The Nineteen Minute Flirt

After barf episode numero cuartro (four), the stomach took a sabbatical and rested wholly on fruit and plain pasta.  Thankfully, the gods of bile and hydrochloric acid were appeased with the offering.  The day after, I was able to resume gym work.

I am slowly but surely getting back into shape.

Coupled with these daily sessions, I ventured back on court with my crazy Englishman friend, Craig Walker today.  I met Craig the last time I was in Barcelona.  He's also a college graduate who shares the same crazy crazy dream of playing professional tennis.  He got his degree in Business, worked and saved for two years to pick up and pack up for Barcelona.  Point of interest, really, is that age aside, Craig has just as much or, if not, less(!) tennis experience than I do.

We're pretty much on the same path, and it was good to catch up again after seven, eight months.  He also works as a night warden at another tennis centre in Barcelona (the Centre Internacional de Tennis), and is trying out an optimal set up that will allow him equal opportunity for rest, work, and training.  We met up with the intention to hit, but spent most of it talking.  About relationships, age, adulthood, dreams, ideal training set ups.  He talked about his new girlfriend and the challenges of keeping a relationship under the strain of tennis.  I reminded him about being single and the equal challenges it often poses.  It's ironically comforting hearing how our struggles are so similar.

When we finally stepped onto clay, we had twenty minutes left.  I was a little nervous.  My wall session yesterday had left me convinced that my legs were still numb lead sticks.  Yet, to my surprise, once we started hitting, things suddenly took on a sudden, strange sharpness.

I could see the ball crystal clear.  I didn't feel any pain in my knee.  I could feel the ball on my strings.  The chaff in my grip.  My entire body, my muscles working and flowing in one accord.  After a month off and the subsequent insecurity and anxiety that naturally welled up--it was surprising to feel it literally melt away under the Spanish sun.

"Forget about the skeptics, let's nail that backhand." Swoosh!
"Watch the ball." Adjust....
"Move, hit." Bam!

The thoughts shot through my mind in split seconds and I responded like an oiled, automated machine.  The backhand worked, the forehand whipped ass, the legs were moving.

"Everything's still there." I thought to myself--amazed.  A little dusty from where I left it, sure, but that's alright.  I've still got it.  I felt a little ashamed to even think I'd lost it.

Maybe what I really need now for my game isn't more gym, or training or worrying about long hours.  My clay-flirt taught me today that it's really about having more self-belief.

Vomit, Toilet Bowls and Copy Cats.

The room is quiet. The only sound between the silent walls is a clock ticking.

The camera pans through the darkness,  It moves towards the bed in the centre of the room.  Faint moonlight shows a body curled under a white duvet.


Camera zooms into the sleeper's face.  Music crescendos.  Her eyes suddenly break open at climax.
-----
I retched my lungs out four times last night, over two hours in the wee of the morning.


Woke up at 3am to a bloated stomach and a sicking burning sensation in my throat.  Before I knew it, I was fighting overwhelming giddiness and nausea to get to the toilet on time.  Think of yourself squatting barefoot in a public cubicle with your head buried in the toilet bowl.  Yes, it was pretty... bad.


A silly part of me wonders whether this is retribution for my pessimistic blogpost yesterday about my guano-infested new abode.  Or maybe the barf session just became a psychological spin-off from thinking too much about shit (yes, pun intended).  


And funnily enough, that was exactly what I did after the barf. 


(Talk about cleansing from both ends!)

After the second run-in to the toilet, I grabbed the nearest bucket and put it beside my bed.  Each time this happened at home, dad would never fail to get up, and sit by me.  He'd soothe my back patiently and coo to help me feel better.  This time, though, there was no one there.  No one but a plastic bucket, some half-used tissues to wipe away the tears, and my wonderful Lord.
----
I had a meeting with Emilio today to discuss the possibility of copywriting for the Academy in exchange for training.  I was half-expecting a difficult conversation and awkward silences--but he was open to the idea and I basically kept on showing how I could add value to S-C's marketing campaign.

All in all, if all goes well, I'm taking up two jobs to make ends meet.  I feel a little like Younes El Aynaoui, and admittedly, I don't know how I will manage when serious training starts.  Vincent my buddy sighed aloud when I told him about today's meeting, but I cut him short.  "I have no choice, Vince.  This is my only shot to train."


