Before going to Hong Kong, I thought buying sports gear meant going to big malls in Causeway Bay

Bright lights, reflective floors
Salespeople in tight outfits measuring your size
But a local friend took me through alleys in Mong Kok
Looking up, all I could see was a sliver of sky
Wires tangled like a spider web
A sign for the Tulip Hotel hanging at the entrance
It looked like some secret hideout you can't speak of
Climbing up the dark, black staircase
On the second floor, there are old men carrying rackets
Plastic bags in their hands rustling loudly
Their eyes sharper than a blade
I thought I had stumbled into some underground deal
But they were just buying badminton in bulk
Those top-quality shuttles costing fifty bucks each
Transporting boxes home
I held my phone, afraid to speak loudly
Worried about disturbing their sparring sessions
Turns out, real sports masters
Aren't playing on plastic courts
They're practicing lightness skill in buildings that could collapse at any moment
I bought a pair of shoes and hurriedly left
Afraid of being mistaken for an undercover agent if I stayed too long
After all, I can’t even run 800 meters without gasping
Unworthy of being in a place full of masters
This kind of place is only suitable for two types of people
One is a true expert
The other is someone like me—
Just coming in to take a photo and calling it exercise, a waste.