In Conversation

Short dialogue I had with a team mate after practice today.

Him:  "Hey how are you?"
Me:  "Really tired."
(short pause)
Me: "And you?"
Him: "Dead."

Pei Pa Koa

I've been having a phlegm-y cough for the past week that has constantly bordered onto a fever.  Not fun especially when you're gasping for breath in between treacherous drills.  Couldn't take it any more and forced myself to town this weekend to grab this from the Oriental Chinese supermarket.

The funny thing was that this wasn't on the shelves--but I was pretty sure I saw it somewhere before.  I went to the cashier lady, asked, and she--casting a dubious glance around--pulled a bottle from under the counter. 

"你找 这个？"

"Ah! Yes!"

Apparently this was contraband stuff.  They weren't allowed to sell it legally because it was a medicine.  Probably explains why it was EUR12 for a bottle too.

I paid with my eyes closed.  Wincing.

Tee-ko, Cheeko Kiko

We're having a tournament now at the Academy and the bungalows is packed with new players.  Kiko, my colleague and Bungalow mate, and I are pretty busy accommodating the newcomers.  

One of the Italian coaches came up to me asking for him.  Unfortunately, he got Kiko's name wrong.

"Hallo!  Is Chee-ko around?" 

Hahahahahaha!!  Jia lat man.  I stood there laughing for a good minute!

Seven More Minutes, Seven More Days

Thought of the moment: "Play with your feet more than your hands."
Chow of the moment: Mixed berry yoghurt and multi-grain toast with butter.
Music of the moment: George Michael+Mary J. Blige's As

I pulled a groin muscle slightly during morning practice today.  I can think of three reasons how I could have avoided this.

1.  Done a more thorough warm up.  It's amazing how we take the functioning parts of our body for granted until something cocks up and we're left in a semi-state of paralysis.  And pain.

2.  Stopped when I was supposed to have stopped.  The plan was to stop after an hour in the morning, but I was so into the rhythm and enjoying practice so much, I decided to continue doing controls.  A few minutes more into the control, I felt a groin pull.

3.   Been more conscious about how my body was feeling--not just during practice, but vis-a-vis the fatigue it felt from a whole week's worth of training.  Friday was the last day, and sometimes in the midst of adrenaline rushes, we forget our bearings.  Maybe under-training is always much better than over-training (read: higher injury exposure)....

I was initially very pek-chek with the pull.  I hobbled to the physio and was grim-faced the whole way.  The good thing is that I have learnt to feel my body well enough to know when I have to stop.  I felt it during the rally--initially wasn't sure, gave it one more rally, and stopped halfway in the second.  "I can't.  I pulled something, I need to go see physio."

Another lesson learnt.  Good news is I will still be able to keep training, but just at a lighter load.  I should be back in full game by the end of a week.

Those Still, Waking Moments

Just woke up about half an hour ago.

Dreamt I got into the finals of one of the competitions here.

How pregnant, these dreams.

Intrepid, Trepidatious Thursday

After two months of single sessions in a bid to get my body accustomed to the rigors of training, I finally feel  fit enough to start double sessions.

Nothing intense.  Just up three hours from the previous two, spread over two sessions instead of one.  Today was my first double session, and I am officially poofed.  

Morning session (1 hour):
- Warm up
Mini tennis for about two minutes and then moving to the baseline for rallies down the middle.

- Drills
1.  Forehand defensive baseline down the line, forehand offensive approach cross court.  Alternate with backhand.

2.  Baseline defense, forehand cross court, backhand cross court, alternating both sides, returning always with footwork to the centre.  (In the end your feet follow a sort of "V")

3.  Baseline forehand cross court, baseline backhand cross court, run-around-forehand approach (on backhand side)

- Rallying
4.  Passing shots
5.  Volleys

Afternoon session (2 hours):
- Warm up
Mini tennis.  Didn't like my rallying partner very much--he spent more time flopping around dragging his shoes than actually bothering to hit the ball consistently.  He was from Dubai, and he must've had some egotistical, testicular chauvinistic streak about him because he kept wanting to kill every ball I sent his way.  Made it pretty difficult rallying from the baseline.

