How cold is too cold...

…to go running?  That is a question I will surely be answering over the next few months and one I thought I might have shed some light on today, as when I awoke this morning it was a frosty 21°F/-6°C outside. By the time I set off at noon, the temperature had fortunately risen to a more bearable 28°F/-2°C and with the sun shining and the wind minimal, my run to the library and back actually began rather pleasantly.

I arrived at the library feeling good – I would just grab the DVD of The Sting and run briskly home to complete a nice 4.5 mile run. But I had made a mistake. I thought the library opened at noon on Sundays, but at 12.30 I found the door locked and remembered that it actually opens at 1.00. I assessed my options: I didn’t want to just run home, as after such an effort to get there I wasn’t going to return empty handed and moreover I had planned to watch the movie tonight. It was too cold to just wander around for thirty minutes. I couldn’t while away the time in a coffee or sandwich shop as I had no money and the usual place I would call upon when I needed to kill time in the city was the very place I was waiting to open! I had no choice but to keep running and went on to the planetarium. I ended up running almost 8.5 miles.

In response to the titular question, 28°F/-2°C is certainly not too cold to go running. My muscles felt fine, I sweated considerably, and my initially cold face warmed up after a mile or so. Furthermore, I can pile on more layers when the temperature plummets further. Today I was kitted out in a woolly hat, long sleeved under armor, a long sleeved top, gloves, sweatpants, and tennis socks pulled up to the knee.

I witnessed just ten other runners over the course of my long journey, despite travelling a considerable distance along the Lakeshore Trail. I found this quite bemusing, as around lunchtime on a Sunday in the summer months, that section of the Trail is teeming with joggers like seagulls around a dropped ice cream cone. I of course understand that running is more enjoyable under a warm sun than in the cold. However, ever since I touched down in Chicago I have been issued warnings such as “just you wait until the winter” and “oh it is colder here than in Boston” by Windy City residents who seemingly consider themselves to be some kind of Midwestern eskimo with all the resilience of Ernie Shackleton. Where were all these winter folk now? Too cold to go running eh?

I thoroughly enjoyed my chilly run to the planetarium

As this is the last post of 2012, I would like to wish all readers a very happy New Year. I hope you will continue to follow my sporting meanderings in 2013, as I continue to make strides in the world of causeless athletics. 

The Bulls vs The Glovers

On Tuesday night I was at the United Center to witness the Chicago Bulls take on the Boston Celtics. It was both my first NBA game and my first Chicago sports game and it was quite a cultural experience for me. Back in Somerset my sports team is Yeovil Town FC, aka ‘The Glovers’, and their football games could not be more different to the Bulls’ basketball games. In this blog post, I will compare and contrast the United Center, home of the Bulls, with Huish Park, home of the Glovers.

The United Center                                                                                  Huish Park

Average attendance

United Center: 21,617

Huish Park: 3,891

Car park price

United Center: $20

Huish Park: £2

Sponsors

United Center: McDonald’s, Lexus, Dunkin’ Donuts, BMO Harris Bank, Budweiser

Huish Park: W & S Recycling Services of Poole, Screwfix, AgustaWestland, Thatchers Gold

Attempts to get the crowd going

United Center: Hired staff wearing McDonald’s shirts holding up signs saying ‘SHOUT!’ and ‘STOMP’, firing t-shirts high into the stands using some kind of cannon, and prompting sections of the crowd to chant ‘Let’s Go Bulls, Let’s Go Bulls’.

Huish Park: A group of teenagers standing behind the goal singing trite football terrace songs, occasionally accompanied by a single trumpeter.

Entertainment for the fans during time-outs (Bulls only) and between halves/quarters

United Center: Drummers, Luvabulls Dancers, Senior Swingers (old and fat dancers), the mascot attempting to score baskets from half-way with his back turned, the KIA Parachute Plunge, giant inflatable Bull floating around the stadium, a Cirques Experience carnie named Wolfgang performing tricks inside a giant wheel, game highlights on the big screen, the McDonald’s Big Mac race, and the Dunkin’ Donuts race  - a race on the hanging screens between an animated coffee cup, donut, and bagel, that guaranteed a third of the crowd a free coffee/donut/bagel (depending on who won) and drew one of the biggest cheers of the night.

Huish Park: An old man methodically reading out the half-time scores from around the grounds. Drawing of the ‘Golden Gamble’ raffle winner. Music from 2004.

Percentage of fans who are female

United Center: 46%

Huish Park: Maybe 3%?

If you want a drink or some food…

United Center: Get it delivered to your seat!

Huish Park: Get it yourself you lazy git!

Likely response to the spectator next to you flailing his arms and swearing profusely at the officials

United Center: Someone texting ‘UCASSIST’ with the row and seat number to 69050.

Huish Park: Others joining in.

High quality sport on display

United Center: Yes

Huish Park: No

The greatest sport on Earth on display

United Center: No

Huish Park: Yes

The giant floating Bull, Wolfgang and his Circus Wheel, the Senior Swingers.

Running With a Purpose

Some might consider running 2.3 miles to the library and 2.3 miles back to withdraw a DVD on a cold, overcast Sunday afternoon a little excessive. Yes I wanted to watch a movie that night, but in the age of Netflix why undertake such a journey?

