When age catches up

So, I have to admit that I've been slacking lately - not as many games and not as diligent during the games to play a good one. Which led me to the conclusion.

Blame age.

Convenient, but not totally baseless. As many of us has / soon will discover(ed), the grip of death and decay ruins our game on the court. Heck, we've all seen that disgraceful fall from the Hall of Fame Ivory Tower from Taufik Hidayat (check out his game against a fresh Viktor Axelsen, one of his last and most discouraging IMO).

He was such a great player. He was a legend. He got old, like all of us will no doubt do.

With that experience under my ever-expanding belt, I am obligated to share my experience. Because this blog is about my experience in badminton. And also because it's been awhile since I posted and I sort of owe the readers a short and hopefully relevant read.

So what happens to me when I grow old? 

More importantly, what happens to my game?

I found myself the Viktor to my Hidayat - an excellent specimen of a badminton player, quick on the footwork and punishing to let your guard down.

First thing that goes is always the stamina. I remember the days when I could run circles around the court for two hour sessions at a go... now I can't even last four games! One long rally is all it takes to wind me down, and the recovery is a lot longer than I had anticipated.

Next to go after your're panting and wheezing around the court is of course, accuracy. I prided myself on being quite good at this, but it seems being short of oxygen rids you of a sense of touch. Who'd have guessed? The soft touches were a tad too hard; the clears were a tad too wide; the smashes were wildly ineffective both in power and angle.

And when both stamina and accuracy go, all that's left is to bring in the clowns. Pride is the final pillar of a badminton player, and when that goes we're just left to watch the crowd go home. Nothing beats the sheer disappointment of having to finish a game you have no chance of winning, or trying every tactic you have up your sleeves and realizing that it's too sheer a wall to climb.

So what do I do to win?

Because kidnapping his parents and demanding he lose to me is a little drastic, for now.

The first thing I did was to realize my limits. I knew that all he had to do was to wear this old man and his knobbly knees down. A few long rallies at the get-go will mean an easy game for him past 15 points.

My job was to not let him have that, though it comes at a considerable risk. The plan was to take the attack at each given opportunity in order to bring the rally to an abrupt close. This involved taking very measured and accurate shots that will most likely succeed in hitting the ground.

And so that's what I did.

The result?

Very good findings were reported from the first two games, but once the kid got in a few long rallies it was all downhill. The shots became harder to hit and the intimidation of a constantly attacking tall guy gradually faded into something less scary than a fluffy kitten on catnip.

It boiled down to a game of determination and sheer gut. The boy was no longer my opponent - the side lines, net and increasing expanding badminton were. Once I got that out of my head, it meant a higher chance of victory.

So all in all I guess it still boils down to training and consistency. When I first started being very involved in the game of badminton I trained hard on technique and footwork. I wanted to be better at making shots and better at knowing what shots to make. I devised tactics and strategies for keeping the game fresh and for handling different types of opponents.

Now that all this is sort of in the bag, I have to now revisit the earlier periods of intense training to include upping my physical endurance and cardiovascular vitality. Because in the end no matter how skilled you may be, you're bound to suck once you run out of energy.

So that, my dear readers, is my reflection on growing old as a badminton player.

Oh, and not to forget - the muscles screaming for release the morning after. God bless the massage industry.

Playing the winning shot

Here's something that every player will be very familiar with. And most often it'll be a fatal mistake.

Listen.

Ever made that wonderful shot and see the look on your opponent's face as you catch them off-guard? They react a little slower, but desperately shuffle towards the falling shuttle. They reach out, and it seems like the point is yours. 

Confidently you let down your guard and start walking, locking your knees as you prepare for the next point. 

Then the shuttle comes back. A sharp net drop as your opponent's racket barely scrapes the skin of the shuttle.

Irony.

So I guess the moral of the story is, to never let down your guard until you see the shuttle touch the ground. It's a matter of discipline as well as respect to our opponents that we continue the fight until the point is truly won.