- Drills
1. Baseline forehand cross court, baseline backhand cross court, backhand approach down the line, free play for the point.

2. Approach forehand cross court, backhand volley cross court, forehand volley cross court.  Start again from the backhand side.  Objective of this exercise was footwork and correct hip swivelling.

3. Variation to exercise 2--
Approach forehand cross court, backhand volley cross court, free play volley (i.e. it can come to either your left or right).  Exercise forces you to keep on your toes and not anticipate any drill routine.

4.  Starting the drill with a backhand volley down-the-line, you quickly move to do a backhand overhead cross court smash (forces you to move quickly and turn body).  Focus of the drill is really the smash-volley routine.  Switch sides after backhand is accomplished. 
Found this drill pretty difficult--it's hard timing a good smash when the ball is coming down so fast and you're scrambling to get into the best position to hit a cross court smash.

5.  Variation of exercise 4--
After doing the overhead cross court smash, the first volley goes cross court, the second is free play.  If it goes to my forehand, I have to split-step in to hit a forehand volley, and then move back to an overhead cross court smash from the same side.  Eeerugh!

6.  Deuce court receive of second serve to my backhand, return cross court, running forehand down the line, free play.

7. Serves

8.  Tie break.

Paco, the Mexican coach I was working with, was really good.  Aside from the fresh series of drills he had us do, he watched us carefully when we played tie break and gave me a couple of tips on how I can improve my game. 

1) I direct the ball well, but I wait too much for my opponent. 
"Sarah, it's almost as if you're waiting for your opponent to go back to the centre before you hit the next shot!!"--Paco's complaint

2) I look like I'm going to shit in my pants each time I do a second serve.  i.e. I'm too tense.
He got us to listen to a short audio file on his iphone about the key to serving by Andy Roddick's coach.  In essence, it's about 1) Having a loose grip 2) Relaxing your entire body so it can get into optimal "whip" position!  One interesting point Roddick's coach made was how you can see how tense someone is through their facial expressions--particularly during second serve.  According to Paco, I looked like  "Mierda! Una mass sake!" (Translated from Spanish: "Shit! I have one more serve!")  Hahahahah.

3) I need to establish my own routine in between first and second serves.  I'm doing one after another too quickly.

All in all, it was a thoroughly enjoyable day.  Now, though, I am feeling the effects of working and training at the same time--and I need to go to bed pronto.  Oh wait. I haven't even showered.... Here's to another packed day.  Good night, world!

P.S.  Apologies for the typos/grammatically incorrect syntax structures.  I'm sure there are--but I'm just too tired to re-read through.  Maybe tomorrow!

Work like a mule, perform like a thoroughbred
It went up to 34degrees this afternoon, and we played endlessly under the sweltering heat.

Three shirts, eight hundred balls and two hours later, I walked off court, crawled into the shade of my bungalow, and curled up like a prawn ready for the shelling.

The heat had spread through my muscles and seeped into my bones.  In a faraway distance, I could feel it running a cruel course to my brain.  Disorientation, a looming fever, and yes, total heat stroke intended.

Been chugging down loads of water and loads of Umeboshi plum balls.  I hear that it's going to be 32 degrees tomorrow, and 36 the day after.  Please keep me in your prayers!

Catwalk!  (Meowwww)

The deed has been done.  My clubbing virginity in Barcelona officially went rent this weekend.

The site in point was this club called Catwalk and it was at an invite of an English friend Craig, who is a year older than me, and essentially doing the exact same thing.  Trying to make ends meet while playing full-time tennis.  

This absconding to a club in the middle of the night, though, initally like a blasphemy of the Holy Tennis Spirit.  But I did it anyway--just to get out and get some semblance of balance to my 25 year old life.

During my sophomore days at NUS, I used to go out clubbing every week for a phrase.  I learnt how to dance then, but the boogeying somehow naturally died down the more I got to know the Lord.  This weekend, though, was a revival of first-loves on the dance floor.  Barcelona style ;)

Much like Zouk, Catwalk had two floors, bottom electric house, and top, R+B.  Wyliam Belart played house music--very interesting mix of house, salsa, rumba and electric.  It was surprisingly good.

