Archive for the ‘sports’ Category
Posted on November 9, 2010 - by Jennifer
Melbourne Diaries, Week 4: The Race that Stops a Nation
Off to the Races!
Okay,¬† since some of you are weary of hearing about how great our views are and how we are eating delicious food that you cannot have, this week is going to be very sports-themed in honor of the Melbourne Cup Carnival and the “race that stops a nation.”
First, an observation.¬† As a new expat it is easier to meet¬† and find common ground with fellow expats.¬† And after many conversations with expats from Italy, Switzerland, Germany, Spain, Finland, France, Canada etc one thing that unites us all is the way we answer this question: “What do you miss the most?”¬† The answer, without fail, is ” My family and (insert name of favorite sports team).”¬† If you are Canadian and miss hockey, good luck!¬† Aussies are also pretty lukewarm about football (soccer) so if you’re European,¬† things are not much better.¬† Plus matches are on at ungodly hours.¬† One of my friends sets alarms at 4:30am to get up and watch his team, Inter Milan play.¬† He finds a website showing the game and settles in with his coffee. ¬† By comparison, I was lucky to get the watch the Yankees at 7:30 am or 10:30 am.¬† Well, lucky if you consider it luck to see them sent packing by the Rangers‚Ķbut I digress‚Ķ.
Okay, so, once you stop moaning and groaning about the matches you are missing (or losing sleep to see) there are an abundance of sports to enjoy and none is more festive than the Spring Cup Carnival, a series of horse races held here in Melbourne at Flemington Race Track that seem to kind of signify the official start of Spring here in Melbourne.¬† This year, Akhil and I were invited to go to Derby Day which is a big day for both racing¬† AND fashion.¬† Before I get to the actual day, I want to talk a little about the pronunciation of “Derby”. Everyone here says ” Darby”.¬† So, naturally I assumed that unlike the Kentucky Derby, they spelled it with an “a”.¬† But, no, it’s spelled the same as our “Derby”.¬† It’s just pronounced “Darby”.¬† I did some online research to try to determine the “correct” pronunciation but instead found interesting and seemingly sound cases made for both pronunciations by some linguistic scholars and -waaaaay more fun, some knock down, drag out blog wars like the one between “Sman-21, buzzbuzz, STC,and Dyslexic Emo on bigfooty.com that deteriorated into posts such as the following
Sman-21 “When I turn into a snobby old pommy git and sing god save the queen at the football coz the actual game is so boring I have to entertain myself somehow, I will call it darby”
Apparently the derby vs darby pronunciation wars also extend to Aussie Rules.
As an American who grew up with the “derby” pronunciation, I feel just a wee bit pretentious going around saying “darby” (really echoing what Sman-21 so eloquently expresses in his blog post).¬† But, I didn’t want to be perceived as uncouth either, daaahhhling.¬† So, in honor of my Australian-American state of mind, I sometimes settled on “Derby Darby Day”.¬† And when I was feeling more obnoxious, I went with a nice, throaty, exaggerated “Daaaaaahhhhhhrrrrrrrby Day”.¬† ¬† The best time for the exaggerated “Daaaaaaaahhhhhhhrby” pronunciation is when you are at the races, wearing your enormous hat and shipping champagne (or “bubbles).¬† And that leads me to the next fabulous thing about the races – the fashion.¬† As one of my friends put it, “It’s like the entire city is going to a giant wedding”.¬† This is a pretty apt description since EVERYONE truly does get dressed up for the races.¬† The best part is that many also take public transport so that they can drink until they stagger home in their eight-inch heels or beer-soaked Armani loafers.¬† The result is city buses and trams and ferries filled with people in haute couture and huge hats and natty suits, AND fascinators. What are fascinators, you ask?¬† Well, they are delightful, feathery, spangly, dangly, sparkly things you attach to your head with a headband or a comb.¬† I had never heard of a fascinator before but, trust me, it fascinates.¬† They run the gamut from elegant, to funky, to cheeky, to, well, literally over the top. You can see photos of a few worn by my friends in the Derby Day Album.