I can't count the number of times I've done this myself, overcome by confidence in my shot that I drop my own guard and let the opponent's fighting spirit steal the point. 

So fight hard, fight on, and win a deserved battle. 

All the best for your games!

The First

Looking through my rackets (because that's the only thing I can do now), I find myself stopping to appreciate the first racket that started the collection craze.

The Carlton Fireblade FX8 is an engineering marvel, and it's still one of the rackets that make me feel so at ease.

So here's my paying homage to it.

For all you badminton nuts out there, please do the same and give a moment to your first rackets. Come share.

Bigger than our bodies

As I take the bus back from work I enjoy looking up through the window to the sky, especially as the bus passes though the Tanjong Pagar area.

Buildings reach up to the skies in a bid to miniturize the rest of society, taking the corporate pursuit to new levels.

Leaving the rest of the island behind.

It reminds me of how small we actually are. In the face of all that's happening around us. And when you sit down and think about it, the buildings here aren't even cannon fodder to those in the concrete metropoli of the world.

I can tell you stories of people and their egos and their bloated sense of self-worth, but I'm sure you've got those of your own.

So please, the next time you find yourself shooting your mouth off, stop and breathe and remember that you are not even dust to the reat of the world.

Reality is, you're as insignificant as the people you always put down.

Things that scare me

If there's one thing about stupid things, it's that I never hope to do them again.

I'll leave flying for the birds.

The Tortoiseshell Town

We've seen them around, and probably grew up among them. They used to be very common sights, characterizing the 'area' and making up the 'neighborhood'.

When you talk about places like Yishun, Toa Payoh, and Ang Mo Kio, you think about the lines of shophouses and how they provide their owners with a decent living; you remember heading to the hawker centre and coffeeshops with your parents and friends to enjoy a cheap meal; you remember the sand-filled play grounds that reside in the middle of each little 'town'.

I had the change to walk along a row of shophouses alongside Tiong Bahru during lunctime one day, on my way to a posh coffeehouse. I guess one of the main reasons the graphic designers and office workers patronize the coffeehouse is because of the quaint little neighborhood that it resides in.

As you sit and sip your overly expensive coffee, you look at the old peeling pillars and the closed grills of the abandoned shophouses and the old people sitting on stone benches enjoying their day, you can't help but think that all this might not be here tomorrow.

But that's the beauty of such a view - the fragile nature of the reality that I coin the Tortoiseshell Town.

Do some research on the Tortoiseshell Cat you'll find out what I mean.

So what if the government has plans to turn the area into a cultural exchange venue with coffeehouses and art galleries?

Once the people who make up the essence of the place are gone - the bird watcher who goes in the morning to hang his cage alongside the others, the shopowner who sells kids toys and women's clothes, the grandparent missing her grandchild to look after at the playground...

All this is going to disappear forever, and with them our innocence. It's happened to Ang Mo Kio, Clementi and Toa Payoh, and it will rapidly encase all of the charming little secret places we used to call home.

Back to One

I sat down to breakfast at Starbucks, deprived of coffee for the last few days because of the flu bug. Those who know me enough will remember my drink, but this time it was a decaf, and the devil chocolate cake is replaced with a nice Old Fashion Chocolate - a warm lava cake disguised as a doughnut.

The Starbucks at Yishun has also since changed it's unit, relocating from it's ideal second storey space facing the main road to a noisy corner right up the escalator. Sure it's 24 hours and the human traffic's heavy, but there's no replacing the ambiance brought by a second-storey balcony view yes?

And it all felt familiar - the way the coffee smells (mostly heavenly, but slightly trashy ever since I discovered Highlander Coffee Academy), the sound of the barista slamming the hammer down to empty the pressed beans, the nostalgic thump of my cup hitting the wooden table.

I guess it's like riding a bike. So many years and still I remember.

What a way to end the year.

The beauty of it all

You can't choose who you fall in love with.

It may be the simplest thing in the world to some, but the hardest goal for others; it is the most blessed situation for all, but also the biggest obstacle to happiness to many; it is always there, though never in your power.

