My name is Julian "Jules" dela Cruz, and my life was air-conditioned.
I'm not kidding. That was the defining feature. My world was a perfectly curated, 72-degree Fahrenheit bubble in the heart of Metro Manila. Wake up. Our driver would take me to my exclusive, tree-lined international school. Tutor for calculus. Endless trips to the megamalls. My biggest struggle was choosing which flavor of gelato to get after my third helping of sushi. It was comfortable. It was predictable. It was, if I'm being honest, incredibly boring.
I didn't know anything was missing. How could I? You don't miss a sound you've never heard.
It happened on a Tuesday. Or a Thursday. The days bled together back then. Our driver, Mr. Tony, was stuck in the legendary EDSA traffic, a sea of gleaming metal and impatient horns. I was slumped in the back of the SUV, scrolling through my phone, utterly bored.
A sharp, clean sound cut through the monotonous hum of the engine. Thwock. Thwock-thwock. THWOCK!
It was explosive. I looked up. On a small, mounted TV screen near the dashboard, two men in bright shirts were flying across a green court. It was a blur of speed. Mr. Tony, a man of few words, was utterly captivated, his eyes flicking between the road and the screen.
"What's happening, Mr. Tony?" I asked, leaning forward.
"Lin Dan and Lee Chong Wei," he said, not taking his eyes off the screen. "This is the real thing. This is history."
I was glued. This wasn't the lazy badminton we played sometimes at country clubs. This was something else entirely. It was violence and grace having a conversation at 300 kilometers per hour.
Lin Dan, a storm of controlled aggression, moved like a panther. Lee Chong Wei, all fluid motion and impossible speed, was everywhere at once. The shuttle wasn't a birdie; it was a bullet. A whisper. A trick.
Then it happened.
Chong Wei leaped. It wasn't just a jump; it was a launch. He hung in the air for a moment, suspended, his body a perfect arc of potential energy. Everything tightened—his wrist, his core, his focus. Then he unleashed it.
SMASH.
The sound from the TV's tiny speaker was a pathetic pop, but my brain supplied the real soundtrack: a thunderclap. The shuttle became a white streak, vanishing from his racket and reappearing on the floor before I could even blink. Lin Dan hadn't moved. Nobody could have.
The crowd on the TV erupted. Mr. Tony let out a low whistle and slapped the steering wheel. "Yes! That's how it's done!"
But I didn't hear the crowd. Or Mr. Tony. Or the horns of EDSA.
My heart was hammering a new rhythm against my ribs. Thwock. Thwock. THWOCK.
Something in my very comfortable, very air-conditioned brain had short-circuited. A dormant wire had been touched, and it was now sparking, wild and bright.
I needed to do that.
Not the famous part. Not the winning part. I needed to make that sound. I needed to feel what it was like to put every single ounce of myself into a moment and launch it into the world.
The next day, I didn't go to the mall. I went to the nearest sporting goods store.
"I need a racket," I announced to the confused clerk.
He showed me a beginner's set with a rainbow-colored racket. I shook my head. I pointed to the one that looked most like the weapon I'd seen on screen. It was sleek, black, and felt frighteningly light in my hands. I bought a tube of shuttles, their goose feathers crisp and perfect.
I marched onto the empty court at our club, feeling ridiculous and exhilarated. I tossed a shuttle into the air, mimicked Chong Wei's motion, and swung with all my might.
I missed completely. The momentum spun me in a clumsy circle.
I tried again. Thwack. This time, I hit the frame. The shuttle flew sideways into the netting.
Again. Thump. A weak dribbler.
This wasn't as easy as it looked. Not even close. My arm ached. My pride was bruised.
But for the first time in a long time, I was sweating. Real, honest sweat, from effort, not from humidity. The sterile, air-conditioned feeling was gone, replaced by the hot, gritty reality of failure.
And I loved it.
I picked up another shuttle. And I swung again.