The club was filled with glowing-in-the-dark lights, with neon colours abounding.

Case in point, bartender's table.  1 Martini=EUR10.  Ouch!

They even had dancers to get the crowd into the groove.  Many of them had neon paint splashed on them.  Strictly no contact, though.  A couple of girls touched one of the dancers and promptly got thrown out of the club!

The toilets were probably the fanciest place in the club.  Certainly made me appreciate Zouk's interior design.

We danced till 6.30am, and most of that time was spent on the dance floor, closing my eyes and getting lost in the beat.  The place was teeming with tourists, which included touchy-feel-ly French men, grinder-wanna-be Black men, overly-talkative British ones, and the random, occasional Spaniard too shy to say hello.  

That said, it was genuinely interesting seeing how the birds and the bees worked.  Most of these observations were made on the dance floor--sadly mostly at the expense of my clubbing enjoyment (read, "friendly" men trying to feel you up!).  There was no shortage of male attention here--most of which I tried my best to shy away from.  I counted that a total of NINE boys came up to me!  Of course, all of them were eager to get all touchy-feel-ly, but I was firm and rejected them all.  It is strange, but all this time, I was thinking to myself, it's so easy to just close one eye and dirty dance with a boy (a few of the nine were pretty good looking!).  But deep down inside, I was also thinking, How can I treat my body like this?  My body is the Lord's, and I am here to play tennis.  I know that being a pro-player is God's calling in my life, and knowing that He has given me this body for that very purpose, I just couldn't bring myself to act so cheap on the dance floor.  This body is His, and His alone.

Halfway through the night, I realised that I was probably one of the very few people actually truly dancing.  Most of the others were just swaggering around nervously, or awkwardly bopping up and down.  To my disdain, I was reminded how most men were more interested in picking up girls than really groovin.  My mate Craig, as a case in point, was also busy playing chase.

Not that it's wrong.  Or right.  But it's sometimes so hard to find clubbers who are really there just for the music.  If you meet someone on the way, yes, that's fine and great.  But to me, stepping onto the dance floor is all about getting lost in the music and letting your body and the beat become one. Who cares whether you look like an idiot or not?  The point about dancing is to enjoy yourself, no?

It's the same with tennis.

We stepped out just before dawn, and stayed around enough to catch the sun peeking out from it's baby blue blanket.

All psyched up to drive back--all in all it was a really good night.  I enjoyed myself so much more than I expected!  Still, never quite as much as being on court :)

Court Tactic #3
"It's all about making sure your opponent makes more steps than you do."
-Angel Gimenez

VII Open De Tennis Torredembarra

Played my second tournament this week in a neighboring region, Torredembarra--about an hour's drive away from the Academy.
I was really looking forward my match and getting into the rhythm of tournament spirit.  What surprised me most, though, was how the whole experience proved so much more than I expected.


1.  My opponent was much better than I was.  Ex-top 200 WTA, to be exact.

The accompanying coach, Pollo (pronounced "poh-yeoh"), actually smiled a hopeless smile as he broke the news.  She was Ukranian, 27, extremely pretty, and now a full-time coach in Barcelona.  "Just play your best, yeah?"  Pollo advised.  I thought she was going to smack me like a fly.

In the end, I lost the match 0-6, 1-6.  A trumping by the numbers, but still, the scoreline missed the mood of the match played.  I did make most of the errors, but 60% of the time, it was also after a long or intensely slogged out rally.  


"Not so bad."  I thought to myself during the rally.
"I can take her balls.  And I am running with her."


After one particularly long rallies, she had to bend over, out of breath.  And I just stood there, looking at her.  All's not lost after all!  I may have lost the match, but I think I know what to do to improve further.