Firstly, I enjoy running when I have a purpose, a place to go, something to get or someone to visit. Not only does it save time through multi-tasking (exercising and transportation at the same time) and fixes my destination so that I can’t just turn round when I feel like it, it also never fails to induce imagining a city where people have the time and energy to run everywhere, regardless of distance or practicality. The highways would be full of commuters from the suburbs completing a marathon to get to work every day. A journey to a sandwich shop at lunch would be sprinted. Businessmen would be jogging over to important meetings in running attire, briefcases slung over shoulders…

Ok enough of that. The second reason I ran to the library was that I really wanted to watch The Full Monty, which I had placed on hold. I had seen it once before – about ten years ago when I was certainly too young to fully appreciate it, but I loved it then so I was eager to revisit this classic British film. I also picked up a copy of Robert Stevenson’s legendary book Treasure Island and like the DVD it wasn’t too burdensome to run with.

The conclusion to this utterly pointless story, which is hardly even a story, is that the 4.5 mile run was worth it – I got some fresh air and exercise and The Full Monty was simply brilliant, surely one of my favorite films!

The Full Monty was made all the more enjoyable by the
 fact that I had run 4.5 miles on a cold day to retrieve it.

Japandroids

Last night I saw Canadian rock duo Japandroids perform at Metro in Chicago, and it was an incredible show.

Japandroids consists of just a guitarist and a drummer, but they manage to make a huge amount of noise and really do rock very hard. They go gung-ho on their instruments at all times and both members sing, usually simultaneously. While the music is good, it is their lyrics and the spirit and psychology behind the songs that makes them great. Japandroids’ music is all about living life to the max, being young and wild, going out and being adventurous and leaving worries for another day. When the songs contain such positive vides and lyrics like “remember saying things like we’ll sleep when we’re dead”, it is hard to listen without wanting to throw your arms in the air.

Celebration Rock is probably my favorite album of 2012

A few days ago it was looking unlikely that I would be in attendance – the show had sold out and I had nobody to go with anyway. However, I decided to get into the Japandroids spirit and went on my own with a ticket bought on StubHub.

I was proud of my gusto, but I was comfortably outdone by the first person I talked to. Residing in Ann Arbor, Michigan, this chap had boldly decided that in the absence of a Michigan show, the reasonable thing to do was to travel to the Chicago leg of the tour. So at 7.30am this fellow took a five hour train ride to the city, spent the day drinking, went to the show, then planned on staying in a cheap hotel and getting the train all the way back to Ann Arbor in the morning.  Here was a man who was clearly taking Japandroids’ music to heart.

Like myself, the Michigander journeyed to the venue solo, but he was not alone at the concert. Before leaving, he had posted ‘FREE JAPANDROIDS TICKET’ on Craigslist, and five minutes later he had a buddy to enjoy the gig with. The grateful recipient of this free ticket was simply astonished at his new friend’s commitment and although his Thursday night had suddenly got a whole lot more exciting, he didn’t quite share the traveler’s obsession with Japandroids. “I mean, I like them I suppose” he remarked. The money this opportunist had saved on the ticket had clearly gone towards buying alcohol, as evidenced by his disastrous attempt to drink his beer mid-sentence – he didn’t even notice that the brown liquid missed his mouth completely and flew onto his shoulder.

The band themselves were certainly practicing what they preached. The duo had now been on tour for over four months and the manic energy they put into each performance combined with life on the road had undeniably taken its toll. The guitarist made a plea early on for help from the audience with the vocals and the face of the drummer between songs resembled that of a man who had just played five sets against Rafael Nadal on clay. However, they overcome their weariness and played with remarkable intensity. Meanwhile, the crowd was raucous and very sweaty, jumping around, raising arms and singing along to every word like their life depended on it. It was great fun.

Vancouver's Japandroids are a fantastic live act

On the way home my get-up-and-go attitude was one-upped once more. The Craigslist surfer alighted at the same L stop as me, but I was staggering home to bed exhausted and he was going to a 2am showing of The Hobbit. Given that the movie runs for 2 hr 46 mins and he had work at 9am the next morning, perhaps he had too had told himself he’ll sleep when he’s dead.

Football's Coming Home

There is only one thing that can get me out of bed at 8.15 on a weekend morning: football. I had heard from many sources that The Globe Pub was the best place to watch the beautiful game in Chicago and today I finally paid a visit.  

I had to be up bright and early as the time difference meant that the traditional 3pm kickoffs would be commencing at 9am. However, when my alarm sounded I leapt out of bed like a man whose house was on fire, such was my excitement for a morning spent watching Premier League football in a pub. Within seconds of entering The Globe, I knew I would be at home here – a dingily lit room full of men proudly wearing Arsenal shirts nursed beers, eyes glued to the screen and mouths projecting the kind of gruff British voice that is inevitably used to utter some choice words at the referee every Saturday.

The Globe Pub consists of three rooms, each with many screens showing all the Premier League games, but with the sound of one different game in each. Having made our way through the crowded Arsenal v WBA room, my girlfriend (who had sportingly come along) and I settled in the Aston Villa v Stoke room, where I positioned myself carefully with the aim of being able to watch as many games at once as possible.

Football fans take sanctuary in The Globe Pub

The glory and Britishness of this pub was not limited to the sports on TV – the traditional full English breakfast was utterly marvelous and infinitely homely. Baked beans, scrambled eggs, black and white pudding, two slices of toast, potatoes, sausages that hadn’t been crushed into a disk and christened a ‘patty’, and bacon that wasn’t streaks of fat suffocating tiny strips of meat. It was a fantastic way to bring in the day and was followed by a satisfying Estrella Damm beer to accompany the second half of the matches.

I had planned to go on a run today, but my morning diet clearly made this impossible, so instead I took a two-hour nap. In lieu of the run, I completed a ‘lounge workout’ that consisted of lunges, push-ups, sit-ups, tricep dips on the stairs, burpees and so forth in my girlfriend’s living room. Soundtracked by some classic AC/DC, I went customarily balls-to-the-wall and felt rather lightheaded after, possibly a result of the heavy breakfast and morning beer.

