I’m playing a doubles pickleball match in the women’s finals of an interclub tournament when my paddle breaks. The handle separates, and the paddle thuds against the concrete court. Sweat drips down my face. My heart races. A crow perches on the railing and caws loudly. The game comes to a halt.
My coach gave me this paddle when I started playing three years ago. The coach who noticed my potential on my first day when I showed up at the court on a random Sunday morning. The coach who made me believe in my abilities more than I did. The coach who now sat there amidst the crowd, watching with concern as if I had broken my hand. Neither my partner nor I have an extra paddle. The crowd murmurs in surprise. My partner tries to fix it with glue and tape from her bag. I feel an excruciating pain in my right palm. Pressure seeps into my veins. My breathing quickens. My palm begins to turn into a paddle. There is no blood, but my fingers feel tight, like an invisible thread binding them together. There are no palm lines or creases, just the paddle’s smooth brown surface. My partner and the other players gasp. I look at my hand, recalling the curse my late grandma once placed on me when I was in third grade.
****
I accidentally cut her hair. It was a Sunday afternoon; Ma and Pa left me in Grandma’s care while they went out to play bridge with their friends. Grandma gave me some paper, a ball of white thread, and scissors to finish my art and craft project about pigeons for school. Grandma dozed off, forgetting to tie her long white hair. It spread across my art supplies. I became engrossed in cutting the paper and the white thread. I failed to notice her hair spread out in my art supplies. It was too late before I saw the tufts of white hair in my hands. I wailed loudly. Grandma woke up startled. She glared, seeing parts of her hair in my hands.
“I am sorry, it was an accident,” I bawled.
She grabbed her hair and ran her fingers through it. The ends were uneven.
“Looks like rats chewed on my hair,” she muttered. “The salon will just chop a considerable amount of length as they always do.”
She tied her hair into a tight bun. Her eyes were a flaming red when she looked at me..
“It was not intentional,” I sniffled.
Her face softened a little.
“I know,” she sighed. “But I must mete out my punishment. You leave me with no choice.”
She closed her eyes.
“After forty, when you are approaching menopause, you’ll experience physical changes which might leave you feeling embarrassed and confused. But it will work in your favor,” she whispered.
Grandma passed away a few years later. I dismissed her curse as a sign of an old woman’s senility. My mother told me that her spirit lives in a crow, a belief that has always intrigued and scared me. I have avoided crows ever since.
****
“Do you want me to call the witch doctor?” my partner asks.
“Let’s play,” I declare.
“Are you sure?”
I nod.
It could be desperation to win the match since we were leading by a significant margin of 9-2. Just two more points to win. A victory that would elevate my reputation among my club members as a champion. The match resumes. I bounce the ball with my normal left hand and slice it with my paddle hand to the other side of the court. I feel nothing. This might be my hand’s true purpose. Reflecting on those times, I complained about how my hand hurt from chopping vegetables or constantly stirring the broth that my husband loves to eat for dinner every day. All those times when I grumbled and wished my hands were used for something more meaningful, instead of changing diapers, doing the laundry, dishes, and carrying grocery bags, or just tapping away on my laptop, answering work emails, or coding.
The opponent’s return hits the net.
I concentrate on my serve, which might be the match point.
This time, the opponent returns deep. I step back and hit the ball cross-court to her backhand. A fierce rally begins. Eventually, we win the point and the match. My partner hugs me. I raise my paddle hand and wave to some members of my club. They clap enthusiastically. I feel another excruciating pain in my hand. My heart rate accelerates. There is no bleeding this time either. My palm looks normal now, with creases and lines. My fingers feel free.
But later, my hand aches from holding the trophy. I notice the crow; it tilts its head and caws loudly before flying away. A light shiver runs down my spine. Amidst the cacophony of congratulatory messages and excited chatter, I spot my broken paddle lying in the corner of the court. I know it can never be repaired. Above my head, I see the crow circling until it becomes a tiny black dot.