Derby Day is traditionally black and white day for the ladies and naturally there is a contest to determine who is the most fashionable¬†on the field! ¬† Both ladies and gents strut their stuff at the Myer Fashions on the Field event, held under a massive tent right by the racetrack.¬† Contestants young and old enter in groups and parade in front of judges and winners from each group are selected.¬† Then the finalists¬† from each group are assembled and a winner is crowned, Miss America style, complete with a sash and a walk down the runway.¬† The ladies take it quite seriously while the gents are a bit more unpredictable, with a few drunk Aussie lads with jackets off and ties askew appearing onstage beside elegant fashionistas with impeccably tailored pants.¬† The whole thing is quite a spectacle but this year I experienced a special treat when the cross-dressing Dame Edna crashed the show.¬† Dame Edna is quite beloved here in his/her hometown of Melbourne so since the Dame was at the races, the show’s producers made an impromptu decision to bring her up on stage.¬† She was wearing a massive rainbow of a garment- sort of a mumu meets a a tutu- and I believe the Dame may have had a few too many glass of the “bubbles” before making her entrance.¬† This was unfortunate for the hapless presenters but delightful for the crowd!¬† What was supposed to be a brief cameo turned into an hysterical, unscripted 20-minute outright theft of the spotlight. The Dame paraded in her mumu/tutu of many colors, cracked jokes, asked embarrassing personal questions of the contestants and told one of the presenters ( I believe a local TV celeb) that he was totally useless. His female co-presenter was choking back laughter and trying to keep things moving along but the Dame was having none of it.
Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on your view, I saw a lot more of Dame Edna than I did of horse racing because the weather for Derby Darby Day was absolutely miserable.  At first the grey skies and wet weather were helpful because crowds were smaller than usual and I got right down to the track for the first few races.  And it is pretty cool to be that close to horses going that fast, especially because we were close the finish line.  But, after two races, the rain just came in sheets and everyone had to seek shelter.  Women with spray tans dripped orange as they ran for cover.  Mascara ran everywhere. Being a bit of a pragmatist and knowing the forecast, I personally opted for pants and a dark shirt.  And I had fond a fabulous big hat at a vintage shop so I made it to cover without any major make-up mishaps.  But, basically the entire rest of the day was spent drinking huge quantities of alcohol while huddling under a tent (actually, the tent at the bookmakers!)  It was too wet to venture out even to watch the main race on the TV monitors, which were exposed to the rain.  So, I saw minimal racing and had a wicked hangover.  That said, I would go again for the people-watching and in the hopes of a better day with more opportunity to see the actual races.
Like the Derby, the Melbourne Cup or the “race that stops a nation” is of course held here in Melbourne where everything does come to a grinding halt because people in Victoria are given the day off work. ¬† The unlucky people in the other states have to go to work (suckers). But, since our clothes were still drying from Saturday’s adventures at Flemington, we decided to watch from the comfort of a warm, dry pub where the “nation” had stopped everything EXCEPT eating, drinking, and betting.¬† Since we got there early to secure seats,¬† we had time to actually do a bit of research on the horses.¬† So, I learned a few interesting things about racing in Australia.¬† One thing I learned is that the Melbourne Cup is a handicap race, meaning that the best horses are required to carry extra weight.¬† As a newcomer to racing,¬† I am having a lot of trouble wrapping my head around this concept.¬† To the untrained (me) the logic seems something like this:¬† An owner invests money in a horse and then selects a really talented and knowledgable trainer.¬† Said trainer works with the horse for months or years, perfecting the horse’s fitness and technique.¬† The horse puts in months and years of work to build speed, strength, and endurance. ¬† On the day, the jockey guides the horse skillfully in the race.¬† Because of all this hard work, dedication, and skill, the horse wins a big race like the Derby or the Melbourne Cup.¬† And the result?¬† Well, basically, it’s “Hey, great job owner, trainer, jockey, and horse.¬† Now as a reward in the next big race you get to wear a whole bunch of lead in your saddle to slow you down so the other horses have a chance and the bookies can make more money.” ¬† Maybe I’m too heavily influenced by the American ideology of rewarding success?¬† But why does the playing field have to be leveled by a “handicap”? Perhaps the reasoning behind it is more subtle and sophisticated?¬† Maybe if I said “darby” instead of “derby” I would understand?
