Finding my flag
I’m told that this is my flag:
But when it come to tennis, I find myself cheering for people from all over the world:
I enjoy learning about all kinds of different ways of living and making friends with people from all over the globe. Love is the same everywhere.
So I have to think there’s something that would better represent how I relate to who I am and where I’m from. Maybe this:
But no, that’s not it. The best times of my life had nothing to do with clinging to a national identity. They transcended that kind of narrow view. So maybe this.
But that’s not quite right either. So I thought about it and realized it’s this:
This flag makes sense even if I’m on Saturn talking to some aliens. peRFect
Why Wimbledon 2011 Feels Like the End of My World
When Roger lost at the QFs this Wimbledon, I didn’t get upset. In fact, I carried on and had a great time. He’d been there before and getting to the QFs of a slam is pretty good. So no problem.
Then Breakfast at Wimbledon rolled around. I didn’t get up early because I didn’t care who won. Djokovic would become #1 in the world regardless of whether he beat Rafa.
But he did beat Rafa. And on his first championship point opportunity.
At first, no problem. Whatever. It’s just tennis.
But I was melancholy. I went grocery shopping, ate breakfast, still it didn’t go away. I thought it had to be due to the overcast weather over Fourth of July weekend or that I’d had stomach pains all night. Still I couldn’t shake it.
I sat down at my computer and read some Wimbledon tweets. That’s when the floodgates opened. I was really, really, really sad. It shocked and embarrassed me. It’s just tennis!
So why the tears? Why does Wimbledon feel like more than the sum of its parts? Why does this sport mean so much to me?
I had a good think. I became a tennis fan in 2006 and witnessed the golden years of Roger’s reign. In 2006 I was in an unhappy marriage and emotionally drowning. Roger’s pursuit of perfection and his great attitude lifted me up. Over time I came to rely on him.
I became an avid sports fan in 1995 when I felt like my life was really hitting the skids and I needed to focus on something external to make me happy. I picked the NBA and became a diehard Suns fan. It helped me shift my focus off of myself which came as a welcome relief.
I didn’t realize until today that I picked Roger to play a similar role. When everything got turned upside-down and inside-out for me Roger was still cruising along, #1 in the world and sitting pretty. Yes, there was a guy named Nadal and at first I loathed him as the villain but over time I came to love him too. Zeus and Hercules, they’re both heroes.
It was difficult to watch Rafa take Roger’s spot in the rankings at the 2009 Australian Open. I did not like it but part of me was ready. Roger cried but he had at least been rational in pressers by saying that Rafa would overtake him one day. I accepted the switch relatively quickly.
But today there was a BIG change. Novak Djokovic won Wimbledon.
Honestly, I don’t like him. I wish I could say I did and actually, I have love for him, but I don’t like him. His immaturity and inability to be classy drive me crazy. Roger doesn’t like him either which makes it that much more challenging to get over it and accept him as just another guy.
I’d think that knowing he would be #1 regardless of whether he won the tournament would have bummed me out but it didn’t seem real. It was some figment of my imagination glinting off in the distance.
Then this morning it was sealed. Not only will he be #1 but he won a major tournament in a tennis cathedral that I felt belonged to Roger, and if not to him then to Rafa. That’s all I’ve known in my avid tennis fandom. And I’ve loved it.
It’s over. The door has shut on the era. It seems like I’m talking about some epoch of Wimbledon but I’m not. I’m talking about the period in which I can blindly rely on tennis as my coping mechanism for life.
Driving to meditation this morning I allowed myself to grieve and explore what was really going on. I saw that in the past five years where I’ve been divorced, had a zillion jobs and lived in as many places and had my heart broken countless times I had this rock I relied on–men’s professional tennis. What in the world? Why would I do that?
Because I was desperate. Because I didn’t have a clue what else to do. I built this ship and I cruised around on it and threw parties. It was great while it lasted but now I’ve been invaded by pirates and it looks like they’re gonna blow the whole thing up so it’s time to abort.
That’s what I’ve been struggling with today. Do I have the courage to let go of Roger and Rafa, of Wimbledon, of men’s professional tennis? What a silly question I would have thought this to be ten years ago. It appears that courage is relative. This is my Everest.