2.  I learnt a lot of tactic strategies, just by watching.  And talking to Pollo.

Those of you who play tennis will know that we are always different animals, not just on court, especially during competition.  While it was a relatively small draw--16 for the women and 64 for the men, there were certainly many good players.  There were guys who had ATP points, or top players in Spain for the older age groups.  I saw this guy who had 7 ATP points and a smackalicious backhand.  Another who played smart with his footwork and ball placement.  Best of all, Pollo whom I sat next to bothered to explain good and bad shot choice as the rallies went on.  What I learnt is that tactic is all about 1) Hitting to the weaker side, and 2) Hitting to the empty spaces.


3. I got to get closer to my teammates
Being 5, 8, 10 years older than most of the kids here, age difference is one big challenge for me here at the Academy.  Especially compounded by the fact that you have to think of ways and means to beat the living daylights out of them! 

But being at tournament from the same competing Academy helped somewhat.  Above is Pulock, a very extroverted Indian boy from Dehli with a wicked top spin and an extreme penchant for pretty girls watching his matches.  He got drawn with the number 2 seed (top 5 in u-18 age group in Spain, I think).  He lost 0-6, 1-6 too, but his match was really intense.  We watched each others matches, cheered each other on and huddled under the trees together, away from the fierce sun.  Remnants of my RJ days during national championships naturally started creeping in.

Most of our time cheering was for Jasmine, my teammate from Munich, on the right, sitting down.  She was out on court for a 2.5 hour slug-fest with a very determined opponent who kept on mis-aligning the score and disputing line-calls.  30-15 for Jasmine became 0-40 in her books.  She was so aggressive, she kept calling the tournament director in to dispute marks on the clay, and because she spoke fluent Spanish, most of the time she got her way.  Jasmine was so pissed off she was this close to walking off court, but Pollo wouldn't let her.  In the end she won that very same 0-40 game, and the third set, 6-3.  


The girl on the left, Nuria from Spain, reached the finals (she was so lucky to get a walk-over from the first seed!).  Her opponent was my first-round, top-200 WTA opponent.  She lost in the third 3-6.

The trip back from tournament was highly scenic.  In included tunnels through hills, 

high blue skies 

and sights of sea over country side.

Most of us were knackered, though.  Tournaments are hard work.

Halfway though, though, one of us woke up.  "Stop the car Pollo!  STOP THE CAR!!"  Hamzah, from London started yelling like a stringed chicken.  "My legs are cramping, I need to STREETCCHHH. AHHHHH!!"  Pollo started laughing and eventually pulled over.  


Hamzah lost to the number 1 seed after also another 2.5 hour slug-fest.  He managed to push #1 to three sets but succumbed to talking tactics which the former employed between games.  Pulock was scolding him in his thick Indian accent from the fence "Shaaaat-up mahn!  He's traaying to deeestract you!!"  Hamzah, unfortunately, couldn't reign in his cocky swagger, nor keep his mouth shut.  So he lost in the third.  Still, it was exhilaratingly close and exciting to watch.  Both parties were running left right, left right... endlessly.


When he cramped, it was so bad I had to get out from my front seat and literally pull him out of the van.  He couldn't bend his legs and it was gross bear-hugging this heavy, sweaty, 19 year old boy.  But the fact that he was also reduced to nothing but a whimpering pup was also pretty funny.

He was in so much pain, he also pulled out part of the van's rubber lining.!!  

The rest of us were laughing really hard.  Pulok had to take pictures, 

and then do his Indian version of "Whaaat thee faaaaaaark man!" (hand gesture included)

All this while poor Hamzah tried to stretch and drink out the cramp.


By the time we'd reached the Academy, it was near 5pm, we had missed lunch and officially spent the whole day out on competition.  Hard work, both preparing and playing it--but it was a really great experience.  I'm looking forward to continuing working on my game.  As James Blake's motto stands, everyday, just think "Work hard, get better."  


I believe I'll get there.

Pita Pocket Removed
Got the physio to remove the dead skin off my blister today.

Now I'm just carrying a pink tang yuan around... lol.

Up close.  Although tender, it's still healing surprisingly faster than I thought.  As my pastor would say, God makes no junk :)

Banged Up Backhands

Worked so hard on my backhand during practice, I bore a deep blister into the heart of my palm.  Needed it drained and taped to continue training in the gym.  It wasn't too cool having a needle stuck into my hand.  But it had to be done.

