televisions' life support

Sunday, November 18

t.o.w. the comeback of the year

A night match at a dilapidated area in the western part of Singapore.

Rained washed out most part of day play and so the match was a continuation from previously.

I thought I started off well, racing off to a 3-1 lead. Hitting pretty accurately. Maybe even painting the lines. Perhaps that was the problem. I started to miss. Excessively and soon wound up dumping the set into the gravel with a magnificent display of errors fittingly befriended only by the grandiose stance of the Dementieva serve.

My opponent started moving side to side along the base line, and even though I was moving forward to catch the ball early on the rise, I could do nothing against his speed. Brute-like speed. Was he even human?

I went on to lose the second set as well but somehow managed to claw my way back into the game by taking 5 out of 6 games in the 3rd set.

Then it rained.

I desperately wanted to win. But, how was I to win 2 sets during the night match when my previous one was just 1 game short of a whitewash? I really couldn't see myself pulling off an upset and yet I refused to think about it. Assured that nonchalance is an armor strong enough to fend off what was to come. I could not admit obvious defeat.

Crunch time. Miraculously, I started off the evening's proceedings well - slapping 3 emphatic winners in a row to clinch the 4th set. Down to the wire this time, I told myself. During the court change, I was so pumped up. Determined that the sweat and grim suffered today and the many previous would be the last.

I pumped my fist and slapped my thigh. The show must go on.

Alas, my opponent upped the ante and started to hit with the form that saw him decimate me in previous match ups. He threw a string of winners too to level up the final set. 5 all. We went blow for blow. Trading winner after winner, error after error. Once, I dumped a shot so low into the net I thought no one would even see it to tell so. 7-7. This was it.

In the final 4 points, we first traded courtesy shots, eager to not lose on an error, certain that the emotional trauma from it would certainly grant the other victory. But I couldnt resist that weak backhand sitter. I ran up and plummeled it into the open court on a off forehand. 8-7. I was shouting in my head. I needed to keep it cool.

The next shot was a beauty. A strong serve followed by a weak return from the opponent barely 50m away from me. I rushed forward with the drop. 2 bounces before it rolled to a stop on the service line. 9-7. The adrenaline could drown. I tried to keep cool. Froze in my position. But in me, the raw emotions of chance and excitement were getting the better of me. Alas. A double fault. Match points for both players on my serve.

I could not let my nerves do this. I screamed the loudest I ever had. COME ON.

Bounce. Bounce. Stare. Toss. Pull Back. Leap. Connect. Serve.

The ball flew through, pass the net and landed neatly on the sidelines, barely touching it, my opponent reached, missed. There was a roar. Victory? And then a hush. He challenged the point.

Hawk Eye never really was my friend.

The screen came on, the ball motion tracked, it flew over the net and landed on the line. Barely making it.

YES!

Victorious. The bane that had me cursed in 3 previous match ups finally sang his fat lady song.

Good match, Figure 15.

ATP. 20/40, PASS.

Wee!!!

For the 2 seconds that I jumped up yelling Yes Yes! I was never more embarrased and yet, never more nonchalant - it is the armour strong enough to fend what is to come.

kenn thwacked an asshat munchkin' at 12:21 PM