When I say let go I don’t mean abandon. I mean, can I stop making them into something personal and see them for what they really are?
Tennis and Twitter
A couple years ago my friend Ian said, “Rachel! People want to hear your sports stories.” I didn’t know what he was talking about. In fact, I was pretty happy he hadn’t fallen asleep on me while I’d regaled him with yet another one. But he was serious. “You should start a blog. You should call it…The Sport Bird dot com! Put everything on it that you’ve told me. People will love it!” Hesitant I did what Ian suggested. I also built a Twitter account with the name. And boy, was Ian (@shobogenzo) on to something.
It ended up not being about the website but all about the Twitter account. I’ve been a serious Roger Federer fan since 2006. When you love a global sport you get up at all hours of the night to watch matches. Sometimes your Internet feed dies. Sometimes the network you trusted stops airing your beloved to show someone you have no interest in. Sometimes your beloved loses early in a tournament you thought he’d win and you are inconsolable.
For years I watched Roger Federer gracefully travel around the planet all by myself. It was lonely but worth it. There were times when I wondered if I was the only Fed Head in America.
When I started @TheSportBird I slowly met other Fed Fanatics. Tweeting while I watched tournaments meant I finally had company. It became fun on a whole new level. These beautiful people spanned the globe–USA (finally found them!), Australia, Italy, France, England, South Africa, Tunisia, Peru, Canada, Malaysia, Singapore–and they were so kind. They also were devoted to Roger Federer for his being a hero on and off the court, a real class act. And because they could appreciate that in him it meant they appreciated it in everyone. This group of people around the world was full of love. IS full of love.
I used to feel this for that day I’d go to Indian Wells Tennis Garden every year. The relaxed atmosphere can be attributed to more than good weather and beautiful surroundings. Tennis fans these days strike me as a global family. I can show up at any practice court and ask the person standing next to me who I’m watching. They’ll happily tell me, probably tell me what brought them there, how their day is going and find something to giggle about. I remember walking past a group talking about how good looking Tommy Haas is. Without thinking I high-fived a guy as he said, “Even I wouldn’t turn him down” and kept walking.
Now my Twitter tennis community is a wealth of high-fives. It’s amazing, inspiring and keeps a smile pasted on my face all day long. Even if Roger loses we’ve still all won.
Surf City Half Marathon
Naomi and I at the finsh line!
On Sunday morning I dragged myself out of bed to run 13.1 miles along the coast in Huntington Beach. I was a tad cranky and had a poncho handy just in case it rained. Before any race I deal with the whole “What the hell am I thinking doing this?” conundrum until my running mentor Naomi appears and makes it seem like a walk in the park.
We got down to the start at 7:30am-ish and were thrilled to see that it was a beautiful day. The race was spectacular with snow-capped mountains in the background and the crashing surf alongside us most of the way.
It was mostly enjoyable. The last mile was pure agony. Every step hurt felt like I was walking on sandpaper and the muscles in my legs protested all movement. I guess we swelled up in the heat.
But hey, we did it. 3hours, 8 minutes. One potty break. I even got a tan!
Orange County girl goes on insufferable date with former pro soccer player
When 27-year old Costa Mesa resident Melanie Chandler responded to a message on the dating website OKCupid she had no idea what she’d be getting herself into.
“He had a picture that was kind of hot and he said he was from Brazil and a pro soccer scout. Wouldn’t you be curious too?” Chandler asked.
So Cal residents with no experience potential beach volleyball Olympians
28 year-old Hollywood resident Bernard Edelen and 26 year-old Laguna Beach native David Foes randomly met through an impromptu MarioKart tournament at a Chuck E Cheese in Costa Mesa. While bonding over bad beer and ignoring their families they realized they were destined for great things. The next day, still in a drunken stupor, they began the process to apply for citizenship to Lichtenstein.
Running the Las Vegas Rock N Roll Half Marathon
If 30,000 people are doing it then it can’t be wrong. Right? After almost freezing solid waiting for the monorail at 5am, my friend Naomi and I were cheered when we saw the hordes of people lined up on the Strip outside Mandalay Bay. The crowds proved that getting up before the crack of dawn to run 13.1 miles in 30 degree temperatures was a reasonable idea.
5am in the hotel room.