It was as good a first-half of a day as I could remember. I think I may have may have found my new Saturday routine. 

The Traditional Breakfast went down rather well

Getting Better

You may or may not be interested to hear that my table tennis game has been coming on leaps and bounds over the past couple of months. In particular, my defense is becoming increasingly impenetrable and my retrieval shots from well behind the table are starting to resemble those of the legendary Matthew Syed.

Tonight at Chi-Slam I was playing my best table tennis ever and after losing my first game in five sets I dominated table 2, vanquishing three consecutive challengers without losing a game. Two of my victims then came back for revenge, but were comfortably dismissed once more. As well as my improved skills, I noticed that some skills gathered from my tennis days were giving me an edge over my opponents:

        1.       Athleticism – I may be an Athlete Without a Cause, but I am still an athlete nonetheless and my quick footwork and maneuverability were enabling me to make some difficult retrieval shots.

        2.       Variety – in tennis giving the opponent the same thing over and over can be fatal and I’m applying a similar logic to table tennis. While my opponents play was getting predictable, I was constantly mixing up speeds, spins, and direction, especially on my serve.

        3.       Match toughness – a tennis player must acknowledge how precious each point is and how you simply cannot afford to give them away cheaply. Tonight I was battling for every point and making far fewer errors than my opponents, who went for difficult shots early in the rally far too often.

With this combination of improving table tennis skills and tennis experience I am excited to see how my ping pong game will develop over the winter. Watch this space. 

The astonishing defensive skills of Matthew Syed

A Bloated Brit on Thanksgiving

Despite not being American, I think Thanksgiving is a wonderful holiday. I like the family emphasis, the positive atmosphere of the occasion, and the way that each family seems to have put their own spin on the traditions of the holiday. I also like the food. However, I am especially fond of Thanksgiving because I treat it as a challenge to see how much I can eat.

This was to be my fifth Thanksgiving in America and up until this year I had celebrated it with a different family each time. On all four previous occasions, the hospitality shown by my hosts was remarkable, as was the quantity of food I ate – I have yet to sit at a Thanksgiving table where someone has eaten more than me. This time I knew the competition from last year and I knew that out-eating them would not be difficult. However, I still wanted to challenge myself and that meant working up a serious appetite on Thursday morning.

I began with a 45 minute cycle ride, during which I battled against some tough head winds. Next up (after baking a pecan pie) was a four mile run that I ran rather quickly according to some small children out cycling with their family. “Good job!”, “You are fast!” they remarked when I was stretching after I had overtaken them earlier. Finally, I hit the weights and busted out a ‘beach workout’ consisting of upper body weights and ab exercises.

It was all going according to plan, as when I emerged from the shower I was tremendously hungry and ready to devour anything that might get wafted under my nose. Some cheese and shrimp for appetizers whetted my appetite further and by the time we sat down for the dinner I was poised like a coiled spring.

Two enormous plates later I declared myself full, although later that evening I somehow managed to find the space to gorge on a slab of pecan pie with ice cream and felt considerably bloated for the remainder of the day.

It was a day full of working out and eating. It was a great day. 

Working out to work up an appetite for turkey and
trimmings is very much part of my Thanksgiving tradition.

Like Jason Bourne

Ever since the last time my mum made tuna and butterbean bake, I have not been anything but incredibly excited for each and every meal. But today I was especially looking forward to re-fuelling, because one of executives from the corporate office had invited me out to lunch.

The lunch was scheduled for noon, so in the interest of punctuality I made my way down the lobby at 11.50. While I was waiting, I realized that perhaps we were supposed to be meeting at the reception on the corporate floor. AM became PM and there was still no sign of my man, so I headed upstairs. The reception area of the corporate floor was occupied by three ladies dressed in blue and the receptionist – none of whom had invited me out to lunch, as far as I was aware – so I talked to the latter who agreed to phone the executive’s assistant. Just as she was punching in the numbers, the man I was after slid through a side door that was behind me and marched straight into an elevator! I turned faster than Michael Jackson at his peak, but reached the elevator bank as the doors were agonizingly closing. The chase was on.

I hustled into the next elevator and fully expected to run into my dining partner in the lobby. But the man had not lingered for a second and was now leaving the building and hastily making his way down the street! I set off in pursuit. At this point I was well aware that the lunch arrangement was made three weeks ago and we hadn’t corresponded since, so there was a good chance that he had forgotten or something more important had come up. Furthermore, I had never been told what restaurant we were eating at, so if he was assuming I had already left (thinking we were meeting at the restaurant), how did he suppose I would know where to go?  But I decided I would follow him anyway.

It was not easy. He was now walking so fast he was practically running and as he turned onto Michigan Avenue I lost sight of my quarry. Turning the corner myself, I had to scan the crowd for a man in a suit whilst keeping my own speed up so he didn’t get further away. I managed to locate him but he was almost a block ahead of me, meaning that any slip up would almost certainly mean losing sight of my man for good. I had to up my pace further and I was now motoring across the asphalt like an Olympic walker (minus the silly arm movements). This was great. As I chased a smartly dressed businessman across a major city I felt like Jason Bourne.  

Several minutes later - with dramatic music now cascading through me head - I slowed myself down. He had been held up by stop lights and I did not want to appear abruptly at his side – if, as I suspected, the lunch was no longer on and he was rushing somewhere else, then it would have seemed a little creepy and certainly rather pathetic that I had followed him out of the office and all the way down the street. Eventually he dived into a restaurant and a few seconds later I appeared next to him by the front desk. We shook hands and had a great lunch. 

I felt like Jason Bourne for a short time today.