Slightly bigger than a 1 cent coin.  I think it's about the equivalent of a Singaporean 5 cent coin.  And a bloody pain to play with.  After the physio pricked it, it swelled again, and only burst as I played through it the next day.  Thank God it popped neatly.

Here is its deflated version in its all too glamorous side view, pocket included.  Because I can't cut away the skin (too deep), I kinda feel like I'm carrying a pita pit around now... pun intended.  Haha.

The bright side, though, is that after three days of screaming at myself about my backhand, it's finally getting better.  Been working on it for the past two days with Angel, one of the senior coaches here.  I like working with him--simply because he is intense and always drives and yells at you to do your best on court.  He also bothers to explain the rationale of the drill too--and that always helps.

For my backhand, we were working on controlling my body as I hit the shot.  I have a tendency to move away as I am hitting my backhand, in anticipation for the next shot.  A little like putting the cart before the horse.  Obviously, this habit has proven extremely catastrophic--I don't finish the shot properly and my arms either end up flailing or turning into windshield wipers.  My stance also tends to be a little too far from my backhand sweet spot.  In other words, and I am left with a nice, a half-ass backhand.

Angel got me to stand with my shoulders perpendicular to the court.  "I am going to feed you short and long balls.  I want you to move forward and backward with your shoulders always perpendicular to the net."

"What about recovery?"  I questioned.
"How relevant is this exercise to my game??"  I wailed.

Angel finally drilled into me that the point of this exercise was not about recovery.  The aim was the get me to hit without turning using any other torso muscles aside from those directly related to the shot--my arms.  Not even my shoulders!

"Keep it simple."  He kept saying.  "Just think about using your arm and finishing the shot.  Don't move your legs when you hit the shot.  Keep them still."  I thought of drawing strength from the ground.  Makes sense, somewhat, no?

Still, in all honesty, I didn't know how much of his advice to trust.  It simply doesn't make sense to hit your backhand with only your biceps and triceps when they are such a small muscle group compared to your abs or your quad groups.  He didn't even want me turning my shoulders (which I usually do).  "Just use your arm, Sarah.  Just use your arm."

So I did.  But has I hit a hundred backhands with Angel, I also kept in mind to constantly let my natural swing do the work.  I believe this saved my arms, because I wasn't forcing anything.  If anything, I was trying to hit with my sweet spot while executing the correct technique.

And how do you know if you're using the right technique?  To me, it includes two important things.

1) Feel.
The best is to feel that your shot was effortless.  That means having the right technique--arm, body and supporting posture included.
2) Sound  As much as the hit has to feel clean, it should sound right.  It's hard to describe exactly, but it usually is a mix between a clean "Pock!" and a resounding "Boom!".  But the best judge of it is hearing the sound after you feel that you've hit it right.

True enough, after about a hundred balls, I started feeling my sweet spot better.  And each time I screwed up, Angel would stop the drill and ask me that horrible, self-prodding question:

"What went wrong?"

At the start, I didn't know.  "Errr... I was too far from the ball?"

More than half the time, it was because I was using too much of my left to power the shot, instead of allowing my right to do the work.  After another fifty or so more balls, and about seven more "What went wrong?" questions, I started feeling my body better.  Sometimes I screwed up because I was too far.  Sometimes it was because of my arms.  At others it was my shoulders, or the final direction I ended my follow-through in.  And as I gradually got it better, Angel looked pleased..

I've been looking at a number of David Nalbandian videos to get inspiration, and am still working hard on my backhand.  Nalbandian has the best backhand on the ATP.  I told myself, if I was going to even try, I should at least aim to make it the best backhand in the Academy.  Certainly no half-assed attempts here.

Made-in-Spain Tropical Monsoon
It rained ridiculously hard after dinner today.  So heavily that my kids started acting like hyper-excited piglets, squealing and snorting in delight.  It rarely rains this hard in Barcelona.

