My indoor football team bounced back from our crushing
defeat last week with a 6-2 victory this morning. The game was a closely fought
encounter, but our bigger squad paid dividends - we were able to rotate our
players on and off more often, meaning that we had far more left in the tank
late on.
I was very happy with
my performance. Playing the first half in goal, I rolled back the years to the
days of kickarounds in the field behind my house in Somerset. I made a series
of flying saves that were reminiscent of those I used to make against my
friends back home in one-on-one games. With stinging palms I moved into the
outfield for the second period and latched onto an incisive pass to slot in the
goal that put us 3-2 up. Our whole team put in a much improved performance from
last week and by the end we were passing the ball around nicely. I am now very
optimistic about the rest of the season.
The second day of my big sporting weekend did not go nearly
as well as the first. The opening game of the indoor soccer league on Sunday
resulted in an 8-2 drubbing for my team, or was it seven or nine? I lost count.
Although we were thoroughly outclassed eventually, the match wasn’t entirely
one way traffic. We made a bright start and our quick closing down was rewarded
when we rushed them into an error that led to the opening goal. They equalized,
but moments later we were back in front after I prodded home from inside the
box. Given my lengthy absence from competitive football and my failure to find
the net in the fall league, I calculated that this was my first goal for
approximately ten years. At least I’m more prolific than Tony Hibbert.
Brutally, our opponents scored twice right before half-time and continued where
they left off in the second period, when they found their feet and passed the
ball around us with ease resulting in goal after demoralizing goal flying in.
32 year old Tony Hibbert has never scored a competitive goal in his professional career. When he scored in his testimonial against AEK Athens, a pitch invasion ensued.
The 6 v 6 game was utterly exhausting. It was played at a
relentless pace and there were very few situations when the ball was deemed out
of play, although nobody really knew what these situations were, even the ref! I
was knackered after the match. The strain on my upper body from the huge
quantity of table tennis I played on Saturday coupled with the wear and tear on
my lower half from football meant that my big weekend had left my body in quite
a sorry state: a sore right shoulder from hitting forehand smashes, a stiff
back, aching legs, a giant blister on my left foot, and an even bigger blister
on my right big toe, which erupted like a volcano when I popped it in the
shower.
The first chapter in my big sporting weekend was the
intermediate event of the Chi-Slam Open table tennis tournament. Would I be
able to transform my recent good form on weekday nights into tournament
success?
The tournament began with a round robin stage of groups of
5, with the top two in the group progressing to the knockout phase. One player
from my group didn’t turn up, so two wins out of three would likely to be
enough to secure my place in the business end of the event. I knew my first
opponent and I expected to beat him easily, and I did, winning 3-0.
Next up was an eleven year old French boy. When I discovered
he was in my group, I secretly hoped that he would be a massive brat who would
throw a tantrum every time he lost two points in a row and try to cheat me on
the score. Rather boringly, he turned out to be a charming young lad who’s Dad
even remarked “sometimes he just likes to have fun so much he forgets to try
and win”. Brat or no brat, there was simply no way I was going to lose to an
eleven year old. I stormed the first game 11-3 and began to take my foot off
the pedal – no need to humiliate this pre-pubescent monsieur. He won the next
game to level the match and I began to sweat a little. Not much though, I would
just raise my game and see him off quickly. At 7-5 down in the third game I was
sweating buckets. The young chap had cut out the errors that littered the first
game and was playing some quality table tennis. Meanwhile, I was struggling to
find my rhythm. Was this to be the most embarrassing sporting moment of my
life? At 9-8 down I simply had to win the next point. Trembling with nerves, I
forced my diminutive opponent into an error and won the next two points on my
serve to take the game. From then on I relaxed and won the fourth game at a
canter. My final group stage opponent was a lot bigger but a lot easier to
beat. I was safely through to the knockout phase.
In the last 16 I easily defeated a player who simply
couldn’t handle backspin. Waiting for me in the quarter finals was my toughest
opponent yet, but I started to find my game and comfortably dismissed him in
straight sets. I thought little of the victory, but it had caused a bit of a
stir around the building. Apparently, this player I had just knocked off 3-0
was seeded to reach the final and I was supposed to just be a weed he would
trample down on the way. My tactical astuteness was key to causing this ‘upset’
– I instantly recognized that the extreme grip he possessed would struggle
against chops and quick attacks to the forehand.