Anyway, back to the big race.¬† This year’s Cup Carnival had pretty poor conditions as it has been one of the wettest springs on record.¬† So on Saturday’s Derby Day the races were run on “heavy” tracks, meaning basically ridiculously wet and sloppy.¬† By Cup Day on Tuesday, the weather was cold and drizzly but not as wet so it was considered a¬† “dead” track which is defined as a racing surface that is infirm or lacking resiliency. We placed our money on two horses, with the sentimental choice being Descarado, a horse trained by colorful Melbourne resident Gai Waterhouse¬† http://www.theage.com.au/sport/horseracing/gais-back-with-unfinished-business-20101101-17ak8.html .
In short, Gai is a former actress turned trainer who actually had quite a fight to get her trainer’s license because her ex-husband was involved in some sort of betting scandal.¬† Anyway, she fought the establishment and won so how could I resist?¬† She is now a hall of fame trainer with numerous racing successes but the Cup continues to elude her.¬† Sadly for our plucky heroine, this year was no exception.¬† Descarado got off to a great start and was in the top three almost to the very end when he suddenly pulled up shy of the finish line.¬† In my opinion, Descarado was probably making a silent and misunderstood protest re: the whole handicap thing because poor Descarado was flying around the track “handicapped” by extra weight.¬† As he got to the finish line, he was probably like, “Wait a minute‚Ķthey put lead in my saddle?‚Ķthis is bullshit!”¬† Gai seems to think that it was the track conditions and if you’re interested in her slightly more learned and nuanced perspective, she blogs about it at gaiwaterhouse.com.au
So, the rebellious Descarado ultimately recorded a “failed to finish”.¬† Also, in case you are interested, the winner was a horse named Americain, who truly embodies globalization being born and bred in America,¬† owned by Aussies, trained in France, and raced in the Cup by a french jockey based in Hong Kong.¬† And the Aussies who are so insistent about pronouncing “Derby” as “Darby” consistently butchered the French pronunciation of “Americain”, pronouncing it instead as “cane” as in “sugarcane” or “John McCain”.¬† If necessary, this is ammunition I may pull out in a “derby” vs “darby” argument 
Perhaps less glamorous but certainly not less popular, I turn now to the other sport of the week – Cricket.¬† India continues to best Australia in Internationals so Akhil is (quietly) happy.¬† And on the local level we have learned that the team in bright yellow who have played several times on the oval beneath our window are, in fact, the St. Kilda Saints who represent our neighborhood in Victoria Premier Cricket.¬† The Saints were founded in the 1850’s when club cricket was more informal and the Melbourne champion was basically chosen by journalists.¬† But, in the 1870’s more structure was introduced and eventually led to pennant matches, and a Challenge Cup. Today clubs like St. Kilda have multiple teams at different levels ( I believe St Kilda has four teams)¬† And since the early 1900’s, St Kilda’s A team has an impressive 18 titles and the Saints are tied with the Melbourne Demons for winningest record.¬† It is so rare in life to be on the side of the saints that I really do have to take this opportunity!
The cricket pitch below us, known as the St Kilda Cricket Ground or Junction Oval (because it is located at the junction of two of St Kilda’s main roads) apparently has quite an illustrious history including that Australian cricket great Shane Warne made his first-class debut here with St Kilda.
Unfortunately heavy rains these past few weeks have prevented some scheduled matches from being played at all.¬† And we seem to be seeing the C or D teams here rather than the A teams. So, recently we saw one of the St Kilda teams getting trounced by Camberwell.¬† But, according¬† to the Victorian Premier Cricket website, St Kilda’s A team are faring better.¬† So, hopefully they will come to our oval soon or else we’ll (sigh) make the long journey to another oval to see them play. ¬† In the meantime, as new fans of the St. Kilda Saint’s, I’d like to share with you their fight song. Grab a friend and a spot of tea and start practicing.¬† It’s so‚Ķwhat’s the word?‚Ķrousing?
