The Space of a Player

Seen from one end, the rectangular table becomes a trapezium, broader near the player's waist and tapering as it moves away. The challenge is clear to the players as soon as they take their positions: they each play from an area of strength and against a weaker opponent. They each know that the opponent, though he may be weaker, has a larger space into which he must hit the projectile, and therefore has just as much a chance to win as does the stronger player.

An even playground—an even battle.

He holds the paddle harder around its pommel, the grip tightening toward the hilt, and a sole finger outstretched to enhance the torque he would provide whenever a swivel was necessary. There being no particular stance, he moves into one. Bending his knees, he looms over the table, as if ready to quell his opponent at the earliest opportunity, beads of sweat already glistening at the ends of his brows. The infinite space before him—a space within which he can move his arms, within which he can choreograph his legs—confuses him. He is no longer a soldier governed by rules; he is a psychotic killer on the loose, and the simple power of his weapon frightens him, beats into his skull his need for responsibility.

But what can only responsibility do? Nothing. Responsibility requires discipline to be meaningful. Within that infinite space, the player must find discipline somewhere, and tame it to his will. That the weapon is an extension of his hand is worthless information. More than anything, he knows he needs a hand that is not connected to him at all, physically or telekinetically, but a hand which he can and will abuse. That is how the player sees the weapon—the fear of the weapon he has turned quickly into the weapon's fear of him. Responsibility can and will only reside in the presence of that fear.

As the first volley is fired, he flails his arms, his feet shuffling along the concrete floor, the beams of light from the halogen lamps shredded into shadows. He misfires once, twice, and then he misses altogether. The quick injection of failure into the psyche is the greatest reward of sporting participation, and the injection animates the player. The ignominy of failure is compounded by his enemy having witnessed his efforts—the more skill the player has armoured his body with, the more naked he becomes. And the enemy is always watching.

The game must continue.

There is more aimless dancing, more misdirected attempts at connecting with the speeding bullet, and all is in vain. At the same time, the infinite space is shrinking, slowly and steadily, because the enemy has borne down upon the belligerent. If there were guns and bombs, and if there were human lives at stake, and if bodies were lying strewn on thousands of battlefields across the world right now, the player would have had the option of disarming himself and have his people spared by the forces that be.

The game, on the other hand, must continue.

And now, the player plays from between walls immediately to his right and his left—and at that moment, his arms and feet are arrested, and the player's dance becomes a luxury. He must accept what his enemy, now the overlord, tosses out to him, and he must feed upon to it to sustain himself, and when he is done with it, he must toss it back. Quickly, he will receive more and more tosses, more and more opportunities for him to be humiliated, more and more reasons for his enemy to encourage the disdain he wishes to harbour.

The only way the player can emerge successful out of his labyrinthine proposition is to secure a small victory—even so, he mustn't worry about the smallness of it at all because it will be large as soon as he secures it. The overlord, playing from quite an advantageous position, will be shocked into facing his reality once more, a reality that cannot afford the substitution of humility with disdain, although both are equipotentially subversive.

At that moment, the player will have one opportunity to sink the injection deep into his enemy's veins—only one opportunity, not millions, not infinite, and that one opportunity will discipline him. That one opportunity will bring him within kissing distance of the two walls, and he will be addicted to their touch, a reminder of his enslavement to their promise of salvation. Soon, there is a new overlord, one who will have the opportunity to reign as emperor for all eternity, but will soon himself succumb to the rewards of success.

The game, after all, must continue.