We've agreed to give this copy initiative a chance over Summer--and we'll see how it goes from there.

♫ Listen to the rhythm of the birdshits dropping ♫ 
A turn of events has taken place on the accommodation front.  I have been moved from my lovely spacious room at the Residence, to a small little grot hole called the Bungalows, across the Academy.

Okay, so maybe the word "grot" doesn't really exist.  But it sounds disgusting enough to get my point cross.

It is a big step moving from a lovely Residencia room with floor to ceiling cupboards (and almost windows), to a small little "studio" apartment with hardly enough room for a bed and a cupboard..  Don't get fooled with the studio description--yes I might have a kitchenette, toilet and bathroom, but the stove doesn't work, the sink is leaking, and the floors creak at every step.  It's really a container elevated above ground on metal stilts, a-la Spanish kampung style.

What makes the Bungalows bad is the size, the cao4 seng1 (stale and putrid) smell, and the fact that the exterior of a good half of the "house", is covered in generous smatterings of birdshit.  Yes, generous dollops of guano my friends.

So fresh, that when I first opened my room's window, shit sat on my sill, waiting to sing "hello!" to the chorus of bird feathers flying in.  Mmmmmmm... Love it.  I'm looking forward to nitrogenous-waste-induced hallucinations alright.

P.S.  Would post pictures, but realised I forgot my SD Card reader :(  Need to find one before I can post more!

Nutrition System Changes
While clearing out my old room at the Residencia, I found this handout my old (and much adored) trainer Javier Capitaine wrote re. nutrition guidelines for players at the Academy.
I don't think lay people (much less msg-loving Singaporeans) would be able to naturally adhere to much of what's in the list below--but it's still a great peek into high-performance eating.

1. Give everybody the option to choose oneself their own freedom to draw their diet.  Don't make dishes mandatory.
2. Provide brown rice and wholegrain oats EVERYDAY and in every meal (plus any kind of wholegrain as replacement).
3. 3. don't flavor food.  Give each one the option to choose it.
4. Olive oil, salt and natural lemon have to be ALWAYS available.
5. Avoid ANY type of artificial cereals or energetic snacks.
6. Several kinds of natural teas have to be ALWAYS available.
7. Wholemeal bread and biscuits should be available.
8. Fresh and dried fruit will be part of any meals, according to seasonal vegetables.
9. Proteins with high biological value (meat, fish, chicken, egg whites will be basic in any meal.  Avoid pork cuts, pickles and cooked pork products with high fat value.  Lean ham is allowed.
10. There should be a choice between skimmed or fat milk or yogurt products.
11. Cheese: lean cheese only.
12. Dinner has to be planned through a big limitation of carbohydrates, with only brown rice or pasta (no pizza, no potatoes).  Increase proteins with green leafy vegetables.
13. Provide ready meals with training cakes or chocolate oats for intensive trainings which require bigger contributions of nutritional elements.
14. The fitness bar should provide shakes of several juices or fruit combinations with extra proteins, maltodextrinas or any other contribution that may be necessary in varying quantities according to athlete requirements.  The same should be applied for sandwiches, where it's better to avoid any kind of pollutant, colouring, sweeteners or extra sugars.
15. Juice provided during any meal should be drunk at the end of the meal, and, in any case, in 1 unit only.

It would've been cool to see how Capi applies these guidelines to Asian cuisines.  All too often when we think about high-performance eating, the diet is naturally Western-centric simply because the bulk of sports science research has stemmed from Western fronts.  But what about Olympic winning Chinese, Japanese, or Korean athletes?  I'm sure they don't chug down juice or pasta or cheese as much as their Caucasian counterparts.  But they do well nonetheless.  What are the rules of those systems?

Buenos Días, Barcelona

Photo credits to barcelonaphotoblog.com

After a leg-numbing 16 hour flight, I have stumbled out of the plane into the embrace of a surprisingly cool Barcelona summer.  Nothing of the hot, humidity I was hoping for.  Instead, the weather was startlingly similar to last September's waning spring.

It was like nothing had changed at all.

And yet, so many things have.  There was no perfunctory "Sarah Pang" sign held out by an unknown Academy driver.  Instead, Tony stood with his hands tucked into his pockets, waiting beside a pillar.  "Sarah!" he hollered across a row of people.  I looked, recognized this Academy's warm driver, and smiled.  