So hold me, for what lies beyond is a little later on.

Plentiful

This is a story from a book I never thought I'd read:

A man and his girlfriend was walking along the road, when they heard a sound in the distance from the bushes.

"Quack Quack!"

The girl looked towards the sound and said, "It's a chicken."

The man, caught surprised, replied, "It's a duck, honey."

"No, it's a chicken," his girlfriend insisted.

"Quack Quack!"

"Listen! That's a duck! Chickens go cluck cluck!" explained the man.

"But it's a chicken," said the girl once more, her brows frowning this time.

This made the man lose his temper, and he stopped walking, let go of her hand, turned around and looked her in the eye.

"That is obviously a duck! D-U-C-K!" he raised his voice.

To which the girl cried, and the man finally knew that he was wrong.

Reminders

There are things in your life that you won't forget - the first time you found a wallet; that smack on your face delivered by your teacher for talking in class; the time you cut off your long hair.

They are fresh in our minds, no matter how busy we are or how much we think we've changed. From the time they happen, they replay in our minds - resonating ever so often until they etch a permanent place in our memories.

They may be good things, they may be bad, but what I know is that they are mine. More unwilling than selective, but these memories are mine to keep.

And I write them, that you would see this and remember what I hold treasured. It's not amazing that I remember, for the wonder lies in the person and things that give them meaning to me.

And ever so often, I think about them. And ever so true, they still stop my heart.

So breathe in, and take in the wonder.

One Dream.

Happiness is a fleeting thing, like dragonflies darting in and out of your view. They dance among the tall grass, glimmers of change in an otherwise static familiar.

But they let you catch sight of them, and you’re caught by the splendor. A burst of color snares your gaze, and disappears instantly into the swaying green.

But the warmth stays, a ripple of happiness through your field of emotions, and you end up looking for more dragonflies.

There I was, seated beside you, in a white room with a white table between us, blank white faces all around. There was color in the room, and it came from your smiling face, across the unappealing table.

I can’t figure out how we got there, but there we were. I said nothing, like always, and you were starting to get bored, like always.

“Let’s go,” you said, and all the words in my mind dissipated, waiting for our next date a few months down to manifest and simmer.

There were a line of houses, and it was a cool evening where we walked down the streets towards home. You looked upwards, craving release from the many things chained to you free spirit.

“Can I hold your hand?” I finally asked.

“Why”?

I paused as the words slipped from my mouth, and back into the recess of conversation I had meant to share.

So you sigh, like always, and take my hand in yours. I could feel your boney fingers locked in mine, moist and nervous. But I held your hand, and it felt nice. Finally.

But before the night was over, I would feel your lips - soft and gentle as I woke from sleep. I did not want to fall back into slumber, no. I sat there, a warm glow in my chest, remembering how I caught just one glimpse.

There they were, the dragonflies,
Blazing through the twilight skies.
If you follow, once or twice,
They will let them in your sights.

How they shimmer, how they tease,
As they leave you in your sleep,
Wishing more, yet no clue how,
Forgetting time, wanting now.

And as you lay there in your bed
Hoping they were real instead.
Making notes and writing words,
For when it comes, you’ll want them heard.

The Pig and the Lion

Sam was a pig, the same kind you'd associate pigs with - pink and fat and lazy and rude and noisy and dirty. Whatever he lacked on the outside, he'd make sure there's less of it inside of him as well. As far as pigs go, Sam's the creme de la creme.

Sam's owners were so proud of their fine specimen of a fat, lazy, rude, noisy and dirty pig. They loved him so much they kept feeding him and feeding him and stuffing him silly. For you see, the more fat and lazy and rude and noisy and dirty he got, the easier it is for them to kill him.

But like all living things, Sam was not aware of his fate. In fact, he thought that his owners were feeding him so much because they loved him! He thought, "Hey, that fat man and his fat wife must love me so much because they feed me and tell me to get fatter!"