An IKEA Furniture Building Marathon

When I woke up this morning my hands resembled those of a man who had spent the previous day catching a lot of fast moving cricket balls. Indeed, my thumbs and palms felt like I had spent my Sunday standing in the slips while Dale Steyn bowled outswingers at tail-enders (American readers: ignore this sentence). Of course, I had not been playing cricket on a Chicago November afternoon. My sore hands were a result of an IKEA furniture building marathon at my girlfriend’s apartment.

The steadily decreasing number of IKEA virgins seem to get rather excited at the prospect of constructing Swedish furniture. However, once you have built your entire room from IKEA the glamour starts to wear off. There are some moments of joy - most of the tables can be transformed from box to furniture in a matter of minutes, leaving you convinced that you are a DIY savvy with the hands of a craftsman, despite the contrary evidence from the rest of your life. Unfortunately, some of the items can be a complete bitch. Case in point is the HEMNES 8-drawer dresser. For those of you who haven’t counted, the HEMNES 8-drawer dresser is comprised of no fewer than 377 separate parts. 377! To put that staggering figure into perspective, if every day you were to add one piece of wood, or screw in one screw, or hammer in one nail etc. then it would take you over a year to build the stupid dresser. It took us over three tiring hours to construct it.

After building a bed and the HEMNES dresser I was flagging and had to grind physically and mentally to tackle a table. My girlfriend had annoyingly elected to purchase one of those extending tables, which meant that unlike most of the IKEA tables I have tackled so far, this item was rather strenuous to construct. By this point I was battling through the soreness that had turned my hands red and every turn of the screwdriver was accompanied by the kind of grunting that I was partial to while playing tennis. Eventually I reached the end of the instruction booklet and with Eye of the Tiger blaring tensely from the speakers, we flipped the table upright. It slid apart compliantly to allow the extra planks to be inserted, and when extended to full length it immediately revealed itself as a perfect pong table. I was happy. Happy but bloody exhausted.     

The infamous HEMNES 8-drawer dresser and some of its many parts.

A Bottom of the Table Clash

Going into Thursday night’s game in the Sheridan Park Soccer League, our record did not make pretty reading:

Played: 5

Lost: 5

Goals For: 1

Goals Against: Countless

However despite our horrendous form, we weren’t propping up the table. That honor belonged to our opponents Rush FC, who had also finished second best in every game and who had also managed to find the back of the net on just one occasion. Alphabetical order was all that was separating the teams. It was a bottom of the table clash that promised to be hard fought, scrappy, severely lacking in quality, and ultimately, goalless. It would certainly have been billed as a ‘relegation dogfight’ and a ‘six-pointer’ if it wasn’t for the absence of relegation from this league and the awarding of two points, rather than three, for a win. Regardless, this was our big chance to win a game.

Making its long awaited return for this match was my competitive spirit. I didn’t want us to finish bottom of the league and I was starting to miss that winning feeling. I was determined that we would triumph and I was rampant out there – going in hard for tackles, making heroic clearances, getting my head to the ball off corners, taking players on, appearing in defense, attack, on both wings, and even taking the goalkicks. It was a performance so industrious that by the end of the 40 minute game I was almost cramping and for the rest of the night I had one of those strenuous exercise induced stomach aches.

It was a good job that I was throwing myself around with such fervor, as we only had three of four girls required and thus had to play with ten players. My teammates were bringing the intensity too and our hard work was paying off as we kept them at bay for the first 15 minutes. Then something quite remarkable happened. We scored. It was a long clearance up field and a calamitous mix-up between their defender and goalkeeper allowed our striker to fire home. 1-0.

Our goalscorer was actually one of our two goalkeepers, who play a half each in goal. So for the second half the man who had given us an oh-so-precious lead donned the gloves, while the keeper who had made a series of important saves in the first half went into the attack. Ten minutes later something utterly incredible happened. We scored again. And it was our other goalkeeper who scored it! It was a toe poked shot that bounced once before beating their keeper, who inexplicably tried to save it with his feet. The unlikeliest of goalscorers had given us a two goal lead.

From then on they were attacking relentlessly and they pulled one back with a sharp finish to set up a tense finale. With our balls to the wall, we defended like champions and held on for the win. The feeling I had later that night of exhaustion and triumph was one I had sorely missed.

The Haunted Trolley

Halloween may still be a few days away but things started to get pretty spooky tonight at my local Jewel superstore.

I was walking through the car park when I heard the familiar sound of shopping trolley wheels moving briskly across concrete. I turned my head expecting to see a cart being pushed by a running child or an adult in a hurry, but what I saw was startling - an unmanned empty shopping trolley moving rapidly across the car park and increasing in speed. Looking around I could see nobody who was in a position from where they could of set the cart in motion. The haunted trolley continued through the dark night, travelling of its own accord until finally crashing violently into a parked car. I continued walking towards the store with a shiver running down my spine.

Watch out, the cursed trolley could be coming down a street near you...

A Cunning Plan

The plan I had set out for my Tuesday evening was devilishly good. I would send Titus Andronicus hurtling from the speakers at an obnoxious volume, bake a pecan pie, then in the two hours it takes to cool I would go to Chi-Slam Table Tennis Club, where I would work up an appetite fit to demolish a freshly baked pie upon my return. It was a plan so masterful that I had to restrain myself from raising my little finger to my mouth and squinting Dr. Evil style on the train home from work.

With the pie baked and my ears ringing, I set off to Chi-Slam an excited man. Excited to test my ping pong game against some quality opposition and excited to discover whether my pie tasted as good as it looked upon removal from the oven.