We couldn’t feel our fingers while we waited in our corral. #26/30. We watched the elite runners jet past us on the other side of the strip. While we crept up to the start line we got close to the people around us in an attempt not to turn into blocks of ice. The fireworks did little to grab our attention as the sun had already risen.
The start line made it all worth it. There was a bridge over the top with a rock n roll band playing Johnnie Be Good. On each side was a showgirl and a white tiger. And we were off.
For about 20 yards. We’d waited so long to get going that we already had to go to the bathroom. We spent ten minutes waiting in line at a port-a-potty and watched the last runners go by. Then the cars that pulled up the rear. And then even the street sweepers.
Start line with white tiger.
That was a lot of ground to make up. We passed the first mile mark at the Welcome to Las Vegas sign more than an hour after the race had officially started. Since it wound up and back down the strip we saw people heading to the finish line when we were at a mile and a half. Just a tad demoralizing. That’s when I coined my new running phrase: I don’t race. I finish. Shirts and bumper stickers available soon.
By then we’d hit a groove and continued down the Strip, through the major hotels, appreciating each and every Elvis we saw, thank you very much. Once we got past the Stratosphere things changed drastically. When they said we’d wind back in downtown Vegas they meant ghetto downtown Vegas. The halfway mark was a guy sitting on top of a newspaper stand with three cups of beer giving us props. The bands had thinned out so a couple guys stood on the balcony of their ratty 3-story apartment building and blasted electronic music on a boom box.
Mile 1 mark.
When we made the turn to come back a guy was sitting in his yard on a lawn chair (bars on the windows, port-a-potty on the corner) telling us that mile 8 was just around the corner. I told Naomi it would be funny if he was lying. When we turned the corner we saw a sign for the Channel 8 news. Poor guy hadn’t been lying. He was just plain wrong.
At mile 9 we started to feel the effects of the race and the cold. Naomi was stiff as she was in shorts and I was in pain every time we walked. We came up with a system where we ran a block then walked a block. When the 12 mile mark came I announced that we had already done it since we’d walked over a mile to the start line. Still, we pressed on, wondering if Mandalay was actually getting farther away in the distance.
Lots of people to pass.
Finally we hit the 13 mile mark and there were my parents ready to take a picture. They hadn’t gotten alerts on their phones when we passed the 15k and 20k marks (for some reason the system wasn’t working there) so they’d been a little nervous.
We completed the race in 3 hours, 24 minutes with 3 bathroom stops and passed almost 2000 people. Our reward was a medal, a mile walk to the taxi stand and then a 45 minute wait. No problem! We weren’t sore at all. Maybe because we’d been icing our joints all morning?
Waiting in that line with my family (yes, Naomi is definitely now family) I remembered the end of my last race and my staunch conviction that I would never do this again. Yet the masochistic addiction continues. I’m thinking Surf City in February. Naomi’s in!
With our medals!
Ann Meyers speaking at Orange County Girls Inc.
Huntington Beach resident Ann Meyers is a basketball legend. There are too many peaks in her career to take in at once.
- The first player to be of the US national team while still in high school.
- The first woman to be signed to a four-year athletic scholarship for college (UCLA).
- The only woman to sign an NBA contract (Indiana Pacers in 1979).
- The first player drafted to the Woman’s Professional Basketball Association (New Jersey Gems in 1978).
Dancing Thriller at the Clippers Halloween Halftime Show
Me and Tiffany
I have a generic email address. It leads to a lot of incorrect email.
A few weeks ago my roommate was telling me a compelling story and I had the audacity to interrupt him.
“Hold on. I think I just got email for the Clippers dance team.”
I read it. I read it again. I got the impression it was telling me about my upcoming performance at a halftime show. It even congratulated me on it.
I replied with, “Are you sure you sent this to the right person?”
She emailed right back. “I sure did!”
I still didn’t believe it. The email said we’d get details the following week. I decided I’d wait until that email came before I took the time to learn the dance and buy my outfit.
But the details came! I was one of the 40 people chosen to dance Thriller at the NBA halftime show at STAPLES Center on Halloween. I’d never even entered a drawing. It was a miracle.