But the day came when the owners have need for Sam's pork. They took him to his pen, right up to the spot where they always feed him at. The happy pig followed, ready to be pampered once more.

As the enormous animal lowered his fat pampered head into the food bucket, he noticed a shiny metal object behind his owner's back. Thinking it was a silver bucket full of food, he continued to stuff his ignorant face.

The old farmer raised the axe and brought it down as hard as he could, but he missed because of his eye sight (for old people often miss the heads of animals they attempt to slaughter). This sent Sam sprawling across the farm, his food bucket in toll.

And so Sam escaped certain death.

Running with a bucket full of food is no mean feat, and it soon tired out the giant animal. Sam took to resting so that he can finish his food better. When there was no more food in the bucket, with even the smell of food gone, Sam got up and started to find a watering hole.

Alas, the obese farm animal's luck seemed to have run dry! At the watering hole is a fearsome lion, the King of the Beasts! The magnificent creature sat still as the lumbering calamity of a livestock approached the water.

Seeing how much bigger he is than the lion, he proceeded towards the water. (You see, Sam had not seen a lion before, much less know what they are capable of!)

Alex (that's the lion's name) looked on in curiosity, but when the pig got too close to his water he hissed.

Sam, appalled by the smaller animal's act of defiance, snorted rudely, "I want the water, small furry creature! Move aside and be on your way. There will be none left for you when I'm done!"

Alex raised his eyebrow (if lions had any) at the audacity of the fatso, but did not speak up.

The pig pushed his blubbery frame into the lion's face, but got shoved back by Alex's front paws. Enraged and used to getting his way, Sam squealed at the animal lying before him, "Look buddy, I'm doing you a favor now. Get the hell out or I'm going to bite you!"

He bared his herbivore teeth at Alex, chomping at the air to make his point.

Alex shrugged his shoulder and got up. The arrogant Sam proceeded to trot past the relented lion, giving him a small shove at the end of it.

As the enormous animal lowered his fat pampered head into the watering hole, he noticed a shiny object behind him. This time, he had no time to react, nor did the lion miss his mark.

And so Sam got what he deserved.

People

There are many ways to do wrong, and we are all too familiar with the sensation.

So very often do we hear stories about wrong doings in the paper, so many imperfect people, that we start to assume that every one's a big flaw in the flesh.

But if it happens to you - when the realization that the imperfection you are now face to face with is a familiar one - what then?

Do you remember the cruel names you called that person you read about in the paper? Can you retract the impulsive urge to exact justice to the sensationalized culprit?

We may be right - everyone's a sinner - but that is still no reason for us to pass judgement or even slap the namesake of shame onto our antagonist.

It may appear that they deserve the punishment you sentence them with, but if you would only settle your anger and play things over in your mind you will discover that rage is not the true emotion at work.

Our lives are very much reflected in those of others, in that we are not entirely unique.

While there may be others who live completely different lives, but there are more crunching the same chocolate bar as you are.

That, and life's a bitch. Don't be caught by surprise when you open your door and Deja vu plays a visit to mock your inner demon.

With that, may I implore that we all stray from anger and impulse, and have ourselves a wonderful co-existence.

Simple

It is a day like most days, honest and unfascinating, but only to those who lived it.

But to the few that were here, even the light shifting of gravel beneath our feet brougt a smile to our hearts.

While the sun shone down, we hid. While the cool wind, we shut our eyes. While the People passed by, we we walked on.

Such a fine day, though meaningless to many, was good enough for me.

Slumber

How does one know when to wake?

Are we too pampered by our peers to see that we pose as nothing more than mere distractions? Or shall we persevere in the face of pretense, fighting our lost cause, each petty victory a groundless morsel of gratification?

But in our folly we continue our bliss, for blind hearts see not the warmth of true light, yet still embrace its ideal.

If such is sleep, then do not wake me.

A Holiday.

Last week was spectacular - the kind where you have nights that you don’t want to end, and when they inevitably do you go home thinking about them and wishing for the next one to start; loads of smiles, meaningful conversations, and happiness.