I was genuinely surprised with the amount of warmth I met at the Academy.  Many looked both surprised and happy to see me.  I was kissed warmly both from the office staff, cleaners, many fitness and tennis coaches alike.  Maybe the warmth is generally just part of Spanish culture--but it certainly felt like more.  In many ways, it reminded me of the "family" I'd unconsciously left behind at Sanchez-Casal.

All of them, smiling, asked the same, solid question.  "How long are you going to be here for?"

I don't know, I thought to myself.  I really don't.

Apart from my oft tumultuous feelings, it's obvious God's grace is reigning stronger than my consciousness of lack, or my moments of irrational fear about the coming months.  When I think about the miraculous 50kg airport luggage grant, the easy hellos, the warm hugs and kisses,... it's obvious.  The marks are so strong, they simply take me by surprise.

Maybe a year won't be too difficult to imagine.  Still there are so many things to think about.  I don't have enough on me for more than a month's tennis fees--and that is all that I just about have right now.  I need to talk to Emilio to see how I can work more than just a EUR400 12-hour night shift.  I need to think about how much I want to train, how fast I want to get back into my regime.  How to avoid injury in the whole process, while balancing work.  I need to think about my short, long term objectives, to chart them out and peg them down with specific directives.  The thoughts are often overwhelming, brain-paralyzing...  At moments, it's so easy to feel alone in this.

But even that's a lie.  I am not.  I have a team of family and friends back home who love and support me.  I have a God for which nothing is impossible.  And I have a dream that I am truly chasing.

So I'll take that deep breath, and say again, indeed.

Good morning, Barcelona.

Stuffings come in many shapes and sizes :P
Geezers.  This is what happens when you try to pack a year's supply of gear into a 35kg limit.

It is also coincidental and slightly ironic that I have been up and running for the last 35 hours.  Prancing around weight concerns at 4.45am, I am starting to feel like a stuffed turkey too.

Gizzard, applesauce or rosemary filling, anyone?

Screw it, I am going to sleep. Goodnight world.....

Your Love is King
So old school, but that said... Sade is timeless :)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1cd5zSxElbM


Words: Sade Adu
Music: Sade Adu and Stuart Matthewman

Your love is king,
crown you in my heart.
Your love is king,
never need to part.
Your kisses ring,
round and round and round my head.
Touching the very part of me.
It's making my soul sing.
Tearing the very heart of me.
I'm crying out for more.

Your love is king,
crown you in my heart.
Your love is king.
You're the ruler of my heart.
Your kisses ring,
round and round and round my head.
Touching the very part of me.
It's making my soul sing.
I'm crying out for more.
Your love is king.
This is no blind faith
This is no sad and sorry dream.
This is no blind faith
Your love...
your love is real... gotta crown me with your heart,
never, never need to part,
touch me.
Never letting go,
never letting go,
never going to give it up.
I'm coming,
you're making me dance...

The Crux of Faith 
One week left from departure, and a mere three days after a heart-wrenching interview with them, I received an email from Trailblazers telling me 

"that after due consideration, Trailblazer has decided that it is unable to provide you with the requested sponsorship."

It was surprisingly quick--considering I was told that they would take approximately two weeks to respond because they had to write an report to the executive board to argue for my case.  Instead, it took them just three days to reply.


I'm not sure how I feel.  On one level, I feel like a battered animal.  On another, maybe sometimes life really isn't about living by feelings--but knowing we are the beloved of the Lord.

-----

A Youtube clip I saw on Facebook.  Especially poignant from 6:00 mins onwards: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YShtFyjsUVk

Dissing Demons, Talking Angels
Good interview?  Yes.  Wonderful in too many ways.

After a 50 minute wait in a chilly foyer, the initial steps I took into the interview room were tired, weary ones.  I swiveled slightly in my chair as I sat down--and immediately was greeted with the cold blast of air from above.  A unit hovered right behind their heads, pegged to the wall above, and another swooped down from the centre of the room.  Right from the get go, I could feel my forehead tighten against the cold air shooting down.  Their smiles--a panel of two--were equally tight, just as cold.  Silently, above, the arrows continued shooting.  Numbing my thoughts, stalling my processes.  "Wonderful." I thought.  "Let's play."