I didn’t want to take any chances. On Tuesday I went right to the head lady’s office and bought my tickets. I was dizzy with anticipation. I was really going! The only things standing in my way were a zombie outfit and learning a six minute dance.
I’ve never taken a dance class, only danced to a lot of videos in my room. I wasn’t worried about it, especially because the week before thousands of zombies had danced Thriller at LA Live to break a world record in Thrill the World. We were an off-shoot of that event and I was sure that if all those people could do it then I could too.
On Wednesday evening I shut myself in my room with the promise that I wouldn’t let myself out until I knew it. Two and a half hours later I knew it okay. And I was nervous.
On Thursday I had to go to an event in Hollywood after work so I didn’t have time to practice. I printed up all the dance moves and read them whenever I had a chance. I performed it for my boss once. It wasn’t enough.
On Friday night I had to put together my zombie outfit. I went through the routine a couple times but that was all the time I had for it. I was getting more nervous. I didn’t know it cold and I couldn’t do it without other people. At least I had learned that baby powder made clothes look older and I had a revealing yet ripped up dress that would work. My shoe situation was a disaster. We were supposed to have something that wouldn’t scuff the floor. I had nothing but big pink and white running shoes that clashed with everything I had going on.
On Saturday I put on my poodle skirt and went to Venice Beach to work as a glitter tattoo artist until late afternoon. Every spare second I went through my dance notes. I even attempted to teach it to a group of girls. Their attention span didn’t allow it.
After work I was supposed to go to my friend’s house to get dressed and get my makeup on. On my way over she called to let me know she wasn’t going to be able to make it. That’s when I totally freaked out. I didn’t even know how to get to STAPLES from where I was. And where was I going to get dressed? And who was going to do my makeup? I was supposed to have that all figured out before I got there!
I tried to convince myself to just let the opportunity go. It had been a difficult day at work and I didn’t need this kind of stress. But I couldn’t do it. I knew I’d always regret it if I did.
I took over a McDonald’s bathroom. I got in my dress. I poured baby powder all over myself. I shot silver-white dye into my hair. I smeared black and white makeup on my face. I had come into the place looking so cute and I was leaving looking disgusting. It was the best I could do.
My brother gave me directions and I shot over to STAPLES. I ran from the $7 lot to LA Live. I passed no zombies and looked really out of place.
The zombies were taking a group picture. They were done up to the nines. I needed really needed to step up my outfit. There were still three hours until show time so there was hope.
We moved over to as secluded a spot as possible and attempted to get our release forms in order. The forty zombies had turned into a hundred zombies.
Tiffany's friend Paul who put blood on me.
A girl named Tiffany said she could help me with my makeup. I asked her how she had become involved in the event. She said that she and her friends had sent in audition tapes and then driven down from Santa Cruz. She said that Michael Jackson had meant so much to her and we both teared up when she said, “I feel like when he died his love burst into the world.” The event took on new meaning. We would perform Thriller where he’d performed it. Where his funeral had been. It was a Big Deal.
Tiffany had covered my arms, legs, chest and face in white makeup. I had made it look dusty by smearing baby powder all over it. We had to stop for our dress rehearsal.
My first time dancing Thriller with other people! We had no music. And no real leader. Somebody started. Nobody was counting. We ended up hammering it out in triple time and trying to figure out why.
Amanda, our leader, intervened. We did it in real time. Then we did it from a pretend entrance. A crowd had gathered to watch us. We did it again. We all made sure we had tickets. Then we moved out to the middle of LA Live in front of where the radio station 104.3 was set up.
This was going to be our first real performance. We waited. One of the lead people started dancing to Beat It that was playing on the speakers. He was good. We all fanned out. There he was in the middle of hundreds of people, an exact replica of Michael Jackson’s moves.
A kid about twelve stepped out into the circle. He mirrored all the moves. We were enchanted. So was the lead guy. They kept it up for a couple minutes before the lead guy got on the ground to bow to him and the kid melted back into the crowd, embarrassed but pleased.
The lead guy finished the dance and then 104.3 introduced us. We got in our lines and away we went. We just got better and better. Then we did it again. Our makeup started to melt off. Everyone wanted to know who we were. Why were a hundred zombies doing Thriller at LA Live? When a lady asked me I had nothing for her. I settled on, “We’re a motley crew. Kind of a flash mob.”
