I’ve often wondered whether umpiring is more of an art or a science. After this year’s YAE Juniors, I can confirm it’s neither. At its core, it’s about learning to laugh at yourself and surviving public humiliation—sometimes at the hands of a mop.
What began as an innocent request—a quick ask for my service judge to wipe the court—soon spiralled into the running joke of the tournament. By day two it had escalated: during the referee’s briefing, I was presented with an actual mop with the gravitas of an Olympic medal ceremony. My colleagues laughed, my reputation was sealed, and I accepted my fate.
Behind the teasing, the YAE Juniors is a fantastic event showcasing the best from around the world. Players arrived from the USA, India, Sri Lanka, Portugal, Sweden, Azerbaijan, and beyond—each bringing grit, style, and a few pronunciation challenges. My own journey was far less epic. Mike Willans (chauffeur–roommate–fellow umpire, in that order) and I trundled 90 minutes down the M6. No passports, just potholes.
Peter Scott House welcomed us with a car park and a honeymoon suite (double bed). We politely informed reception that, whilst we got along, we weren’t ready for that level of bonding. Twin beds were promised, and we marched off to the 7 p.m. briefing at the University of Birmingham’s Sport and Fitness Centre, arriving at 6:52 p.m. As the saying goes: “If you’re early, you’re on time; if you’re on time, you’re late.” In our case, we were probably late.
The briefing, delivered by Jochen, Frederic, and Eric (a line-up that sounded suspiciously like a Scandinavian pop trio), was short and sharp. The highlight? A pager on the umpire’s chair, a discreet way to alert the referee for injuries, disruptive coaches, or shuttle changes without having to flap our arms like geese. In short, a silent scream button. We approved. But the real joy came from meeting colleagues old and new, rounding out our motley crew of twelve.
Dinner that evening was at The Soak, a pub so eclectic it defied genre: part Harvester, part Indian restaurant, with burgers, noodles, and cocktail deals all crammed in. The entertainment came courtesy of Parisa’s “campus tours”—a 15 km wandering back to the hotel in whichever direction her feet fancied. Bookings opened the next morning, and references were available on request.
Day one and I was in the hall early (read: summoned) for “measure nets and check devices” duty. Thanks to guidance from Mr. Smith and Mr. Johnstone, I finally made the devices look less like a rocking chair and more like badminton equipment. Later, Mr. Potter handed out A4 sheets and set us some homework; list the skills an umpire should have. Answers ranged from the sensible “concentration” to the questionable “don’t drop the coin’, all without the help of Google, ChatGPT, or a sneaky peek at the umpire’s manual.
Matches soon got underway. Five of the six courts buzzed with play; mine bizarrely featured a three-setter narrowly lost by a player whose name was identical to my chauffeur–roommate–fellow umpire’s, give or take a consonant.
And then—the mop. During a men’s singles, a player slipped near my service judge and used the interval to recover. Wanting to be helpful, I asked my SJ to mop the sweat, having seen a colleague do this earlier. Little did I know that single request would backfire, sparking a chain reaction of mockery that would follow me the rest of the week. A tournament mascot was born, and better still, my obituary was written.
The day then blurred into rotations, long shifts, and a few triple-up duties. Costa fuelled us at lunch; The Soak lured some of us back again for dinner. Campus tours sadly lost momentum (perhaps due to sore legs), though the marginally separated twin beds provided a solid night’s sleep.
Day two’s briefing stressed presentation—especially as doubles matches were on the way. The three at the helm set us another challenge: march off with the winner(s) lined up behind the umpire first. Cue: umpire, players, and service judge waltz. Elsewhere, Mr. Gadkari nursed a stiff shoulder, consulting the tournament physio in the morning. I’m certain I saw him stretching in the umpire chair—or was he doing curls with the net post? Perhaps it was one of the skills he’d listed before. Who knows. By evening, some swapped their uniform for playing kits in an exhibition match on centre court. I briefly stood in for Alan Spinks (a man not easily replaced) and undertook some ‘action photography,’ which looked more like a bowls game than badminton. Mr. Gadkari’s shoulder, however, miraculously healed, smashing shuttles that would make Satwik flinch.
Dinner at Kimchi was expertly organised by Ms. Zhu, whose menu-deciphering skills deserve merit. Some of us ambitiously tried learning Mandarin phrases—slightly misplaced, given we were in a Korean restaurant. We soon realised though, that every phrase we picked somehow circled back to food. Mental note: “wǒ kāi wánxiào de” means “I made a joke,” not “Kai wants soda.”
The round of 16 and quarter-finals brought marathon matches—14 stretching beyond 40 minutes. Perhaps the ghost of Amanda Balaam was in the vicinity, or players were simply re-enacting “to me–to you” with the shuttle. Evening meals scattered us across The Soak (chips edition), Akbar’s (spicy curry edition), and a local tavern (grub edition).
Semi-finals and finals day. 6 a.m. Shock: only cold showers. Reception explained that “maintenance don’t work Sundays,” but offered a room in another hotel. I braved the icy ordeal, emerging mostly frostbite-free. Mr. Johnstone wisely chose warmth, perhaps the true secret of his youthful glow.
At the hall, perfection was required with just two courts in play. Thankfully, adjusting and aligning the service height devices now felt routine—looking less like an IKEA flatpack and more badminton-ready. The lively crew of twelve for the semi-finals slimmed to the great eight for the finals.
On court, England impressed, claiming silver in women’s singles and an unseeded men’s doubles pair who captured silver—and hearts—with their fearless run. But it was Chinese Taipei who stole the show: one player reached all three finals (perhaps he cloned himself), mixed doubles was an all-Taipei affair, and they swept titles in women’s doubles and men’s singles. The USA contingent were just as memorable—their cheers nearly always lifted the roof. One parent casually mentioned their local training centre in San Francisco has 55 courts! I wonder what they’ll bring to the sport’s biggest stage—roll on Los Angeles 2028.
Closer to home, beyond medals, it was the personalities that stood out. In the women’s singles final I umpired, a player voluntarily returned the shuttle despite a line call in her favour. A rare sight. Excellent sportsmanship.
Reflecting on the YAE Juniors reminds me of my travels to Asia last year, where I saw badminton woven into daily life with discipline and devotion. No wonder the players are so strong. Globally, the sport feels on the cusp of transformation too—time clocks between rallies, service-height technology, and shorter formats are all on the table. Umpiring too will evolve, as we juggle more tech, more gadgets, and more buttons.
But one thing, I suspect, will never change: the friendships, the laughter, the shared absurdities. And, of course… knowing exactly when to bring out the mop.