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This is not a game. Photo Credit: AP |
Spotlights
shine down on an empty stadium. No fans are there to applaud. There is nothing
but a long table in the middle of a vast emptiness.
Two
men emerge from opposite corners of the arena. One man is older, larger,
scarier, with a bright yellow dragon swirling around his deep red shirt. The
other is younger, softer, slimmer, and gentler. His shirt is deep blue, with
small polka dots and a plum blossom on it.
The
men, or rather, the man and the boy, walk to the table at the middle of the
arena, and choose their weapons. They look into each other’s eyes. The dragon
man is ranked number one in the world, but the young boy meets his gaze with
calmness, not fear. The world expects the boy to be pummeled. But the boy is
determined.
This
is the men’s semi-final Olympics table tennis match. The dragon man is
twenty-four year old Fan Zhen-dong(樊振東) , from the People’s
Republic of (Communist) China. The young boy is nineteen year-old Lin Yun-ju (林昀儒),
from “Chinese Taipei,” the pseudonym for Taiwan that is used at the Olympics. Taiwan
is an independent and democratic country, but it cannot freely participate at
the Olympics directly because of China’s bullying, and also indirectly because the
world is too afraid of China to call them out for suppressing a country that
has a similar population to Australia.
Fan
Zhen-dong is not responsible for China’s wrongs. He is just a table tennis
athlete. But he benefits from the self-confidence that comes from being a
citizen of such a strong and aggressive country. He knows he is going to win,
because China has taught him that the Chinese always win.
Playing
against a person from the country that China bullies most often must heighten
his self-confidence many times over.
For
Lin Yun-ju, the opposite is most likely true. Taiwan has been bullied and
threatened by China for decades, which probably gives the Taiwanese athletes
feelings of inferiority. Maybe Lin Yun-ju feels inferior, too, but I cannot
read any emotion on his face.
Or
maybe they are good friends, as they have both trained in China’s table tennis
league, and have faced each other before. But at the Olympics, nobody sees them
as friends. They are the symbolic representation of the China/Taiwan conflict.
* * *
The
match begins. In table tennis, there are seven games in a match, but you only
play until one player has won four games. Each game is for eleven points,
unless it is tied ten to ten, in which case you would keep playing until one
player earns a two point lead.
I
realize that I am supposed to “show” you the match and not “tell” it to you,
but how could I? I don’t know how to capture the rocket fast serves and
instantaneous counters. I don’t understand how they put spin on the ball, or
the different ways they hold the paddle or hit. But I can tell you that the
first game flies by in just seven minutes. Lin Yun-ju earns eleven points,
while Fan Zhen-dong only earns six.
All
of China is shocked. Fan’s hand begins to visibly shake while he plays. Lin
remains cool.
The
rest of the games are all extremely close. Fan wins game two 11-9, then he wins
game three 14-12. Lin takes game four 15-13, and then they have both won two
games.
This
was supposed to be easy, but Lin is a pest that won’t go away, and he is the
little engine that will. He knows he can. He knows he can.
Fan’s
nervousness shows in the battle cry that erupts from his throat every time he
wins a point. Lin just makes a fist and holds it up to his chest in
self-congratulation. His fans call him “The Silent Assassin.”
Fan
takes game five 11-9. He just needs one more game to win.
Game
six is not looking good. Fan is taking the lead. He is learning Lin’s serves,
and responding to them quicker. Sometimes, he even predicts the serves, getting
ready before Lin even hits the ball. Lin is down by four points. I am beginning
to lose faith in him, but slowly, one point at a time, he is closing the gap.
He won’t stop fighting. Miraculously, he takes game six 11-9.
They
are tied, three games each. The final game will decide who goes to the Olympics
final round.
This
is not supposed to happen. Sure, the Chinese can and do earn gold medals in
many sports, but table tennis is
their sport. They do not lose, and when they do, it is earth-shattering. To
lose to Taiwan would be Universe-shattering.
All
of China is terrified. They are sweating. Their self-confidence has been
critically damaged.
All
of Taiwan is cheering their boy on. They are inaudibly praying for the silent
assassin. They are feeling braver, prouder, and more hopeful.
It
is game seven, and it’s close. It’s tied 3-3, then Fan starts to take the lead.
They’re both tired, and they both cannot lose. Fan is shaking more, his face is
pale, and he shouts even louder when he gets a point. It’s 10-6, and Fan has
four chances to win the match. I lose faith in Lin again, but he doesn’t lose
faith in himself.
Then,
it is 10-7. Then, it is 10-8.
Still,
Lin is the calm one, and still, Fan is scared.
Finally,
it is 11-8, and Fan Zhen-dong has earned his spot in the Olympics final round. Lin
Yun-ju has lost the match, and all of Taiwan sighs a heavy, sad sigh.
* * *
Even
though Lin Yun-ju lost, it is obvious when watching footage of the game that he
is always the one in control. Seeing statistics about the game, it is painful
how equal they are.
Points
won: Fan – 75 Lin
– 75
Biggest
lead: Fan – 5 Lin
– 5
Serve
points won: Fan – 38 Lin
– 37
Serve
points lost: Fan – 38 Lin – 37
Most
consecutive points: Fan – 5 Lin – 6
Biggest
deficit overcome: Fan – 2 Lin – 4
Lin
Yun-ju lost the match, but the Chinese are still recovering from the blow to
their ego. They may have won this time, but they are no longer clearly the
table tennis champions.
* * *
It’s
just a game, but it’s also not just a game.
China
has been bullying Taiwan for decades. They regularly fly fighter jets over our
heads. They constantly threaten us with invasion and conquest. They have
missiles permanently pointed at us. They forcibly prevent us from being
acknowledged by the world as the country that we so clearly are. They make us
compete at the Olympics as “Chinese Taipei,” even though everyone, including
the Chinese, know that we are “Taiwan.”
They
are always in a position of power, and Taiwan is always in a position of
weakness.
And
yet, a nineteen year-old boy from Taiwan made China nervous. He made them
blink. He made them unsure of their ability to win. He showed them that a fight
with Taiwan is a fight among equals, where victory is not assured.
Lin Yun-ju may be “The Silent Assassin,” but he spoke for all of Taiwan with his performance that day, and he said “Taiwan does not go down without a fight.”
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