“Oh, we do like to be beside the seaside
Oh, we do like to be beside the sea
Down at the Junction there’s a cricket ground
And that’s where The Saints all hang around
So, let’s hear three cheers for old St Kilda
This year successful we will be
Though it’s not quite in the bag
We’ve got hopes to win the flag
Beside the seaside, beside the sea”
Come on‚Ķtry it out in the shower‚Ķit’s a cracker!
Posted on May 13, 2010 - by Jennifer
Karate Kid? Reflections on my first martial arts tournament
On May 1, 2010 I competed in my very first martial arts tournament, the JW Spring Classics in Maryland. ¬†I’ve spent several years studying with Sensei Carol Middleton at the D.C. Self Defense Karate Association in Columbia Heights but I was not sure how my training and preparation would stack up against other martial artists from a range of schools. ¬†We had spent weeks preparing, with our fellow students as mock judges, perfecting how we would enter the ring with our heads up and our eyes forward, bow to the judges, and execute our forms with loud “ki-ups”, crisp head turns, and low stances. ¬†We had also prepared for tournament-style sparring – learning about legal and illegal contact, the nuances of the point system, and how to “sell” a point. ¬†As the tournament drew closer, I had mixed emotions. ¬†I don’t, by nature, ¬†love to perform. ¬†So, I was apprehensive but I was also ready to stop preparing and just do it already! ¬†I also wanted to get the first tournament over with since “firsts” always involve the fear of the unknown.
I slept poorly the night before the tournament and woke up feeling frustrated and disappointed that I was not at my best. ¬†I made a bagel and packed it in foil to take on the long car ride. ¬†I debated about whether to drink coffee and, if so, how much? ¬†I opted for just a few sips so that I could avoid a caffeine headache but not be over-stimulated. ¬†The tournament was held at Oxen Hill Senior High School and heading into the school’s large fieldhouse and seeing the polished wood floor took me right back to traveling to play basketball in junior high and high school, and that feeling when I entered the opposing team’s gym and didn’t know quite what to expect. ¬†How big would our opponents be? ¬†How strong? ¬†How well-prepared? ¬†Would they be ¬†welcoming or intimidating? ¬† My stomach churned. ¬†Although I am 35, I felt 13.
I had been told that the wait would be long and it was true. ¬†Children compete first and there are multiple age groups and multiple types of forms, plus sparring. ¬†So, we sat and watched. ¬†First, we watched the tournament organizers struggle to set up rings and assemble the correct number of judges. ¬†Then we watched children of multiple age and skill levels compete. ¬†One thing that astonished me was the variety of uniforms. ¬†Our school wears the traditional white and, as a fairly petite woman, I must admit that I don’t feel super suave in the baggy white pants and lose fitting gi top that I’m always struggling to keep in place during class. ¬†But at the tournament, all around me where children and adults in a dazzling array of blues, and reds, and blacks, and yellows. ¬†And they had unique styles. ¬†Some had dreadlocks and others spiky mohawks. ¬†One woman in flowing black robes performed with her long black hair down, flying with her as she moved. ¬†A teenage girl in what looked like blue silk pajamas leapt in the air and landed in a splits. ¬†A group of African American teenagers stood tall and looked proud and in crisp, red uniforms. ¬†A young indian boy seemed to slice the air with his precision movements.
Our studio holds weekly classes in an elementary school gym with a floor that coats our feet with dirt, and the occasional large cockroach scurrying by. ¬†We lug our mats, and targets, and weights out every class and then put them away, stacked neatly to avoid the punishment for not doing so – extra push-ups. ¬†In the summer, sweat drips down my face and the inside of my uniform. ¬†I do not feel glamourous. ¬†I do not feel like the beautiful flying assassins in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. ¬†I feel very ¬†earthbound. ¬†In spite of the yoga practice that gives me better than average flexibility, I am in my 30’s and things do not move as easily as they do for the teenager next to me. ¬†I’m athletic and strong but martial arts seem to amplify every weakness. ¬†My front kicks would be harder and faster if my abs and quads were stronger. ¬†My roundhouses would be higher if my inner thigh muscles were more flexible. ¬†I feel like for everything I do right there are a million things I do wrong. ¬†My front punch is strong and fast but my knuckles are not aligned. ¬†I turn my hip over on my sidekick but do not get my toes far enough down. Our sensei does not hesitate to point those things out. ¬†It could be a finger out of place. ¬†It could be a slight shift of weight. ¬†We are corrected, and corrected, and corrected again. ¬†And we are expected to be patient, to try again and again until it is exactly right. ¬†We are challenged to go faster, but slow down inside. ¬†We are expected to be strong but also to flow. ¬†We are challenged to remember complicated sequences of movements, barked at us in Korean, and when we are still struggling to learn both the individual movements and the sequences, we are asked to go faster, to execute more precisely, to keep our heads up and our gazes steady. ¬†When we feel like screaming in frustration, we are asked to remain calm and try again. ¬†There are few experiences during the day that are as challenging to my ego. ¬†There are few experiences that make me doubt myself more, that frustrate me more, that make me more aware of my limits and my frailties. ¬† I feel like there are so many details that I could never possibly perfect even the most basic of the traditional forms, that require only down blocks and punches. ¬†And yet, I go back.
