I glance at the scoreboard. 29-29. Sudden death. Third game.
I am serving for the match at one game all.
Pressure… pressure!
Should I serve short? Straight or cross?
Or should I go for a flick serve? To the middle or side?
Aaargh! Choices… so many choices.
My partner taps my behind from behind with his racket.
This is the unspoken “Make it good!” or “Go!”
Or maybe “You’d better get it in, or else…”?
At this point I’m not sure which is which. But now’s not the right time to ask him, I guess.
I just nod briefly at him like we understood each other perfectly.
Made my mind up. I opt for the flick serve. Our opponents are at the ready, especially the receiver.
I take my time. Take a deep breath first, I tell myself.
I’m ready.
I hit the shuttle with a flick of my wrist – and it’s now airborne!
It’s soaring… it’s starting to come down… it’s going in… it’s…

It’s ringing.
The clock’s alarm rouses me from my vision. Six o’clock. Morning already? The tournament is at eight.
No problem. Plenty of time.
Dawns on me that I was tossing and turning last night; got maybe four hours of sleep, tops. Just excited, I suppose. Just a little.

Houston, we have a problem.
Honey, have you seen my lucky shorts? I finally asked after rummaging around for half an hour. Could have sworn that I placed them on top of the…
Jester found them. I thank him as I pry the pitiful shorts loose from his jaws. Bad dog. Bad dog!
Oh well, only a few holes and smudges here and there.
No problem, honey. Got to wear my lucky shorts, you know.
Mildred rolls her eyes upward in resignation.
Turns out we’re out of bread, milk and eggs.
“Honey, would you be a dear and run off to the store?” she sweetly asks.
I’m back half an hour later with the provisions. Have to skip breakfast, though or I’ll be late…

“Your partner hasn’t arrived yet,” Boyet informs me at the tournament registration table.
I roll my eyes upward.
“Patrick doesn’t have a partner, too” he continues. “Kayo na lang, ‘kay?”
Sigh… I’m okay, I answer finally. It’s either that or I do not play at all.
Not play? Out of the question!

“What happened to your shorts?” Patrick asks.
I pretend not to hear.
What I notice is the smell of chico in his breath.
Had a shot for breakfast? I retort.
He grins. “Had a little good time with the barkada last night. Don’t worry. I’m okay even with two hours’ sleep”, he explains.
Two hours?! Don’t worry?!! I start hyperventilating.
Okay, okay… calm down. Think positive.
Think …whew… why do I feel light in the head? Then I remember.
Haven’t had breakfast yet.
No time for that now… we’re up!

Warming up. Hitting shuttles. Find your rhythm. Focus. Get into the zone. Increase your backswing for maximum…

Then it happened.
The unmistakable sound of a clash of rackets. Judging from the decibel level, a racket died for sure.
And that racket is mine.
Bought it just two weeks ago. Now the frame had caved in at the top.
Dead.
Patrick is apologetic.
I tell him it’s okay. Nobody’s fault. An accident.
But I am cringing on the inside.
Rest in pieces, racket. I take my other racket from the bag.

Our opponents capture the first game, 21-17.
Patrick and I don’t have our rotation working. We talk tactics during the break.
Game number two.
We win this time. Barely. 21-19.

Third game.
I glance at the scoreboard. 29-29. Sudden death.
I am serving for the match at one game all.
Should I serve short or go for a flick serve?
My partner taps my behind with his racket. This is the unspok…

Suddenly I remember my soiled, ventilated shorts.
All eyes are on me… or are they on my shorts? Dyahe.
I remember my racket. Sayang…
Stop it! Focus.
I’m ready.

I hit the shuttle.
It’s soaring…
It’s starting to come down now…
It’s going in…
It’s…

It’s ringing.