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'

Fall is in the air

The wonderful Italian ice shop on my street served its last cup of lemonade for the summer on Sunday. For me, it’s closing marked the end of the summer and as I slurped up the fruity deliciousness one last time I thought ahead to the long battle with the cold that would ensue until it re-opens in May.

Fall was in the air in Chicago today and I wasn’t feeling terrible, although I am a man who usually mourns the annual death of the summer. It was a cold, blustery day and my run alongside Lake Michigan and then the Chicago River brought back nice memories of Boston falls spent running along the Charles River. The cold ears, the stiff jaw, the having to keep moving at traffic lights to stay warm, the notable absence of the hoards of runners who had seemed so keen when it was just 10 degrees warmer, the crisp air, and the not needing to worry about my sweat covering the house, its contents, or any small children who may happen to walk under my t-shirt while I’m wringing it out. These, I decided, were all good things and although the summer will always be far and away the best time for tennis, perhaps the fall is the number one season for running.

The Chicago River

Water up nose. Twice.

Professional swimmers never cease to amaze me with their ability to swim incredibly fast with seemingly little effort. What baffles me most of all is the way they start a backstroke race by kicking underwater while on their backs, for a considerable distance. Whilst swimming today I foolishly decided to give this a try and ended up with a bucketload of water rocketing unpleasantly up my nose. However, this was not the only time during my swimming session that water unwelcoming found its way up my nose.

I had bravely decided to attempt some butterfly. I say bravely for two reasons: Firstly, the pool was only slightly wider than my wingspan and secondly, it is an arduous stroke that is exhausting with technique as bad as mine. The combination of small pool and splashy technique meant that I was creating some enormous waves. Now I studied physics at A-level and in some classes at college and know all about the properties of waves. But as I approached the end of the length I was imagining that I was Michael Phelps powering home to yet another gold, and therefore paying no attention to the laws of physics. A large wave I had sent forward rebounded off the wall and became superimposed on another wave heading in the opposite direction, increasing the amplitude of the wave which smacked me right in the face, just as I was taking a huge breath to prepare for one last historic stroke. The result – water rushing into my mouth, down my throat and up my nose, coughing, choking, disqualification for standing up during the race and Ryan Lochte snatching gold.

Robotic crosscourt rallies

Last time out at the Chi-Slam Table Tennis Club, I caused all kinds of trouble with my illegal anti-spin bat (see blog post “Anti-Spin”). Tonight I was to be without my secret weapon, as the club owner Ardy was kindly letting me try out a proper, sticky, and most importantly legal paddle.

I was a rather antsy passenger on the number 9 bus that was taking me there, due to the number of questions that were to be answered tonight. Could I adapt to a new bat? What would my game style be with it? And worryingly, was my table tennis success to date entirely down to having a wickedly devious piece of equipment?

“Spin or Speed?” asked Ardy. It was a good question and one I probably should have given more thought to on the bus. I had no idea what I was looking for from my new bat, so I did what I always do when I don’t know what I want – stand awkwardly and silently until the decision is made for me. The bat Ardy picked out for me was marked solely with Chinese writing, so I assumed it must be good.

The first shot I hit flew way past the table. Wow, this thing was seriously powerful, the slightest touch sending it catapulting off the pat with a degree of disrespect for the laws of physics. But I quickly adapted and soon my practice partner Alfredo and I were engaging in these kind of robotic crosscourt rallies that look very impressive to an onlooker. It was great. With this bad I could play professional style table tennis at long last.

Although tonight was more about discovery and practice, I did record two satisfying victories. One over Aldredo (who I found easy to beat if I used strategy, but was of an even standard to me if I didn’t) and a jovial fellow who showed his inexperience by laughing off my suggestion of a game to eleven, instead opting for the now well outdated up-to-21 scoring system.

When it came time to return my bat to Ardy, he was smoothly trading crosscourt forehands with his wife. This made me wonder if he married a table tennis player or if she had learned since, either way, when your home is a table tennis club that doesn’t close until 10 every night, I think you have little choice but to become an expert. I was so pleased with the way I had rubbished my concerns on the bus that I told Ardy I would be back next week to buy the bat. I would have to start saving money. And fast – it costs $80.

In Pursuit of a Record

Some records are more impressive than others. For instance, Usian Bolt’s world record of 9.58 seconds for the 100m and Min Bahadur Sherchan’s successful conquering of Mount Everest at age 76 are astonishing feats that stretch the boundaries of human possibility. On the other hand, my roommate Steve’s record time of 62 seconds for the fastest anti-clockwise lap of Arrigo Park ran by a resident of our apartment is somewhat less awe-inspiring. Yet that was the record I was training to beat on this fine Tuesday evening.

Although Steve’s 62 second lap has thus far failed to garner the attention of Michael Johnson, kinesiologists, or the Guinness Book of Records, it is still an impressive time. From looking at the concrete track that circumnavigates the park and our running experience, we decided that a lap of the park is about 400m. Considering Johnson’s 400m world record stands at 43.17, 62 seconds is a quick time and Steve is no slouch having run varsity cross country throughout high school and for some of college.