It poured and thundered so hard, for a moment I was brought back home, monsoon style :)

After the rain stopped, I peeped out of my bungalow to assess damages.  The front porch of every bungalow was pretty much flooded.

Case in point.  When Kiko and I stepped out to do check-in with the kids, it was in the middle of the storm.  We were both swarthed in thick jackets with hoodies.  Poor Kiko misjudged the rainfall and stepped out in sneakers--only to have them sloshed from the get go!

My oversoaked laundry.  Good side?  I was hanging my sweat soaked shirts to air out before dumping them into my laundry basket.  Guess all the sweat got drained out and it's just soaked with rainwater now.  Hopefully it smells better.  Hahahahha.

The rain's stopped, but it's thundering as I type this.  It might come again.

La-Throw Ah

I threw a bar of soap at my collegue Hector this evening.

Pretty hard.

It smacked him on the edge of his ear.

Also pretty hard.

"HEY!  Take it easy!"  He burst out as a hand automatically reached up to his quickly reddening ear.

Immediately, silence dropped like over the previously bustling living room like darkness.  I simply held my gaze to Hector--partly pissed, also partly surprised at the strength of my aim.

He and Darren, a 29 year old Australian coach, have been coming over to my bungalow to drink beers with Kiko over the past two weeks.  Not that I mind, but just save for the fact that all they talk about is
1. Banging Girls, 2. Trying to get Sex and 3. Beer.

Did I mention it gets a bit repetitive?

Not my normal choice of conversation topics.  But tonight was really the last straw when Hector repeatedly used the word "cunt".  Freely.  Talking about women he wished/tried/hadn't screwed.  Darren (who started the c-word use) tried to rein it in--apologising saying that it really wasn't nice using that word in front of a woman.  Fair enough.  I raised my eyebrow and kept quiet.  Then Hector started using the word.  I was quite appalled because I thought a 36 year old writer-wannabe who reads so much would have a little more education and sophistication about him.

But no.  He uses it once, twice, Darren tries to get him to stop.  By the third time, he was laughing and I decided enough was enough.  I calmly picked up the bar (it was the nearest thing at hand), looked at him as he continued smiling, and pitched.

"OWWWW!"

The bar of soap you see above, was the very vain-glorious brick in hand.  If you look carefully, you can see a perceptible crease across the top.

I think he deserved it.  And I would've done it all over again.

No decent, self-respecting woman would take that crap.  Least of all in her own home.

♥  Happy Birthday Singapore  ♥

Kit Chan's Home, sung at NDP 2010
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O7g-PUjbusQ

Music of the moment: How Great is Our God by Hillsongs.Snack of the moment: Aloe Vera Yogurt from CarrefourCurrent book under scrutiny: The Grapes of Wrath by John SteinbeckThought of the moment: "Better get to bed soon."

----

Is a country its governance, or... its land?
In Singapore, the boundaries blur quite considerably.  Our country's strongest political critics call Singapore a bastion of warped democracy at best.  A friend once told me how her British friend ran into her room, waving The Economist (I think it was) in her face.

"Is it true, is it true???" she exclaimed.  "Is Singapore really a liberal communist state?" 

I laughed out loud when I heard the story.

Admittedly, I've never thought much about the political intricacies of our country.  In my first year in University, I did write a paper dissecting the significance of the politically indifferent attitudes most of my Chinese peers in RJC had towards our country's governance.  The pursuit of matetrial and career success, I argued, is engineered so strongly into our subconscious curriculum, anything that detracts us from those narrow definitions are socially shunned.  Writing that paper was certainly an eye-opener--but that was just about as close as I got to thinking about our social fabric.  I was, in most parts, ironically trying my hardest to fight against the fabric, fixating myself on pushing definitions of success beyond the lawyer-doctor-scholar labels.  And for all that that struggle brought, the only things that ironically gave me support were the little things that made life so familiarly Singaporean.  

Yes, I went to some of the best schools on this island, but I am also an HDB girl.

Yes, I read Steinbeck and Dostoevsky, but I do it at a hawker centre over a yong tau foo supper.