I was now in the semis and was determined to make the
showdown. A battle ensued. I surrendered the first game 11-9 but bounced back
to take a tight second. The third game would be crucial and it was back and
forth until deuce at 10-10. I squandered two set points and eventually
succumbed 15-13. My title challenge was hanging by a thread. However, I was
still feeling confident as I had worked out some serves that he returned high,
allowing me to rip a forehand smash on the next ball. If only I could increase
the number of points I was taking off his serve then I could surely turn the
match around. It was frustrating. His serve didn’t even have much spin on it
and he wasn’t following it up that aggressively, but still I made errors on the
return. The fourth game was as tight as the previous three, but I narrowly
prevailed 11-8. One game to 11 would now determine whether I would play for the
championship or third place. With a racing heart, I grabbed a lead and held
onto it thanks to some heavy forehands. At 9-5 up on his serve, I knew I could
afford to take a chance and went for a backhand down the line winner off his
serve. It caught the corner of the table and I won the next point to book my
place in the final.
I had seen my opponent play in the earlier rounds of the
event and he looked pretty fearsome. I wasn’t afraid though, with my mental
toughness and crafty tactics I might be able to pull him out of his comfort zone. My opponent was the brother of the French boy I had labored past earlier.
Luckily, this Parisian was of an age where losing to him wouldn’t be
humiliating. I got slapped in the first game but regrouped to take the second
11-8 after a string of errors from my opponent. Unfortunately, the Frenchman
then decided enough was enough and powered forehand loop after forehand loop
past me to cruise through the next two games and leave me with the runner-up
trophy. A trophy! I was delighted! It may have only been the intermediate event
of a small table tennis tournament but here I sit with a trophy so I will be
celebrating tonight – and the trophy will be coming with me!
I always loved the week prior to playing big tennis matches
on the weekend. I lived for the feeling of anticipation and enjoyed the
meticulous preparation to give myself the best possible chance of playing at my
peak, even if that hardly ever happened. When I left behind college tennis I
also left behind that feeling. This week it returned. I have a big sporting
weekend coming up.
First up on Saturday is a table tennis tournament at Chi-Slam.
I will be playing in the intermediate event and I think I have a chance to win
it. It is true that I have little-to-no idea of how good other players entering
the intermediate event will be, but I am feeling rather confident due to my
good form at Chi-Slam over the past couple of months. Furthermore, although my
preparation is pathetic compared to my careful approach to tennis matches, I
had a great practice on Tuesday that was just what I needed – match practice
against tough opponents with a variety of different styles.
Next up on Sunday, I am making my long awaited return to
league football with the first game in a new indoor season. I am also feeling
confident here. My last footballing campaign in the fall ended desolately with
just one win from eight for my team, but this league is going to be a different
ball game. Well actually it is the same ball game, but under very different
conditions. Firstly, it is 6 v 6 indoors rather than 11 v 11 outdoors.
Secondly,
I am part of a compiled team rather than signing up as an individual and playing
alongside other individuals. This, I am hoping, will result in a more consistent
turnout and less variation in the ability of the players. My preparation for
the football game was also brief but effective – I was happy with my touches
and passing in a 7 v 7 indoor tournament on Friday.
By the end of this week, I could be a table tennis champion
and have inspired my team to a winning start in the league…or I could be
realizing that my table tennis game still requires much improvement and remembering
that I am never quite as good at football as I like to think I am. Stay tuned
to Athlete Without a Cause to find
out!
My roommate Steve’s eyes lit up when he saw online that Racine Plumbing, the bar we were
planning to head to Saturday night, were advertising $3 shots of Malört.
Steve’s roommate in college had once told him of tales of this Malört, a
liquor only available in Chicago that is considered to be one of the world’s most
fowl tasting beverages. Now I consider Steve’s college roommate to be a true connoisseur
of awfully unpalatable alcoholic drinks and that meant only one thing: we had to try a shot of Malört.
A woman after trying a swig of Jeppson's Malort
I didn’t have to scour the internet for long to find some
horrendous reviews of Malört. One bartender described it’s taste as “stomach
bile and dirt” and another commented “it’s not strong, it just tastes terrible”.
But what is remarkable about Jeppson’s Malört is that it’s producer
makes no attempt whatsoever to claim their product tastes alright, in fact they do quite
the opposite and actively promote it’s vile taste. The statement “our liquor is
rugged and unrelenting (even brutal) to the palate” is written on the bottle’s label, which also boasts
the fact that “only 1 out of 49 men will drink Jeppson’s Malört”. Furthermore, they picked out “it tastes like the day Dad left” as the winner of
their slogan competition and the picture above was featured on their Facebook
page! Legend has it that the company’s previous employee (they only have one)
loved a challenge – and trying to market a drink as nasty as Malört was
the ultimate challenge.