Add nervousness, a truly skeptical party, difficult questions and an aggressive interviewer who kept on talking over me--it was extremely trying, terrifically unforgiving.  Nothing of the willingness to listen or openness to consideration that I so hoped from a foundation that described itself to be truly different from the rest.

It wasn't just in the way the questions were asked, but the spirit in which they were asked.  Claudio a good friend of mine told me that I was being unrealistic in expecting them to molly-coddle me through the interview.  Instead, it was a good thing that they were constantly challenging me, constantly on my back talking down and asking more about my game, my intentions, and exclaiming "it's going to be very hard, very hard" probably about fifteen times over.  Everything lasted for nearly an hour.

While I grew so cold my body started convulsing and my voice started quivering, what bugged me most was also the manner in which the questions were asked.  I am grateful that they asked only hard questions--but it was the inexplicable spirit in which they was asked.  The gaze, the dismissive hand gesture, the unflinching, cold hard pressed mouth-line told me it knew its answers and conclusions before I could proffer any.  The gaze told me it had learnt, earned and heard it all before any words came from my lips.  I lost my train of though so many times, left a number of sentences halfway unsaid--mainly because it felt like it had reached its conclusions before I even began. 

Given, this attitude may have been a interview tactic to see how far I would bend--and true enough, I felt like walking out of the room towards the end.  But instead, I kept quiet, continued smiling while the dismissing and my lack "of a proper CV" was being thrown in my face.  I saved those bolting moments to the last, as I firmly shook their hands, thanked them for their time, and walked out to the well of tears stinging my eyes and a deep, heart-wrenching hole quickly boring into my chest.

I needed to breath--I needed to think.  And it's ironic that the only space that afforded me those alarming moments of privacy was a toilet cubicle.  Even the instant reflex to dial for a trusted friend like Vince or Calvin failed.  I stood instead chest-high in a cacophony of hoots and jeers.  "This interview was not meant to be like this."  I thought.  "It was not supposed to have turned out this way."  I sat on the toilet seat nursing the wound.  The only thing that spoke back were the silent speckles on the toilet's grey marble wall.

That's why I think it so strange though, that when I finally stepped out of that dingy office building, all I could see, was how bright the day truly was.  Heavy heart included, yes.  But somehow, the day seemed to stand for so much more.

"An excellent spirit, is one that depends on God." --Pastor Lian
Interview for Trailblazers is set for tomorrow, 10am. 
Whatever the outcome, God has already nailed this in love, for me.

Return to Spain--Quest #25 
It's sometimes funny how at different times of the same day, we say such different things.  My mind can mentally start a blog post in one moment with a firm sentence, an absolute exclamation.  But when I finally sit down and stare at this screen, an entirely different tune comes to play.

Still, the notes, the crochets, the semibreves, the minims stay the same.  They remain the same instruments we use to weave our songs of life together.

So I have decided to return to Spain, with or without funding.  In many ways, it is a great leap of faith.  And I am aware, that this is also an act filled with foolishness in the eyes of many skeptics.  But still, I have decided to cast all cynicism aside, and look to God as the source of my strength.

Much of this decision came birthed from a break I took in Kuantan, Malaysia last week.  A friend of mine, Siau Ling (aka my "tennis mother") invited me to join her family on an all-expenses paid trip up to a beach side resort along West Malaysia.  They had an extra space in their car, an extra bed at the hotel, and a super generous heart to bless me.  "Just come and relax" was her persistent persuasion--and I relented.

I'm glad I did go.  I took the trip as a blessing of a retreat with God, and spent more than half my free time curled up in bed in my room, reading my bible.  During those moments, Isaiah 64 and Psalms 46 became the building blocks that broke into my spirit to build me up again.  I will share again one day, how those two chapters came to life--but needless to say, I came back to Singapore better renewed, charged with greater direction.  Here is Kuantan, in pictures.

8am Lor Mai Kai (Steamed Chicken with Glutinous Rice) breakfast en route to Kuantan

Breathtaking South China Sea, en route to Kuantan

A litter of lanterns hanging outside the coffeeshop we had lunch at, in Kuantan.