At Chi-Slam, I decided it would be a good idea to play myself in against a moderately weak opponent before tackling some heavyweights. A large, rotund, bald man with visible globules of sweat colonizing his head, who was huffing and puffing away on table one seemed to fit the bill nicely. I set upon challenging him and after a short knock-up in which he bunted the ball around innocuously we began a game. Having played tennis so seriously for so long, I should have known better than to judge a player by his strokes and appearance. Here was a class player. 0-1. 0-2. 0-3. 0-4 I went down. No matter what spin I put on the ball he handled it comfortably. 0-5. 0-6. He is flicking my serves back for winners! 0-7. 0-8. Shit! Is he going to bagel me? 0-9. 0-10. Game point. Uh-ho. So much pressure. 0-11. Bollocks. We changed sides but the pattern of the game did not change. My opponent simply did not miss. After a few attacking forehands I thought I was finally on the verge of winning a point, when his high defensive shot span off the table so vigorously that the ball completely eluded my paddle as I went in for the smash. At 0-9 in game two I had lost 20 points in a row and was sweating more than my opponent. Then finally I won a point. Immense relief, followed by my remark of “this will be the turning point”. It was not, although my 11-8 loss in the third game was somewhat more respectable.

Not to be discouraged by my earlier humiliation, I bounced back to win a tight encounter 3 sets to 1 and then faced a well-built German man who was rather good, but unlike my first opponent this was obvious immediately. We were trading forehands crosscourt at an alarming pace, and then all of a sudden he would step back from the table and unleash a whirling topspin loop that kicked so aggressively off the table that any scientists watching would have been baffled. Ardy, the club owner, even came over to tell me that he was a good player. And he doesn't just say that about anyone. Unfortunately there was someone waiting to play the winner, so we had to play a game.  I was worried about a repeat of earlier events, but I did myself proud and won around five points in each game, even though the German did go somewhat light on me (for instance serving without any spin).
         “You play good tennis, huh?” he commented as we shook hands. I was encouraged by my progress over the course of the night and was determined to improve so that the word “table” might be added to his parting sentence next time.

Just one question remained unanswered. What would my pecan pie taste like? The pecan pie is my favorite pie and I was strongly hoping that my rendition of it wouldn't deter my fondness of this king of comestibles. Any worries were extinguished with the first bite. It was immense. Maybe even the best pecan pie I had ever tasted. I took down a quarter of it and went to bed a happy man.

A delicious pecan pie. Probably should have gotten my shadow out of the picture.

A Plumpish Goalkeeper and Football Humiliation

The Sheridan Park Soccer League is now well under way and going into yesterday’s game we found ourselves firmly rooted to the bottom of the table. Therefore it was rather ominous that we were facing the mighty T.O.T., who after three games were top of the league and yet to concede a goal. On the other hand, we had netted just once in our first three games and it was a last minute consolation goal resulting from a goalkeeping error. We badly needed a win and it didn’t look like it would come tonight.

The temperature was gradually shifting further and further below 50 and rain was plummeting from the sky with a sense of purpose. In other words, it was perfect football weather. When my roommate and I arrived at the park 20 minutes before kick off there were just four people on the field:  the two officials setting up the goals, a silhouetted man putting his boots on, and the opposition goalkeeper who was engaged in a vigorous warm-up routine. With his portly figure, dark floppy hair, and retro goalkeepers jersey, he resembled one of those journeyman keepers who drift around the lower leagues of English football until well into their forties. This goalie meant business and was completing stretching exercises, throwing the ball up into the air for himself jump up and catch, and kicking the ball a few yards in front of him then diving down onto the soggy turf to clutch it with a complete lack of care for how utterly soaked this was making him. This all seemed rather pointless, as given the anticipated gulf in class between the teams it seemed unlikely that he would touch the ball, let alone be required to throw himself onto the turf.

Their talismanic goalkeeper reminded me of legendary journeyman Neville Southall

 The stage was set for a dramatic upset that would replace Lukas Rosol’s victory over Rafael Nadal in the second round of Wimbledon as the greatest sporting upset of 2012. Except we didn’t get a chance to defy the odds, as we didn’t have enough players show up to field a team. In fact, ten minutes after the scheduled kickoff time we had just five players and had to forfeit the match.

Still eager to play, we challenged the T.O.T. players who had stuck around to a short sided game. The match cancellation had done little to diminish the keenness of their goalie, so we shot into a full goal that we was marshalling, while we defended a tiny goal marked by bags and didn’t play with a goalkeeper. What ensued was quite humiliating. They were remarkably skilled and a well-oiled unit, zipping the ball across to turf to one another with sharp movement and incise passing in a manner that made it incredibly difficult for us to get a touch of the ball. It was how I imagine playing Spain or Barcelona must be like. They beat us easily, although I hadn’t brought my abacus to the field so I was unable to keep score. We did score once thanks to their resolute goalkeeper being caught rather amusingly out of position, but he made amends later on with a spectacular flying save during which he must have been completely parallel to the ground at one point.

They say that football is a tiring game when your team doesn’t have the ball. I left the park exhausted, wet to the bone, and questioning every belief I have ever held about how good at football I am. It was, however, brilliant fun.

A Short Tribute to a Rather Useful Workout

Which workout takes no more than ten minutes yet if carried out properly constitutes good exercise? Which workout requires no warm up or warm down and unless you’re one of those sweaty beasts that roam this planet there is no need to shower after? Which workout can be done almost anywhere with a bit of floor space and requires no equipment? Which workout can be completed in almost any attire?

The answer is of course the ab workout! A marvelous invention from Mr. Ab, the ab workout can serve many purposes besides making you stronger. Need to work up an appetite for that big dinner? Ab workout!  Looking for a way to justify eating a large dessert? Ab workout! Want to get pumped for that sports game or night out? Ab workout! Bored? Ab workout!