Just as our taste buds began to tremble with fear, we
received some bad news. We were now going to a different bar. However, we were
determined to try a shot of this legendary drink and elected to stop by Racine Plumbing on the way there. We
agreed to not chase the drink, so that we would have the duration of the ten
minute walk to the next bar to savor the bitter taste that “just lingers and
lasts – seemingly forever” according to the brutally honest label.
So how was it? Well, actually, it wasn’t that bad. Yes it was
a little unusual and unpleasant. No I did not order another shot nor will I
ever order it again. Yes the peculiar aftertaste did linger nastily and yes
when I burped it was the most horrific tasting burp to ever be released from my
mouth. But it didn't completely ruin my night like I thought it was going to.
Horrendously putrid? No. Chicago’s most disgusting drink? Probably.
My least favorite thing about the Midwest is not the grim
winter weather, but the flatness. The
shocking absence of hills or even mountains. The dearth of elevation. The void in undulation. The inexistence of peaks and the general lack of
opportunities to write words in italics.
Therefore during my visit to Seattle this weekend I was delighted by the
variation in gradients.
There are many advantages to hills – the strengthening of
calves resulting from walking up them, the opportunity they provide to do hill
sprints, and on a less physical note, the variation in scenery they ensure.
Most importantly however, is the view from the top of hill. I miss being able
to see into the distance and being up a tall building is just not the same.
Views are always best if you have worked to get them and if we were to be
afforded panoramic views over Rattlesnake Lake and the Cascade Mountains then
we would have to make the 2 mile zig-zag trek up to Rattlesnake Ledge.
Rattlesnake Lake and Ledge, about 30 miles east of Seattle
It wasn’t too challenging and I would love to try running up
sometime. The views were nothing short of spectacular and looking out over
snowcapped mountains I felt gloriously distant from the horizontal monotony of
the Chicago grid system.
There are no views like this in the Midwest
Two interesting
thoughts my uncle had
Taylor Swift is a hypocrite. In ‘Mean’, Swift berates a former
acquaintance for being mean, repeatedly asking “why you gotta be so mean?”
However, young Taylor then sings “all you are is mean and a liar and pathetic
and alone in life”. If that is not a mean thing to say I don’t know what is!
Sure, being mean to the mean is probably more credible than just being mean,
but still, whatever happened to ‘not stooping down to someone else’s level.
Despite my above analysis of 'Mean', I still love the song
Is all transportation doomed to be entertainment? The Seattle
monorail once served a real purpose – transporting visitors to the World’s Fair
between the Space Needle and downtown. Now it is just a diversion for tourists,
who clamor to get the much sought after spot at the front. Likewise, the horse
and cart was once the speedy way to get around but now is used to carry
sightseers around historic towns. Another example is the steam train’s descent
from the peak of engineering to a nostalgic child-friendly joyride. Are modern
modes of transport such as the motor car and airplane destined for the same
fate? Will the eventual arrival of the automatically driven car lead to people
driving our current cars round tracks for fun? Something to think about on a
slow day.
Will today's transport be tomorrow's entertainment?
After a slow day at work, I felt like kicking off the
evening with a customarily balls to the wall workout. However, I wasn’t too keen on running as the ‘feels like’ temperature was a
cruel -8°F/-22°C and
I am of course not a member of a gym. Not a problem, as I devised a beast of a
room workout. Why not try this at home?
Warm Up: Running home from the train station (it was too cold
to walk). Dynamic stretching.
3 sets of the following circuit. No rest whatsoever,
except for quick sips of water.
Push-up position with your bum in the air, then drive legs to chest in a kind of running motion. I know these have a name, what is it? – 50 reps (one leg going forwards = one rep)
Push-ups – 20 reps
Lunges – 8 reps on each leg
Lying flat on your back, legs straight and 6 inches above the ground, raising
each leg alternatively, keeping them as straight as possible. I should probably
give these a name. 15 raises of each leg.
Sit-ups, punching once to each side when you are up – 30 reps (up, two punches, and back = one rep)
Triangle push-ups– 10 reps4
1 A
sofa can be used to dip from 2 In place of
a barbell, use a Swiffer, broom, or ideally (as I had, but I can understand if
you don’t) – one of those cardboard cylinders that posters come in 3 Use your two heaviest
books - one in each hand and lower them towards the ground – to help balance
4 On the third and final
set, keep going until your arms give way, causing your chest to crash down to the floor in triumph
It was a cracking workout that exercised the whole body,
with little equipment and conveniently located in my own apartment! To help push myself
to the max, I blasted some raucous music (At the Drive-In, Motorhead) and
imagined that I was being filmed for a training montage. To those brave enough
to try my workout at home – good luck!