Yes, I want to go pro in a highly materialistic, expensive sport, but I still feel proud wearing my Tat Sing slippers and using my Good Morning towels.  

And I find that dichotomy, strangely comforting.  For me, it's like drawing strength from roots that stay deeply entrenched in all things simply Singaporean.

From the mee pok, char siew paus, SBS busses, or Zouk!

Obviously, living abroad has forced that perspective about things to treasure in our island state.  I wrote on my facebook status today

"Happy birthday Singapore ♥ your anal-retentive efficiency is much missed ♥♥"
and friend hit back on my wall "I love u Singapore! Keep fining people for smoking, littering and spitting! Yeh! (I am in china now.)"

It was pretty funny, but it also got me thinking about our government.  It maddens me each time a cab driver starts talking and philosophizing about Singaporean governance.  Our government may not be perfect, but it is a bloody good one when you compare it to Spanish systems, or even Dutch ones for that matter.  What good is liberal democracy if you face a 20% unemployment rate, or if disease and pollution runs rampant in your country?

Yes, there are pay offs.  Like stress, and a certain precipitated narrow-mindedness that so easily comes with focus.  But I also know I wouldn't have had the chances I was given, if not for our schools, or for my family that my country helped keep safe to bring me up.  For that, if for anything, I am very thankful.  Thank God for a good, tight government that has seen us through 45 years.  For more good years to come ♥

Help Needed

After spending a late night up studying Spanish till two, I was woken up at 5.30 this morning by violent knocking at my door.  It was one of the girls from the bungalows, in her pajamas, with a torch light and a desperate look on her face.

"Come and help my friend!!!" she exclaimed.  

Lintz, her 13 year old roommate and cousin from Luxembourg was having an epileptic attack.  

My heart broke into a gallop.

According to her (frightened) cousin, Lintz had suddenly sat up in bed and started making these deep, guttural sounds in her throat.  The type you hear when someone throws up.  Her eyes were half-closed, and she was shaking uncontrollably.  Teeth clenched, voice shaking "gnnnnaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh".  

It was horrible waking up one minute, and breaking into full sprint the next to check on one of your kids.

Yes, in slippers, on a very cold windy dawn, wearing flimsy PJs.  The bungalows were eerily silent.  All I could hear were the hovering tree boughs shaking and the our anxious, gravel-crunching footsteps.   Even the weather seemed to be in cahoots with what was happening.

When Kiko and I found her, she was in comatose and drooling on a towel.  Unresponsive, breathing heavily. She didn't respond to shaking or calling her name.  Thankfully her heartbeat was strong.  I didn't know what else to do except to lay hands on her and start praying, while Kiko dialed for emergency.

When the paramedics finally came, they tried waking her up again and she responded.  Strangely, she couldn't remember anything that had happened.  

She is at the hospital now.  Apparently this was her very first episode.


Blinking tired.  What a morning, and the day has yet begun!

Spraying Latic on Clay

Played my first tournament match on at the local Monty Tour series today.  The Monty Tour http://www.montytennis.com/ is a local series of tournaments in Catalonia (the region that Barcelona resides in. e.g. like how Bukit Merah is part of Tanjong Pagar district).  They have tournaments every other week.

I was drawn with #4, and from the get-go, I was genuinely struck by how beautiful her strokes were.  She was only 13, but had an astounding forehand and a fierce single-backhanded that simply looked like a replica of Justine Henin's.  I think I paid more attention to her follow-throughs than the ball.  

Still, I was pretty happy with how I played.  As my first full match played since I've come over, I pushed my opponent pretty hard.  I could see what her weaknesses were early into the match, and even though she had an insane top spin (average net clearance per rally was 2.5m, sometimes 3!) I managed to break her from the first game and continue the pressure persistently.  Worked up 4-2 40-30 in the first set, but eventually lost 4-6, 1-6.

The only thing that didn't hold was my fitness.  

Unsurprising considering my knee lay out, but also gratifying to know.  I know what I need to work on.