So next time you have a spare five minutes or are slightly concerned about eating a big meal, just crank some music, bust out 50 sit-ups and 50 press-ups, and encourage your friends and family to do the same. 

The Whimsical Tale of My Haircut at the Barber School

In the interests of cost and practicality, I decided to get my hair cut at a Barber School yesterday. Despite the concerns of my girlfriend, I didn’t consider it to be an especially risky move. All I wanted was a simple trim and as long as I didn’t come away with a buzz cut I would be happy. I have always reckoned that I would look utterly stupid with any kind of buzz cut, and have thus stubbornly refused to shave my head at any point in my life, even when sporting teams I’ve been on have tried to persuade me to join in their apparent show of shaven solidarity.

As soon as I walked in the door of the Barber School a low buzzing sound filled my ears. I looked around and my eyes were met with the terrifying sight of a line of ten or so people receiving buzz cuts from barbers who either had a buzz cut or hair that clearly hadn’t been cut for years. Every single customer was receiving a buzz cut, including one woman. I wondered whether this place only did buzz cuts, and you got one no matter what you asked for. I enjoyed imagining a dainty old lady coming in and asking for her hair to be washed, permed, and dyed – only to emerge with a buzz cut.

Not to be deterred, I paid my $8 and waited for my barber, or should I say ‘student’ to arrive. Now given that I had experienced student behavior firsthand for the past four years, I would have very much liked to have vetted my barber/student with a few questions before I let him loose on my locks: Are you a freshman? What is your GPA? Did you go out last night and if so how much did you drink? My fears were compounded by the fact that I had already parted with my cash; meaning that the only incentive for my student to give me a decent chop was a good grade, and there are a worrying number of students out there who just don’t give a crap about their grades.

As soon as the haircut commenced, the buzzing noise suddenly got much louder. It soon became evident that the spike in volume was caused by a trimmer going around my ear and towards my neck. “Wait a second!” I shouted. The student calmly informed me that he was only doing this part with the buzzer and would break out the scissors soon. However, his reassurance did little to settle my nerves. You see, this was quite an important haircut. I was going out for a nice dinner with my girlfriend for our anniversary that night, I was going to a wedding at the weekend, and most alarmingly I was getting the cut during my lunch break and I had no desire to return to the office looking like an idiot. This was a high pressure haircut, if ever there was such a thing!

A considerable amount of time passed and the buzzer was still in play. Furthermore, I hadn’t heard or sighted a single pair of scissors in the entire building and I had been turned to face away from the mirror, so I had no idea what was going on. Eventually the scissors came out and the student began snipping cautiously. More time passed. Finally, he decided he had had enough and showed me his work in the mirror. Now it wasn’t terrible. It certainly wasn’t a good haircut, but I hadn’t the foggiest idea how to tell him to improve it. “That’s fine” I said.

The student seemed as unsure as I was and quickly scampered off, returning with the instructor, who was a very funny man.
                “Why do you always have to use an adjective?” He remarked. “Calling me the big guy! How would you like it if I called you the small guy?”

“You’re the big guy” the student responded with a light tap of the instructor’s stomach.
The big guy set about fixing my hair and the three of us had some great banter.
                “What brought you here, besides a plane?” He asked me.
                “This guy dreamt of going to college…” he said looking across to the student “…while he was sleeping during high school!”

By the time the student and instructor had finished taking turns with the scissors, I had been there for almost an hour. I did not mind. It had been a fun experience and I hadn’t left with a buzz cut. Actually, my haircut was so cautious that nobody even noticed it when I returned to the office.

This Week in Sport

A roundup of this week’s cause-less athletic endeavors.

Monday: Ran to Jewel to buy chocolate and sour cream. Possibly counterproductive.

Wednesday: Ventured to Chi-Slam where I was handed a lesson in table tennis by an Asian man who was in disgustingly good shape. He wasn’t just in good shape for his age (probably over 40); he was a fine athlete by anybody’s standards. The fact that his legs were both way stronger and far more toned than mine, coupled with the grin he bore afterwards, made the defeat taste rather sour.

Thursday: The second soccer game of the league went the way of the first – a defeat. But this was a much improved performance from both the team and myself, and we did manage to score, even though the goal came when were already 2-0 down with just 30 seconds left on the clock and resulted from a goalkeeping error.

Lagwagon perform Weak at The Bottom Lounge on Thursday night.

Friday: If you don’t think that going to a show constitutes exercise then you obviously haven’t seen Lagwagon before. The punk legends may have made significant inroads into their 40s by now, but they still rock as hard as anyone and reeled off old classic after old classic. The crowd was riotous – jumping, pushing, moshing, and singing along like our lives depended on it. After being flung around in the melee I found myself in the second row, where I was so close to band that I actually had a cheeky strum of the bassist’s guitar at one point. It was simply awesome and I left drenched in sweat.

Saturday: Saturday’s athletic pursuit – walking – may not have been the most strenuous, but it was very enjoyable and refreshing. My girlfriend Steph and I headed out to an orchard and then the Indiana Dunes, which were beautifully awash with fall colors. From the beach we could look across Lake Michigan to Chicago, where the skyscrapers looked bizarre rising up above the water, like they had been drawn onto the sky with a pencil. From the beach we could also see two coachloads of kids who refused to believe that beach activities are weather dependent. It was well below 50 and the wind chill increased the bitterness, but some of these kids were lying on towels, others were playing beach volleyball barefooted and some of these seemingly cold-blooded creatures even wore shorts and t-shirts. None looked as cold I was, although I donned a wooly hat and four layers, the exterior of which was a big winter coat.

An enchanted forest in the Indiana Dunes State Park.