At the tournament, there was a lot of confusion about assembling the ring for the adult women. ¬†We were herded this way and that. ¬†We were asked to present tiny cards that had our school, age, and rank to first one set of judges and then another. ¬†But, finally a ring was assembled and the forms competition got underway. ¬†Forms are a pre-determined sequence of blocks and strikes in multiple directions, and they go from the most basic to the most complex. ¬†As a lower belt, my form, Kebon 1, is very basic, with a combination of downward blocks and front punches, performed in all directions. ¬†Because the form is simple, the judging is in the details. ¬†Randomly, I was assigned to perform second. ¬†And as I watched the first competitor, I was struck by her lack of intensity. ¬†All the movements were right. ¬†But there was no fire in her eyes. ¬†I vowed that, whatever happened, I was going to project as much strength and confidence as I could muster. ¬†I would give no outward sign of my pounding heart. ¬†Using a technique from my yoga training, I breathed slowly and deeply to keep calm and tune out the activity around me. ¬†Our ring was right next to another ring, as is often the case at tournaments. And people were spilling into our ring as I entered. ¬†But, I was determined not to be distracted. ¬†I walked purposefully, head high, as if I had walked into a ring a thousand times. ¬†I remembered not look down. ¬†I met the eyes of every judge as I bowed in and told them my name, school, and form. ¬†And when I began to move, I was aware of nothing but the blocks and punches and stances I was executing. Even when a child, not paying attention, ran through the ring, I did not miss a beat. ¬†On my final move, I got in my lowest stance and gave my most intense finishing “ki-up”.
I finished my performance, I exited the ring and sat down to watch the remaining women perform.  I did not know my scores.  Two women were called back to perform again because they had tied.  I assumed that they must have tied for first.  So, mentally I prepared to graciously congratulate the winner.  When they called all of us back to the ring, they started to arrange us in order by score.  I was put at the end.  In spite of my efforts to be calm and unflappable, I did experience a jolt of surprise.  I assumed I had not won but I was not expecting to be last.  I reminded myself that this was my first tournament, a learning experience, and that I had no place to store a massive trophy!  It was not until they actually put the massive trophy in my hands that I realized I was on the end because I was first.  Another jolt of surprise, followed by excitement and gratitude.
I cannot say I have spent much time since then gazing at that trophy but I have looked back several times at the photos taken of my first place performance. ¬†I was not perfect. ¬†But when I look at the photos, ¬†I am actually kind of amazed at the precision of my body and the steeliness in my gaze. ¬†The woman in the photos is someone I don’t entirely recognize but I like her. ¬†She is confident but more than that she is focused. ¬†She does not second guess. ¬†She is proud of her strength. ¬†She moves mindfully and purposefully. ¬†She projects an outer fire but an inner calm. ¬†I would like to be her more. ¬†And that, perhaps, is what keeps me returning to martial arts.