Yong tau foo--it looks better than it actually tasted.  Shun Li yong tau foo at Bukit Merah tastes better any day.

Kick-ass century egg pork porridge.  It had different bits and sizes of pork in it--some lean some minced, some rolled into balls. Topped with crackalicious youtiao and just the right sprinkling of parsley and chong--I ditched my yong tau foo and went for this instead.

 I like this shot.  The symmetry of legs and the calm colour scheme captures the chill sentiments everyone had during check in.

Random coffeeside roadstore.  Lovely pink and purple, unfortunately putrid food.  The mee rebus that was supposed to have thick, flavorsome peanut-filled gravy came instead, as a watery swill with an all-ambiguous layer of yellow greasing its top :P

Disgruntled, I walked out from the coffeeshop looking for alternative eats.  I found a ramli burger store.

 Much, much better.  Strangely too, they taste more organic than Macs--I think it because they actually use real ingredients (like fresh cucumber, onions, this one had pineapple in it too).  So at the end of the day, it's much more palatable.

 Lovebirds

 

And you too....!

 

Roadside chendol store.  The owner's son (second from right) had one of the most peculiar noses I've ever seen.  Think of a hybrid between a parrot and a hawk's merged into one.

The chendol, though, was pret-ty good.  Slurpilicious, though it would have been great topped with red beans.

Practice Makes Perfect
Tennis today was absolute crap.  Legs were heavy, body was aching from gym, couldn't hit my signature running forehand cross-court.  Maybe I'm being a little too hard on myself after being sick and out for 2.5 weeks.

Memories from Yesteryear

 

Srikanth, my good tennis friend from India forwarded me an email I'd sent him wayyy back in 2007 when I was still an undergraduate at NUS, learning how to play the game:
---------
From: Sarah Pang
Sent: Monday, February 12, 2007 10:26AM
To: Srikanth Vendantam
Subject: Tennis

Hi Srikanth,

I don't know if you remember me, but I'm a tennis player you rallied with a really long time ago on the courts of NUS.  I'm a rather tall, I was wearing longs and playing with my dad.  You passed me your name card and said you were looking for someone to play tennis on a consistent basis.  I have been intending to email you as I am also looking for people to rally with, but lost your namecard.  I just found it!

Would you be interested in hitting the NUS courts sometime round?

Best,
Sarah

----------

I remember I was practicing with my dad that morning when he very lackadaisically strolled by our court.  It was a hot weekday and he had his tennis racquet in one hand and a big red plastic bag with a few old tennis balls in the other.

Being the goofball I was, I immediately became very self-conscious about what I saw as my ridiculous tennis outfit.  I was in a tatty long-sleeved shirt, coupled with baggy long pants and an oh-biang cap.  The garb was "sponsored" by my neurotic dad, who insisted that I had to protect my skin from the terrible sun.

My dad ended up inviting him to hit with me (father's neuroticism also translates to a certain charm at times, which he uses whenever he sees fit).  Srikanth very sportily agreed, I sheepishly got onto the other end, and the rest, as they say, is history :)

It never fails to amaze me how the game of tennis gives us such wonderful opportunities to make many friends.  In some cases, they become good ones, and Srikanth has, over the years at NUS, become one of them.  One thing that made me like him from the start was how easy going he was.  He never minded my ridiculous baggy, long outfits, or that we used only old balls and ratty racquets.  What he did mind was treating others well and refraining from passing judgement on others.  Match that with conversations about tennis technique, mechanical engineering and literature, Saturday morning tennis sessions during my Undergraduate days were made that much less awkward, and a lot more enjoyable!

Unfortunately, as training revved up, we started hitting less often.  And recently, Srikanth just returned to India for good, with tenure to teach in Chennai.  He and his lovely wife Aparna invited me over to their place for a kick-ass goodbye dinner--and it was such good fun just talking and chowing with them, I couldn't help but wish we had stayed in contact more frequently after I graduated.  I mean, I could've had chance to eat more of Aparna's kick-ass Indian food!! ;)  Still, as we said our parting goodbyes, Srikanth grinned and told me that if I ever reached the 3rd (or was it 4th?) round of any Grand Slam, he would def. fly over to come watch me play.  

I laughed out loud and grinned back, big time :D  Have a great time back home, dude!  We'll keep in touch for sure :)