I remember the most important moments of my life in reference to the glorious
or the heartbreaking events in sport. That is what sport is to me. My
first love. Most difficult to forget. It pops in my head at inopportune
times. It makes me forget my self. Sitting in the living room, I miss the
reverberations of the stadium. The noise of the crowd. The sight of the
ball tearing apart the charged air. The thump of the racket. The screech of the
rubber sole against the turf. The hush before each serve is like death. I want to be there. Close to the action. But I am here.
It is a big match. Your favourite player/team is playing. After four hours of artistry and brute and sweat, the match is over. Then it suddenly hits you. The hunger, the thirst, the pain and the lack of sleep. It is like you are parting from someone you love. Those things didn't exist till a minute ago. One moment you are miserable. In a happy way. From expectation. From having to fight the wind to stay upright at the edge of the cliff. But you are surviving. The essentials of life don't mean anything. There is hope. But the very next moment what you wanted so passionately, escapes you. The mind suddenly realises the existence of the body and its needs. The player you were rooting for has lost the match.
"I fell in love with football as I was later to fall in love with women: suddenly, inexplicably, uncritically, giving no thought to the pain and disruption it would bring." Nick Hornby wrote that in 'Fever Pitch'.
You walk with the radio to your ears. Your favourite commentator is reporting on the match of your favourite player. On a crowded railway station bridge, you bump into random people. You are so lost, you don't apologize. Basic courtesies are trivial in this moment of contest and agony. That is what you think. For the first time, it doesn't matter if you catch the next train. It doesn't matter if you get home.
'Federer crosscourt forehand...Nadal backhand...Federer one-handed backhand...Nadal's ferocious forehand down the line...Federer can't get there'. Aargh. Despair. It is all happening so fast. But your life is dreamy. Everybody around you is moving in slow motion. You again bump into somebody.
Clutch moment. The emotion comes up to your throat. It is seeking an outlet. A clenched fist punching the cushion of air in front of you. A scream. From the bottom of your guts. But not yet. You have already died a million deaths. You are born again. To die another time. And the moment comes. Gone. It is over. Federer has hit that shot long. You are frozen. Death is cold. The limbs go limp. Horror. Bad taste. Slowly rising pain. Heartbeat at such times feels like a song. Like a requiem.
Somethings are worth dying for. Tell me another way to feel alive.
