The Masters Games - Basketball, Futsal & The Games Village

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THE MASTERS GAMES - Basketball

During the week I offered to help out by officiating two men’s basketball games each day. It was a pretty uneventful affair, and tied in nicely with my physio appointments with Lena. Her name is irrelevant, but in being young and blonde, and paid (by the government, not by me) to massage my thigh, I had to fight pretty hard to stop myself from saying “the pain seems to have shifted towards my inner thigh”. Nevertheless, I reluctantly endured the course of treatment, well, up until the point where she was replaced by Bob (who was neither, young or blonde {or female for that matter} and hence could not provide an appropriate level of service).

Anyway, yeah the basketball was pretty dull. Only one Technical foul all tournament, and not too much controversy. Good to be back with the whistle, and not get called “a jumped up little sh*te” though. Remember her Jeff, she was a real bitch. Anyway.

FUTSAL - INDOOR SOCCER - A letter to the Corinthians

So, Saturday was judgment day. After six weeks of Futsal training, our team (the Corinthians), a Brazilian, an Iranian, a Dutchman, a Singaporean, an Aussie and four Englishmen, took the court against a team called Romania, which led me to believe they were the Romanian national Futsal squad. The photos might tell you otherwise as there was more than one wok smuggler amongst ‘em. They were a fiery bunch tho. Couldn’t understand a word they said, but they were quite passionate about their Futsal, that was for sure. Their keeper was also the Romanian national sumo wrestling champ, and also a world farting championship contender. He put these skills to good use on the Futsal pitch, which rendered him a pretty effective keeper.

There were only four teams in the event, so the first day was a round robin, which would determine our group positions. Then on day two, the 1st place team would play the 4th team and 2nd would play 3rd. So, really day one was about conserving energy and not giving too much away. Futsal is pretty much the same as indoor soccer, but with a hockey goal, and a smaller and heavier ball that doesn’t really bounce. It’s a very quick game (even when oldies play it) so rolling subs are allowed and it promotes skills such as toe poke shots (which are only allowed if you shout “toe poke” in a high pitched voice before striking the ball), step-overs, and snaky jake hip shuffles.

We scored early in the game, which is crucial, allowing you to sit back and attack on the counter. After about 6 minutes I subbed on for Keith, got given a hospital pass from our centreback (or pivot as Futsal’ers would say, pronounced “Pievo”) turned the ball over and they scored. After the kick-off I made the mistake of trying to kick the ball over a distance greater than 5 yds. “Sub please, Keith” I was forced to shout, as my rectus femorus cried “toing!” It’s not supposed to do that, so I left the court at approximately 6 minutes and 30 seconds. Lena was put to work again, and we went on to win the first game 7-3 with some decent Futsal played by both teams.

Our 2nd game was against Dundee Utd. I don’t think it was the real Dundee United as they were cup tied, but they too were a fiery bunch, wearing a fitting shade of day glow orange. I can’t remember the score but we were outstanding and won comfortably. That bore no relationship to me being on the bench. The highlight was Rick, predictably receiving our team’s first yellow card and thus taking us out of contention for the “fair play” award. Now we’d have to go on and win the thing to ensure taking home some silverware. Regardless, Rick had a blinder and kept a clean sheet (much like his PhD in fact) against a team that could have threatened us. The final score was like 8-0 or something.

Game three was against Melchester United who were actually in the over 40s bracket, so provided little opposition. Within minutes we were 3-0 up, when I said, “bloody hell, it’ll be 21 nil if we carry on at this rate. The final whistle blew at 21-0. Although, technically Jia Yi and Luis should both have had a couple of their goals disallowed for not shouting out “toe-poke.”

Having topped the pool, day two began with a similar affair against Melchester, with a resounding 22-0 victory. The highlight was some true brilliance from Luis “Zico” Uehara who dribbled past two defenders and tucked the ball into the goal before the keeper could say, “Guys, it might be fortuitous if one of you puts a challenge on this gentleman, I think he’s going to score.” (Only in rather less eloquent, and rather more abusive language). Then we produced the team goal of the tournament, which began with a patented Chow chip kick© from Jia Yi over three players, to Rob who thundered the ball into the top corner. The only other moment of note during the game, was when Sasan, our Iranian fireball, turned to Luis after hearing our players encourage each other and said, “What is this word unlucky? We don’t have this word. I don’t understand. If you mess up, we just say You Suck!” That's on a par with one of the hobits players (another fiery Scot) named Colin, who said "I hate friendlies, you can't get stuck in to anyone."

True to form, the Romanians defeated day-glow orange and the final would be a repeat of the opening game.

Our pre-game from coach Luis was pretty much - get a lead, sit on it and beat em on the counter. Strictly following the coaches order’s, Johan smacked a ball from the halfway line right past the keepers midriff (the narrowest part of the goal, given the size of his gut) - a moment of Dutch delight. The game progressed in fiery fashion with the big Dutchman unrelenting in his tackles, until one of their players fell over after a fair challenge. We all stopped, apart from the referee, and Johan who smacked the ball at the goal. It ricocheted off one of their players who then joined his teammates in complaining that they had an injured player. We all stood still waiting for a decision. The referee looked bamboozled and said “kick the ball out,” to which the Romanians responded by dribbling the ball the length of the court and tucking one past Rick whilst we all looked on waiting for a whistle that didn’t come. The goal stood.

