teenagers that roamed the streets in years prior.

MJ and I contemplated spending five bucks each for simply the chance to win. What were our odds? Was it even worth it? After debating over lunch, and over our coffee breaks, we finally caved. We each regretfully pulled out five bucks, and crossed our fingers.

At the end of the day, I had forgotten about the tickets. I knew we hadn’t won. But then I heard yelling and screaming coming from the other side of the building - MJ’s division. I ran over to the Tourism department, where they told me that I was the lucky winner. Me? I don’t win anything. Seriously. And here I was, holding two licensed VIP tickets valued at $231.85 each.

Pumped, we planned for a great night ahead of us. So off we went to the concerts that evening, enjoyed the VIP tent - and not just because it served beer. When the concerts ended, we continued our evening at a few random bars in the city.

When we got to our final stop for the night, we headed into the bar, a bar that my sister was working in at the time. She came over, laughed, and told me that Chris Daughtry and his band were upstairs in the private bar. Was she kidding? Regardless, that’s all I needed to hear. We were going up to meet them. So, with a bit of liquid courage, I went up to the bouncer, and explained my situation- “I NEED to meet Daughtry. He’s a good friend of mine.” Clearly, he knew I was full of shi…beer. But we somehow mustered our way upstairs. When we sat down, I was pissed. Daughtry was nowhere to be found. 

MJ told me to turn around. At this point, she had already left our booth and was happily chatting with the band members in their booth directly behind ours. Instead of rushing over, I contemplated calling Mom to get her to book me an eye appointment until I realized it was 2 a.m. But seriously, how did I not see the band right behind me?

So there we were hanging out with Daughtry all night. Chris had just signed MJ’s liquor store receipt when he turned to me to ask if I wanted his autograph. I said no. I might have added “thanks” at the end, but I can’t remember. 

What? It’s not that weird right? I honestly didn’t have any paper, or memorabilia of Daughtry for him to sign, so why bother? It’s fine, I didn’t hurt his feelings… he laughed it off, told me I was hilarious and life went on.

So after hanging out with them for a few hours, they gave us two backstage passes to meet the other bands that weekend and see them again to take photos. Cool. Now we’re groupies.

The next day, in between concerts, we went backstage. I was sure they wouldn’t remember our names, until I heard two of the band members yell out “Hey Sheila,” and “Hey MJ.” They remembered us, this was cool.

After taking our cheesy picture, and meeting some of the other bands, who I had never heard of at the time... Mariana’s Trench? MJ and I grinned and looked at each other. We couldn't wait to tell our hilarious story about the time we didn’t want to waste five bucks to our coworkers on Monday.