If I were to have been a track runner, I always imagined that the 400m might have been my event. Whilst not notably fast, I possess long strides that I can sustain at a decent pace for a lap. More importantly, watching Johnson set that world record in Atlanta as a 6 year old (I was 6, not Johnson) was one of my earliest memories of witnessing sporting greatness, alongside watching Karel Poborsky guide a talented Czech Republic team to the Euro 1996 final.

I was involved in the race in which Steve set the record and I was not too far behind, clocking in at 66 seconds. Now you may think that shaving four seconds off a 400m time will be no more challenging than shaving 4cm off Gandalf’s beard, but two factors meant it would be challenging.

1. My 66 second lap was achieved running flat out and afterwards I felt light headed for the rest of the day. 2. Steve could further improve his record and considering his running pedigree, superior technique and the  fact he ran in vans last time, he could probably improve faster than me.

My workout was designed to improve both speed and stamina (the essential components to 400m running). I sprinted the straights and jogged the bends of the roughly oval track for two sets of four laps. Fuelled by the once-per-lap smells of weed emanating from a baggy trousered chap lurking in the park, I ran hard and it was a good first step towards setting the Arrigo park lap record*⁺.

*by a member of our apartment.
⁺ in the anti-clockwise direction.

Anti-Spin

My first opponent was to be a Chinese man who informed me that he had just finished putting a new rubber on his bat (and apologized for the mess he had made while doing so). Despite his pen-grip style, elaborate service technique and recent equipment upgrade, he wasn’t actually very good. He did not play to the law of averages and went for an almighty forehand smash at every opportunity, of which just two landed on the table. I beat him easily.

My secret weapon is my bat. Its rubbers were once considered decent and were sticky (the stickiness of a rubber is what allows it to generate spin), but now they were about eight years old and completely smooth. This meant that I could hit shots with unpredictable spins and effects that never failed to baffle my opponents. After just one rally my next opponent was asking what rubbers I had. “Very old ones” I replied. Despite obviously being an experienced player, this chap just couldn’t handle my bat and after each wayward shot missed he looked at first my bat and second anyone watching with a look of confusion and dejection. I also beat him easily.

My next opponent, Mike, having witnessed my previous victory, marched straight round my side of the table to inspect my rubbers. “Anti-spin”, he instantly remarked and returned to his side of the table. Anti-spin? What on earth was that? I thought my bat was just really old! Having diagnosed my bat, Mike was now giving my previous opponent a demonstration of how to beat such a paddle – deploying a complicated serve followed by an enormous thwack of the ball that whistled past me before I had time to react. Except it wasn’t that simple and he lost 6 of the first 7 points. But then the match turned on its head and I surrendered the next 10 points to lose the first set. Maybe he did know how to beat an anti-spin player. Unfortunately for Mike, I learned how to defeat his strategy and won the next three sets comfortably. Afterwards the poor man looked like he had just lost his dog.

Later that evening, after I had finally been defeated by a canny old Asian man, Mike was back and now he was claiming my bat was illegal, because it didn’t play like it was designed to. Sour grapes, surely? Actually no, Ardy confirmed my bat was illegal and Mike sportingly played a further four sets against me, all of which I won.

It seemed I would have to get a new, legal, at and revamp my game style. I was certainly up for the challenge. Watch out Chi-Slam, I will be back.

Chi-Slam

Had it not been for a faded poster on the window, I would have had no idea that the building I was walking towards was home to Chicago’s largest table tennis club.

When you hear politicians harking on about ‘small businesses’ and ‘The American Dream’, the Chi-Slam TTC is exactly the kind of place they are talking about. Ardy and his wife are store owners; Ardy’s side of the shop selling items like dollies and boxes and his wife vending plants. But when the clock strikes 6 each evening the focus shifts to the back of the building, where their six table tennis tables play host to some of Chicago’s finest players.  Ardy and his wife spoke only very limited English but had managed to build themselves a business and life in the heart of America, where they were sharing their passion with the local community. There was even a sofa area at the back where they were streaming live table tennis onto a TV via a laptop.

I think I may have been the only native English speaker present that night. Chi-Slam had attracted characters from all walks of life, of all ages and varying origins, who seemingly only had one thing in common – the desire the whack small plastic air-filled balls around with a great deal of spin and speed. But could any of them beat me? 

Intro

My entire left arm was in pure agony and the ache in my right arm was magnifying by the minute. Determined to fight through it, I continued. My face now bore a permanent grimace and my breathing heavy. Come on. I can do this.

Usually I would enjoy this kind of flirtation with the pain barrier, but on this occasion I was not deep in the third set of an epic tennis match, nor was I battling to complete a grueling workout. I was typing. Sitting at a desk and typing. Pathetic. I was studying for an insurance licensing exam and I was taking notes on the computer with such fervor that I had developed some kind of repetitive strain injury.

For most of my life I was a serious tennis player, but in May my tennis ‘career’ came to an end after a thrilling final season of college tennis. Now I felt somewhat lost without it. As my Word Doc trickled over the 28,000 word mark, I decided I need to seek new sporting and competitive endeavors. So that evening I made a simple Google search and then fired off an email to Ardy at the ChiSlam Table Tennis Club. I played in table tennis leagues from ages 7-18 and I was eager to get back into it. His reply was a series of bullet points that failed to shed any light on the details of the club, but he did include his phone number and the next night I called it to inform Ardy of my imminent arrival at his place of ping-pong purveyance. Could I recreate some of my old table tennis magic?