6.40AM. Sunday. The alarm clock was ringing. Crawled out of
bed and hastily pulled on some clothes, trying not to disturb my sleeping
girlfriend. Grabbed a banana and snuck out of the house at 6.50. Forty minutes
to get there. Still dark outside. Cold too. Nobody around except an old man and
his dog. Walked to the Diversey ‘L’ stop. Opened the door. Nobody there.
Security guard comes out and tells me the Brown Line doesn’t stop at that
station until 7.45. Nevermind. Don’t need to get there until 7.30. Jogged up to
Belmont where I was told the train would be stopping. Should of worn running
shoes. 7.07AM. Daylight starting to infiltrate the dark. No brown line trains
coming. Waited seven minutes and boarded a Red Line train heading north.
Everyone in the carriage looked half-asleep or half-dead or both. Alighted at
Sheridan. 7.18AM. Twelve minutes to go.
Taking the Red Line meant I was now over a mile too far East. Going to be touch
and go. Started running. Definitely should have worn running shoes. Maybe a bus
will come. Do the buses run at this time on a Sunday? No buses coming. 7.25AM.
Not far to go now. Got to keep moving. Crossed Ashland Ave at 7.27. I was going
to make it. At 7.28AM I opened the door and walked inside. The players were
walking onto the pitch. I took off my layers and sunk a glass of water. The
whistle blew and the game was underway! I was at The Globe Pub to watch
Manchester United v Liverpool followed by Arsenal v Manchester City. What a
morning it was going to be! I had made it for kickoff! At 7:31AM I ordered a
beer.
It was remarkable how many people were in the pub at 7.30AM
on a Sunday morning. Outside it was dark, quiet, and the streets empty. Inside it
was the opposite – packed, loud, and the screens and red jerseys brightly
coloring the room. There were no seats going in either of the first two rooms
and by the time the second game was underway the front room was completely
rammed. It was a very fun morning and my sausage, bacon, and egg sandwich was
wonderful. I certainly napped well that afternoon.
For the past who knows how many months, whenever we are
approaching a weekend night with no plans, my suggestion has always been
“bowling?” Last night, when an investment banker’s absurd job dedication laid bare our plans for the night, we finally went bowling.
Our pin-toppling venue was the Diversey River Bowl in
Bucktown. I had driven past this large shed on several occasions and had always
wanted to pay a visit. The old fashioned neon signage evoked that sort of old
‘Americana’ feel I had only seen on movies, and once inside my suspicions that
this was the kind of place that Tom Petty might have met a girl named Maria
were immediately confirmed.
The retro feel stemmed from many sources. Most obvious were
the music that spanned seven decades and the accompanying videos that moved
around the front wall they were substandardly projected onto. More subtlety, a
scrolling LED news ticker displayed news from January 2010, momentarily
tricking me into thinking that Justine Henin was making another comeback. As
for the drinks, Jello shots were available for $2 per ‘syringe’ (we didn’t try
these) and the 100oz beer tubes were perfect for the lane side tables. Refreshingly,
the staff weren’t robots obeying meticulous guidelines drafted in a corporate
office and battered into them in training – when we weren’t ready for our lane,
I feared that we would be forced to start our game or be relegated to the back
of the order, but the man simply told us to come back when we had all our
players and we could start then. Finally, there was a certain dinginess about
the place, punctuated my brightly colored moving spotlights.
Step back in time at the Diversey River Bowl
All things considered, the Diversey River Bowl was awesome
and the highlight was the music. It was an eclectic mix that both surprised and
delight. There were old classics – that quintessential eighties anthem ‘Take on
Me”, a cracking jam from The Clash, and a wonderful song from the fifties that
prompted dance moves to become incorporated into bowling techniques, resulting
in gutterballs across the room. There were timeless sing-along tunes like Lit’s
“My Own Worst Enemy” and The Darkness’ “I Believe in a Thing Called Love”.
There were awesome songs I simply never expected to hear by Sleigh Bells, Cold
War Kids, and the Bouncing Souls. However, the song whose surprising
transmission pleased me most was “One Armed Scissor” by At The Drive-In, an
exhilarating rocker from the year 2000 that had my roommate and I screaming
along.
The less said about my bowling the better, so let’s just say
that I failed to bowl a strike all night and my average speed was around 7mph.
My bowling wasn’t the only worrying site last night. There
were a number of children present who were up and about staggeringly late. When
we left at around 1am, we were followed out by two carfulls of kids, some who
can’t have been older than five.