And we were. When we were done with that dance we spread out everywhere. I headed to the game.
I fell into step with a couple from Israel, a couple of the best zombies around. I found out that they had heard about this event a year ago. And they had auditioned. It turned out that everyone had auditioned. Somehow I had circumvented the system. I hoped I hadn’t taken a deserving person’s opportunity but even more I hoped that I wouldn’t disappoint the lead people.
We went to our seats to watch the first half. Up in the rafters at center court we peered down at the players. Baron Davis. Dirk Nowitzki. Jason Kidd. NBA greats running around where we would soon be dancing. Surreal.
My friend arrived. My stomach began to somersault. It felt like the hour before I went skydiving. It didn’t make any sense! I was going to be in a crowd.
We were supposed to be at Section 109 ten minutes before halftime. A little prep time in the bathroom and I was running late. I snuck into the last line and was awarded a court access sticker. Instead of triumph I felt nausea.
My friend dashed inside to see what section she’d be taking pictures from. I failed to grasp it.
We moved off. Through a secure door. Down a flight of stairs. Into the bowels of STAPLES.
We made lines in an area surrounded in concrete. Off behind us were some of the players’ cars. Or so I assumed.
“This is the back line,” someone announced. “This is the front line.”
I was in the front. I moved to the back.
She made an announcement that reversed what she’d said before. I scurried back to my previous spot, trading spots with a girl.
We were given last minute instructions that I didn’t catch. I made a deal with the guy in front of me, Paul, that I’d follow him. We had a bond anyway. He’d put fake blood on my face and neck earlier.
We lined up in a wing just off the court and waited for the second quarter to finish, watching on the teletron. With less than a second to go someone was fouled in the act of shooting past the arc. He had to shot three free throws. We all groaned.
Finally it was time. We were zombies from this moment forward.
I followed Paul out across the court and did my best zombie walk. My mouth was desert dry. I had to make it to the far corner.
Walking out on that court was not at all what I expected. For starters, it was small. It was just a basketball court. There was no more room than that. And the court wasn’t all shiny and slick. It was kind of dull and scuffed up. The thousands of people in the seats around us didn’t seem real. They seemed like some sort of badly executed trick. Still, I could feel their curiosity pressing down on us and felt the dread of expectation.
When we got to our corner we had to leer and look menacing, something I’m terrible at. Two of our lead people stood at center court. The other half of our crew crept up from the opposite end. We rushed in to pretend to eat the two women.
On cue we moved back into our lines. I lost Paul. I came to a stop in the back row at center court. I prayed that my underwear wouldn’t fall off and that I wouldn’t throw up.
I knew I’d be fine when we started dancing and I was. I just couldn’t believe how full the arena was. From above it had looked empty. And everyone looked so interested. “What the hell is this?” stamped on their faces.
We rocked it. We looked amazing. We were all down when we were supposed to be and up when we were supposed to be up. It was really something. Even as we proceeded off the court the fans were rooted to their feet, wondering what they’d seen. I saw famous people blown away and couldn’t help but high five a security guard.
As for my shoes? I’d done it in bare feet. Shh.
The next day I went to the movies by myself to see This Is It. I cried more than once.
I grew up with Neverland Ranch in my backyard. Michael Jackson was known to shop at my Toys R Us. His molestation trial was held in my hometown. I never thought much of any of it. He seemed like a far off fixture in the background of my life.
Now I see that you don’t gain this kind of following without having something real to offer the world. Watching dress rehearsals of his epic last concert that never came to be I was lifted up. I was shown how much better I can be. How much better we all can be. There’s no going back.
This is it.
Huntington Beach man is gearing up to run across America “barefoot”
Paul Both at the 2009 Surf City Marathon.
43-year old Paul Both is a simple man who loves running. He loves it so much he’d do it for four and a half months straight if the opportunity presented itself.
On February 9, 2010 it will.
Both will average 20-30 miles per day as he makes the Run for Liberty from Surf City to Liberty Island. His friend, colleague and cameraman Chris Swenson will join him to document the trek on video while also talking to people along the way about liberty and the Constitution.
Why would they want to talk about something so boring? Because for Both it’s a serious matter.
Rachel