Sunday: Was it too cold to go running without any kind of under armor or jacket? Probably, but I went for it anyway and busted out four miles in the crisp fall air. Despite having to make a sprint finish to keep up with my roommate Steve, I failed to generate enough body heat to overcome the coldness and was relieved to get back inside, where I completed an ab workout on a flattened cardboard box that is currently deputizing for a gym mat. 

Reporting from the final day of the Ryder Cup!

For those of you who are familiar with my usual apathy towards golf, you will be surprised to learn that not only did I attend the final day of the Ryder Cup, but I also had an absolutely brilliant time! In the past I have always found golf a little baffling, being a sport that requires such a large amount of cultivated land. If they simply made the balls a bit lighter or the clubs slightly less powerful, then considerably less tenderly-cared-for land would be required. There were still many aspects of my Ryder Cup experience that I found odd – the eternities spent lining up shots, the need for binoculars and periscopes in spectating, and the shouting of slogans such as “roll”, “sit” and the rather more spiteful “get in the water” while the ball was in the air, as if such encouragement would miraculously impact the ball’s flight path. However, today I was enthralled far more often than I was confused and it was just awesome.

I thought periscopes were only used in submarines...                                  This chap didn't need one.

First of all, it was a marvelous day. With elements of both the heat of summer and the leaf-turnage of fall, it was a perfect day to be strolling around a golf course. Secondly, the atmosphere was electric. The Europeans were of course outnumbered, but they were easily the better dressed – it seemed that almost every one of their fans had some kind of costume or face paint. What the Americans’ chanting lacked in originality was made up for by frequency and volume. The bellowing of “U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!” began immediately as we got off the train and continued unrelentingly throughout the day, reaching deafening volumes after Keegan Bradley won a hole against Rory McIlroy. The Europeans’ singing was more creative to begin with, but they eventually settled on “Olé Olé Olé Olé” as their answer to the “U-S-A’s”. As the tournament reached its gripping climax, scoreboards were no longer necessary as one could determine who was gaining an edge by simply listening to whether the “U-S-A’s” were booming around the course more frequently than the “Olé’s”. Thirdly, it was exciting. Ooh it was thrilling! Could this be golf I was watching? As time progressed each shot became more important than the last and every putt sunk was met with a fist pump from the player and jubilant celebrations from the crowd. The close finish and the fact that I was supporting a European while in the company of an American meant - and  I never thought I would say this - that for several moments it seemed like there could be nothing more exciting than watching a tiny white dot roll slowly across a patch of grass from 200 meters away, desperately hoping that it will disappear from sight.

The European outfits were excellent.

I brought my camera with me and planned on taking a lot of pictures, so I was a little disappointed to find out that photography was strictly forbidden and should someone be caught taking a picture, then the guilty camera or smartphone would be confiscated. Incredibly, they actually attempted to enforce this rule and sent out an army of “Mobile Device Policy Enforcement” officials round with each player. They failed – I took 64 pictures.

These guys were supposed to be preventing spectators from taking pictures, but the fact that I took this picture suggests that they weren't having much success.

Around 2pm, I was just beginning to shrug off my beliefs that golf was a ridiculous sport when the following happened: a fleet of five airplanes flew across the sky trailing some sort of paint in such a way that it spelled out messages of support for the European team. “Shoot ‘em down”, several Americans shouted. Not content with their first message of “YES WE CAN. GO EUROPE. IT’S NOT OVER. SPIRIT OF SEVE. GO EUROPE”, the aircraft made a second journey, this time sarcastically writing “GOOD LUCK TIGER, FROM…” followed by the names of many of his mistresses.

Apparently shouting "Go Europe" just isn't enough for some people...

As an Englishman, I left the Medinah Country Club delighted that the European team had completed the unlikeliest of comebacks. However, I was even more thrilled that we also scored a last minute victory in the battle of the chanting – a chorus of “you’re not singing, you’re not singing, you’re not singing anymore!” leaving the Americans dumbfounded.

"You're not singing anymore!" - Europe fans celebrate winning the Ryder Cup.

The Debut

I envisaged that after my first 11 v 11 football match in 8 years I would leave the field a hero, having scored a hattrick (the third being a long-range piledriver that just flew into the top corner) and set up a further two goals resulting in a 5-1 victory for the team, while attracting the attention of a scout from the Chicago Fire MLS team who just happened to be walking his dog around the field as we were playing.

The reality was quite different. I trudged off the pitch with no goals, no assists, a huge blister on the bottom of my big toe that was rather difficult to pop in the shower later on, aching legs, and a minor headache from heading the ball using what could only have been the wrong part of my head. Despite a valiant effort, we had gone down 2-0 and I was rusty. Several times I lost possession because I took too long deciding what to do with the ball. That is not to say I didn’t have my moments – a towering headed clearance early on and a first time through ball that was dubiously rules offside (I would love to see the replay and hear the pundits opinion on the decision) spring to mind. Furthermore, I had a wonderful time of course and cannot wait for next week’s game.

There was, however, one thing I had forgotten about football - how bloody exhausting it is. My work ethic was phenomenal and I left the pitch worryingly out of breath. It was only a 20 minute each way game!

The style of my football boots led one small child to go "Mummy! Look! Spiderman shoes!" as I walked to the game.

A Press Conference with Myself

Tomorrow I will make my long-awaited return to football as the Sheridan Park Soccer League kicks off. In the build-up to the big game, I held a press conference with myself while in the shower.

Press: You haven’t played a game of 11 v 11 soccer in eight years and you have barely kicked a ball for the past four years. Do you still possess all your skills?
Me: Thanks for saying I had skills! I will be fine. I am in tip-top shape and most importantly I’ve got the passion. During that eight year hiatus, I have watched many games and played enough FIFA and Football Manager to know what I’m doing position-wise and tactically.