Posted on November 20, 2009 - by Jennifer
Why It’s Not Evil to Love the Yankees
As a Yankees fan living in Washington D.C., I always feel like I’m expected to apologize for liking the Yankees.  Even when I make all the right arguments –  my family is from New York, I was born in New Jersey, the Yankees are a huge part of the history and tradition of a game I love, Reggie Jackson was my first hero – none of it seems to matter.  People look at you like you’ve said, “Well, Hitler was trying to lead during difficult times” or “ We really should hear Bernie Madoff’s side of the story”.  At the very least, they want to know why an otherwise good and generally kind person would chose, CHOSE, the Yankees over all the other plucky, hardworking, underdogs in baseball. Here’s why.  To me, the Yankees are not George Steinbrenner.  They are not Alex Rodriguez.  They are not even Derek Jeter.  They are, to borrow a line from MLB, “beyond baseball.”
Like any baseball fan, I love the big plays.  I love watching Jeter dive into the stands after a ball, or Posada thwarting a would-be stolen base, or Rivera staring down a batter in the 9th. And when I remember the 2009 World Series, I will remember A-Rod’s clutch home runs, Johnny Damon stealing bases, and Matsui homering off Martinez.  But a lifelong attachment to a particular baseball team doesn’t come from feats of athleticism or stellar stats.  When people remember a moment with “their” team, they remember where they were when it happened – anxious in a living room, screaming in a packed bar, shivering at a stadium.  They remember who was next to them- the stranger they hugged, the best friend they wept with, the peanut vendor who said, “There’s always next year.”  As a fan, you turn these moments and these feelings into a story and every year that story gets new characters and new twists.
In my story there are family car rides in our yellow VW Rabbit and my father and brother teaching me to recite Ruth, DiMaggio, and Mantle’s statistics.  In my story, I’m the girl growing up who wants to beat the boys at sports and hates being told she cannot do something. Naturally, I loved watching Reggie Jackson stand up to Steinbrenner, the media, and pretty much anyone else who got in his way!  In my story, I will always remember October of 2000 when the Yankees faced the Mets in the “Subway Series” and my brother gave up his ticket to Game 2 in Yankee Stadium so I could go. In my story, I will remember with pleasure the taste of the whiskey my father and I shared in the family living room when the Yankees finally won that series.  And l will feel bittersweet when I recall that we no longer own that house, so filled with our history.  In my story, when my grandfather falters after bypass surgery, we know he has fight left in him because he refuses to let anyone at the hospital take off his Yankees hat. In my story, it is my Yankees hat and my friend Priscilla’s Red Sox hat that lead to our meeting at the gym during the 2004 ALCS.  And in spite of the Yankees bitter loss to our hated rival, she and I became fast friends.  This year, she was a bridesmaid in my wedding.   And, although for her the pain of the Red Sox early exit from the post-season was still fresh, she still went with me to a bar for Game 2 of the ALCS and hung in through all 13 innings to see the Yankees win.
2009 was a memorable year for me.  On June 6, I got married and the Yankees lost to the Rays.  During my honeymoon, I insisted that my husband and I find a bar with the MLB package so I could watch the Yankees take on the Red Sox at Fenway in a 3 game series.  My very patient husband indulged me.  The Yankees did not, losing all three games. I forlornly declared that the season was over.  My husband suggested I was a bit premature.
Like the Yankees, I settled into a new house.  And when the Yankees won the World Series on Wednesday night, I was sitting on my new couch with my husband.  I was tense, like I have been during every game of the postseason.  During this game, I gnawed off my fingernails and chewed my lips to shreds.  I texted a few people but didn’t want to say too much or speak too soon.   When Rivera got the last out, my first feeling was relief.  It took a while for the joy to sink in. When it did, I started to talk to my family and friends, my fellow diehard Yankee fans.  None of us were together.  My brother was in LA, my sister in Baltimore, my friend Tony in New York, my friends Reese and Amy in Seattle.  But, in cities across America, we had all been holding our breath.   And, collectively, we were breathing a sigh of relief.  My husband was asleep and I had to wake him up to share the good news.  I think he said “Yay!” before his head dropped back down on the couch pillow.  Instead of my father’s whiskey I was drinking a Tuscan red from the charming café and wine shop down the street, a place where they now recognize us.  I raised my glass to Matsui who was accepting the MVP.  Matsui’s translator said that Matsui felt “awesome” and I wondered if there really was a word for “awesome” in Japanese?  More importantly, as the Yankees added World Series trophy number 27 to their collection, I added another chapter to my story.