Which made this one pretty much a bore. No offense to those who actually spent it with me, but there’s not as much leaving me wanting for more than the last one. There was a lull, and come Monday evening, I felt an urge to fill the void.

So I went for a bus ride. A long one.

I love bus rides. They’re just one of my versions of “sit down and watch the world go by” - romanticizing the moment and not heeding the evil shadow of reality. It is a ruthlessly innocent permutation of kiddiness that I have come to be known for at the O.

But this one was different. I had a purpose in mind - a reflection was in order, an excavation into my person given the situation of things - and the bus ride was going to help me chase that eventual conclusion.

A friend told me today that you can’t be yourself when you’re in the office, and I said I found it sad that we are more often someone else than ourselves.

On the bus I am me, a sad little person cramped into the back seat, looking carefully at each and every person that boards and alights. In the back of my mind was the reason I had come, but the allure of people-watching was too great to resist.

There were a lot of factory and construction workers - lugging their hauls of big bags from Little India back to their quarters. A couple boarded the bus, a sweet-looking girl too young for her choice of clothing accompanied by a starry-eyed boy too smart for his choice of clothing. Behind them were a group of Chinese immigrants, voices drowning the music from my Motorola wireless headsets (shameless plugging to be apologized for), who seemed lost because they kept asking each other if their stop was the next one.

The Indian man seated next to me kept looking out the window to my left, stretching his skinny neck out in an attempt to see through the darkness and reflections. His comrades noticed him and started talking to him, possibly providing guidance on where his stop was. They contributed to the lively exchanges by the Chinese and the man stopped craning his neck.

At this point I realized that all was simple in the search for an answer to my query. There was a beauty to the happenings on the bus that makes you feel like you’re a part of a big performance that plays itself out no matter what you try to do. It belittles you, removing your individuality and slapping you with the hot poker of being “just one of the people”, but you don’t mind because you’re enjoying the ride.

I had my answer, and then it was time to pick on the little things - the air conditioning was too cold, and someone brought the scent of durian onto the bus.

3 hours on the road, and I return home happy.

Philip

He had a family problem so he went off first.

I was stuck at the bus stop for awhile, and I got to thinking about the conversation we had earlier at the restaurant.

There are people who you smile with - those that really make you happy. While you’re with those people you don’t want the night to end, and when it eventually does you go home wishing for the next outing.

And then there are people like Philip - the kind that tells you the plain honest truth with all the intention of getting you to wake the hell up. Sure, he gets on my nerves sometimes, but he knows what kind of a person I’m like, and the kinds of stupid shit I always manage to get into. I can’t wait to go home, but I always take a lesson with me.

So he looks at me and tells me it’s fate. That’s like telling the people of Africa they won’t starve.

This guy is amazing. Whenever I’m with him I attempt to communicate to God. I’m not making fun of anything here, but I’m not a believer. Sure I think he’s there, but I never thought he was good for anything. He’s like a security blanket, and that was enough for me.

But this skinny prick sitting in front of me always makes me look up at the sky and talk. And when I do it’s always the same thing -

“You hate me don’t you?”

Weirdos. That’s what I call him and me. From dancing in the streets to blotching up songs in the Singapore Idol auditions, we’ve done it all. There’s a special place in this world for us, and it’s far far away from all the other normal people.

So stories were exchanged and advice traded. I called him an fool and he says I’m an idiot. Trouble finds us somehow wherever we go, and we make a picnic out of it.

His latest episode had something to do with a mobile phone and homemade pornography.

Don’t ask.

Mine had something to do with stupidity and a dream so far to reach the Everest Team won’t even attempt to climb it.

Then he pulls the fast one on me. I was munching down on my moneybag (some fried wanton thing with meat stuffed inside) and he said the F word.

As usual I started to lift my head up, ready to sprout my line. But something stopped me this time.

Fate.

Funny thing, this.

Let’s see how this goes, shall we?

Today

We rant.