Press: What role are you hoping to play on the team?
Me: Midfield general. My greatest strength as a footballer is my stamina so I will up and down the pitch all night long. Meanwhile, my incisive passing should be able to easily split open an amateur defense.

Press: Is it possible you overstate your footballing abilities?
Me: Being English, I am obliged to.

Press:  If a long, high goal kick comes your way, will you be brave enough to head the ball?
Me: Good question. I have been thinking long and hard about this over the past few weeks and am yet to reach a conclusion. I will have to make a game time decision. Do I need to wash my hair?

Press: No you washed it yesterday. What have been your greatest moments as a footballer?
Me: Two moments spring to mind. At school when I was 11, in a game of break time football played with a tennis ball, my team were trailing one-nil after a typically scrappy encounter. With just moments to go, I scored a fine equalizer before slotting home the winner barely seconds before the bell went. My celebration of that goal was so long and covered so much distance that I was a little late to my next class.

Press: And the other moment?
Me: I was playing in goal during an under-7s match. With just a few minutes left on the clock, we were clinging onto a 1-0 and they were throwing everything at us. Our defense was creaking and it was looking like we couldn’t hold out for much longer – the opposition parents were even chanting “we’re gonna score in a minute!” Their star striker struck one last ferocious shot that was hit with such power that it seemed destined to not only hit the back net, but also go straight through it and the clubhouse window behind. But I dived to my left and miraculously kept the ball out with an incredible save that won us the match and later me the man-of-the-match award.

Press: Pundits are saying that you are dwelling on the past and need to move into the present.
Me: That’s a bit harsh. It was a great save. I even caught the ball.

Press: Well I think your roommate needs to use the bathroom now, so that is all we have time for. It has been a pleasure to talk with you.
Me: The pleasure was all mine.

The World is my Gym

"I don’t need to pay money to join a gym. The world is my gym. The hills, the trees, the rivers – they are my gym."

- Jez from British TV Series Peep Show

As a rule of thumb, it is probably best not to adopt the philosophies of Jez from Peep Show. This is a man who once said “stealing just makes everything very cheap” and whose attitude towards important documents is to “sign and recline” and wait for fate to take its course. However, I believe that Jez’s opinion on gyms is spot on. Running on a treadmill, how is that fun? OK, I can set the treadmill at speed I desire and adjust it from time to time, but while running outside I can also change my speed by, erm, running faster or slower. Yes I could hop on the exercise bike and learn that over one hour I would have ridden 10 miles if I was on an actual bike. Or how about this - I could ride 10 miles on an actual bike and go somewhere, enjoy some fresh air, face the challenges of the up hills and the joy of the down hills, and look at something other than a wall, a graph monitoring my heart rate, and middle aged women wearing expensive athletic gear kidding themselves that they are getting a workout by walking with ridiculous arm motions on a treadmill.

Like Jez, I have not paid to join a gym, because I am a member of the free gym called the world. For example, consider my weekly grocery shop at the local Jewel. I could persuade my roommate to drive me there, I could offload some of the bags onto my girlfriend if she has joined me, or I could even make more trips per week and buy a smaller bottle of milk to make the bags lighter. But instead, once a week you will see me returning from Jewel loaded up with heavy bags in both hands, lifting them above my head, stretching my arms out sideways to work different muscles and even bicep curling the bags as I walk. By the time I make it home with sore arms, I have strengthened my upper body with this cheeky workout that was free and didn’t even take up any extra time! 

Jez from Peep Show, a fellow member of the world gym.

The Anna Kournikova of Table Tennis

There was some extraordinary table tennis being played at Chi-Slam TTC last night. Unfortunately it wasn’t being played by me.

It was being played by Biljana Golic, a professional Serbian table tennis player who was training at the club. Biljana, or ‘Biba’, has previously been dubbed the Anna Kournikova of table tennis. From this statement I concluded that either female table tennis players aren’t as attractive as their tennis counterparts, or that at 34 years of age Biba didn’t look as good as she used to. Or perhaps I was distracted from her looks by her playing, which was astonishing. Dancing round the ball with mesmerizing speed, Biba was going hell-for-leather on forehand after forehand, the ball arcing with gravity defying topspin. Her male practice partner was standing right up against the table and blocking the ball back with his paddle angled perfectly every time. The rallies went on and on and on and if the throngs of idiots who don’t consider table tennis to be a proper sport had seen how exhausted she was afterwards, then they would have changed their views pretty fast.

It was also being played by an athletic lad with died orange patterned hair that reminded me of British triple jumper Phillips Idowu. This chap was dominating table three despite playing with a paddle that was the size of a small coaster. It was like he had taken his paddle and shrunken it in the microwave like one of those toys you used to get in cereal boxes. Considering the speed and spin on the balls that were coming at him from very accomplished players, it was remarkable that the ball rarely hit his fingers or the edge of the bat.

It was certainly being played by my opponents, all of whom I lost to with just one set to show for my efforts. That is not to say I was disgraced. I was testing a new, legal paddle that produced some shots that Biba would have been proud of. The paddle was described to me as “one side speed, one side spin” and I soon fell in love with it. Ardy was selling it for $90, but claimed it usually vends for $300. Given that most of the inscriptions on the bat were Chinese characters, I couldn’t certify this claim using the internet, but why doubt him? I bought it and threw in the corresponding cleaning equipment and bag to take my total well over $100. Give me some time, and I think I can do some dangerous things with this bat. I left a very happy man.

Biba Golic - 'The Anna Kournikova of Table Tennis'