When I got back to my bungalows, I had to sort out my racquets (had burst one set of strings during the set).  Here I am examining the tape:  

As a rule, I like to clear my strings before I send them over to be wired up again.  This time, because I had protective tape on because of the clay, I had to tear it off.  I never realised how useful tapes were until I peeled it away...

flipped it,...and surprise surprise!!  Was astonished to see how the clay had 1) folded itself into the grooves of my racquet, and 2) sealed itself correspondingly onto the tape!

Here is the partnering mould... :)

Closer look.  Cool right??  Note also, the small tear in the tape.  There were actually a few across the head.  I would have never known I put so much stress on my racquet head had it not been for the tape.  Thank God for my "brudder", Ryan Lee (aka best stringer in Singapore) for it.

And so finally, racquet finally ready for restringing.  Well, almost.  Love colour in this picture.

I play my next Monty tournament next Monday.  Though today's session left me totally sloshed and boshed, I didn't have energy to go for afternoon practice.  Still, I'm looking forward to improving what I need to do, and am already psyched for the next match!

Castelldefels--The "Land" of Sun, Sand and Sea
I spent my Saturday afternoon at Castelldefels, a neighbouring beach town near the Academy today.  Had a really good time soaking up a massive breeze, happy kids running around and great company.  It was predominantly a time of contemplation and serious thought as I spoke to Federico about training plans for the rest of the year & 2011.

Eitherway, here is the wonderful day in pictures:

The journey started with a very smooth ride on a surprisingly cool, cold bus.  What a contrast to the maddening heat.  Given my penchant for sitting in front (read: seats reserved for oldies!), I had an old granny across the aisle for company.  What caught my eye was how sports talk was on the front page.  We almost never see that in Singapore.

Totally psyched! :) Essentials in handbag: 1. Camera, 2. MP3 player, 3.Academy card and key (red tag), 4.Pink velcro wallet stuffed silly with coins.  Hence the bulge.

Passengers.  Sliver of arm included.  Sunlight streamed in and molested our skin.  It felt... lovely.

When we finally got to the beach, there was hardly a cloud in the sky.

And, to my surprise, also many women going around bra-less!!  Case in point: one on the right.  Castelldefels, I found out from Federico was a topless beach(!!!)  I felt so shy.

He, however, remained nonplussed.

And eventually persuaded me to strike a pose.

It was a lovely day, afterall.  Hard not to smile.  There were lots of interesting things to see, like topless women, hot lifeguards,...

Even Buddha did a guest appearance.  As you can see, he loves getting his lips tickled..! Hahahaha.

Sun-spent, we spent the bulk of our time under the shade.  My settings must've been wrong on my camera because this picture ended up overexposed.  Still, it was so bright, I was squinting throughout our whole conversation.  We had some serious talking to do, but given the sensitivity of the subject, Federico remained calm, focussed and easy going.  It was genuinely heartening connecting with.

Unfortunately, we spoke for so long that I started seeing yellow!  Need...to...PEE!  We headed down to a pub and the WC was one of the strangest I'd ever seen.  Here you have the toilet bowl....

Now spot the flush!

The bar where we stopped for toilet break was small and quiant.  We had "clara"--the Spanish version of shandy, and a plate of peanuts.  I had to fight him for the bill--and when he finally acceded, was surprised that it came up to only EUR5!  Time passed so fast, I realised I was late for my night-shift at the bungalows.

Thankfully, Federico's friend was picking him up, and just as I was looking out for my next bus, a big-ass, shiny Land Rover rolled up by the bus stop.  Top roof down, a grisly stubbly man leaned over from the driver's seat.  Federico introduced me to Javier, his Argentinean friend who big-heartedly offered me a lift back to S-C.

On one level, it was pretty damn cool driving back in a shiny big-ass Land Rover with two handsome, manly Latin American men.  I suddenly felt shy and very young, but they still got me laughing quickly.  Javier frowned when he saw me whip out my camera.  "You are taking pictures??"  I grinned sheepishly.  "Wait for me to smile!"  He turned his head a full 180 degrees and flashed a big grin at the camera while driving.  God I almost had a heart attack!

All in all though, it was a pretty kick-ass Saturday evening spent at the beach, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself.  To more for the rest of summer!