Sometimes stories can only tell you as much as the author intends to. And nothing beats a well-placed ramble.

So here I go.

Today I had coffee. Something I thought I got rid of a long time back. I love the taste - bitter and sweet all at the same time. And the heat from the hot water stings you, reminding you not to take all of it at the same time.

But I am greedy, and so I ask for lower temperatures so that I become the master of my indulgence.

In the background, I’ve got Lucky by Mraz and Calliat. It’s a good song and I recommend anyone who reads this to turn it on now before you go on.

So the coffee - masterful concoction of the cliche of bitter and sweet - annotates us to the little moments in life where we enjoy both joy and sorrow, makes us think back on moments when our heart ached while our lips curled up in smiles. Add in the sting from the high temperature and you’re one good Forest Gump analogy away from a Booker Prize.

Do you hear me talking to you?
Across the water, across the deep blue ocean,
Under the open sky, oh my,
Baby I’m trying.

That’s the problem though - people don’t listen. And I’m not the one complaining either. If I had a dollar every time I got a missed call on my mobile…

So you shout all you want, as long as you’re happy.

Here’s a list of 5 things I like -

1. Cats
2. Smiles
3. Cooking
4. Having fun
5. Shirts and Shoes.

Ok so it’s six things, sue me.

People change things all the time, and we being The Rest of the World, can only sit and watch. There’s a certain beauty about last-minuteness that we fail to appreciate sometimes.

It’s spontaneous, it’s fun, it’s great… So it’s worth taking that unknown turn down an unknown road - if only just for that instant. That way you won’t spend the next few days wondering if.

Here’s a list of 5 things I would like to change -

1. People should smile more
2. Cats should all die naturally
3. The weather in Singapore should be like NOT HOT
4. I should be less temperamental
5. People should like change

So next time you see a dark corner, just jump into it ok? Who knows it might actually be fun.

They don’t know how long it takes
Waiting for a love like this.
Every time we say goodbye
I wish we had one more kiss.
I’ll wait for you I promise you
I will.

If I had 20 cents every time I hear someone promise something to someone else, I’d have more money than if I had a dollar for every time I miss a call on my mobile.

I, for one, would have contributed a significant amount to that trust fund. TRUST fund! The irony.

So last but not least, here’s a list of 5 things I think are most promised to people all over the world-

1. Stories have to have happy endings
2. It’s going to be better
3. Yes sir, your money will return to you at least double in 2 years
4. Bao jiat (sure sweet!)
5. I love you

But that’s not to say it’s all balderdash. I also believe that we all get what we deserve, someday. And till that day comes, keep at it ok?

Because nothing beats hard work. Now go sweat.

Just Desserts.

They say karma's a bitch, and I'm facing her first-hand.

Ain't a good feeling, but some things just need facing up to.

Guess it's time to turn some attention on myself for a bit.

Lost

Since the start of this morning, words have escaped me.

Maybe it's the sickness affecting me, but I've not been able to paint pictures in my mind, something that I've not found difficulty doing. The dreamer in me gives me direction, throwing me all sorts of ideas - wanderlust of the mind.

Much has happened since I last touched base with myself. I had started this blog for the exact purpose of charting my thoughts and emotions, but so very often I find myself lost, unable to bring to reality the many unphysical permutations of my everyday life.

But here I am, wandering and searching for the perfect place in the world - a picture of bliss and happiness so that I can put them to words for a newly-made friend.

For she is a delicate creature - strong and willful, but I look closely and I see the cracks on the surface. I'm beginning to think that mine is a great life, though lacking many, see the absence of so much of the pain and torment that many of my fellow human beings are exposed to.

That day I saw her cry, and it shattered my heart. Since then I've been trying to give her something worth smiling about, for she has the best smile, and those wonderful eyes, so often lost and vacant with the weight of her troubles.

Perhaps I can help her, perhaps she won't let me. The least I could do is try.

The world escapes me, this strange concoction of good and evil, and I am unable to write. Sorry dear friend, all I can do for now is smile.