It was 1-1. The goal was a complete farce and the referee looked as disappointed as anyone, but Johan was not going to let a quirky goal defy him of his dream. In Cruyff like fashion he turned past his defender and again let a “Hotshot Hamish Thunderbolt” fly - this time into the roof of the net. The team fought hard to sustain the pressure from the Romanians and finished the half with a three-goal cushion.

Midway though the second half the score crept up to 7-2 and I was feeling confident about making an appearance on the floor. Surely, even I couldn’t let a five goal lead slip - but to be sure, I waited until it was almost temporally impossible for us to lose. I ran on with 28 seconds left. Ran around like an idiot for a wee while (at one point I got to within 8 feet of the ball) before the buzzer sounded. We had won 8-4. I hadn’t kicked a ball, but throwing the Master’s Games ethos out of the window (“It’s the participation, not the winning”) I felt pretty good to have won the big G.

Now, before you give up reading the rest of this blog - the best is yet to come. Think of it as my social comment on the human race…

THE MASTERS GAMES - The Games Village

A funny thing happens when you turn 50 and you’re single (this is speaking from observational rather than personal experience of course). You arrive at a social function with a group of strangers and turn into a naïve 18 year old. The Games Village, well that’s what the management call it - AKA “a tent with a dance-floor” provided the evening’s entertainment for those who’d travelled from out of town, which commendably included north islanders and a few teams of Aussies. The village is easy to find - right next to the caravan offering free prostrate tests - they don’t miss a trick.

The entertainment was provided by a band who played hits such as “Sweet Caroline” and “Dancing in the Streets,” and a competitor who had acquired a comedy pair of shorts that had a big saggy sponge bum sticking out of them that actually looked pretty realistic - and hence quite funny. She was quite a hit with the fellas, especially when the band began to sing “let’s twist again…” My only concern was that the lucky gent who “bagged” her for the night would probably help her out of her comedy bum, only to find another identical one beneath it. How I laughed, when I discovered I was right. Only joking. While “grab a granny” at ”The Cat” or “Gregs” (that’s the night club, not the bakers, although Greggs the bakers is probably as good a place as anywhere to hook up with a granny, well that and the cobblers and the candlestick makers) was cool as an infrequent event when you’re 18 and everyone else is nearly 30, there’s something quite disturbing about a 36 year old going to the Master’s Games Village to “hook up” every night.

The next night they had a different band on that played hits like “Sweet Caroline” and “Dancing in the Street.” It was great (pronounced in a north Yorkshire accent, that should probably be spelled Graaaaaaaayyyyyt - thanks Banksy). I was enjoying a quiet beer with a friend, when some guy wanders up and asks if he can join us at our table (he must have been about mid-40’s), and he starts bragging about how didn’t get to bed until nearly 4am last night. I look at him admiringly. What? 4am? You stallion! And I bet you didn’t call home to tell the Mrs you’d be late. On the edge man, on the edge. Then he starts telling me about his mate’s bird, who he calls “handbrake” because she’s spoiling all his fun. (Yeah I thought that was pretty funny too). She’s 56 and has won 3 Gold, 1 Silver and 5 Bronze medals. “She keeps them in her handbag (along with all the other useless crap that women keep there, obviously) well, that is when they’re not round her neck, and takes them out at every opportunity to show everyone she meets.” Oh come on, mate I say (like he’s my mate, and I give a sh*t) at least she’s taking part though eh. “And to make it worse,” he goes on oblivious to my comments “She hasn’t won one f***ing event” - she’s the only competitor in her age bracket. In the 400 metres they bloody lapped her. How can that happen?” At this point I’m beginning to share in his anguish. “Fair do’s mon” I say to comfort him. He looks at me blankly then gets distracted by the lady with the comedy arse.

And so the night goes on, while I’m sitting there, having a quiet beer and contemplating how funny it is that when you give a collection of mature men and women (no matter what age) a bit of music and a dance floor, it turns them into a bunch of nervous teenagers. They get edgy just walking across the dance floor. And to make matters worse this particular dance floor was like a snap fit plastic lino that undulated with the grass, so when you walk across it you take three steps then your leg locks, or you fall down an invisible hole. Well, I could have sat and watched them walking back and forth to the bar all night. They didn’t know whether to walk faster, slower, take the long route fighting through the tables and chairs, or just watch every step like the ground was about to swallow them up.

THE SPIRIT OF THE GAMES

So, getting into the spirit of the Games I was keen to see as many events as possible. After finishing our footy on the first weekend I tried valiantly to persuade my friend Jia Yi to come and check out a few other sports. “Come on, it’ll be great, we can check out the netball, then the ladies beach volleyball…” It didn’t take Jia Yi long to figure out my motives, nor did it take him long to point out that 50 year old women jumping around in bikinis might not be exactly his cup of tea. Good point, well made, say no more.

So we body swerved the sports tour, though during the week it was hard not to miss some at the multiple-event sites. One of the most interesting events was the 10k walking race, which I found fascinating. Imagine this. In fact I challenge you. I challenge you to have a walking race with 3 of your friends. The race only needs to be 50 yds. But normal walking race rules apply - whatever they are, something like one foot has to be in contact with the ground all the time. Anyway, what are the chances you’d get more than 3 steps before someone is running. I bet you. Try it out! There is no way on earth that you could make it the full 50yds without someone bitching about someone else’s technique. Try it!

Anyway, Chris and I inadvertently drove past the walking race on Sunday morning. The leaders were flying along. I don’t think I could have kept up if I was sprinting. In fact, my mountain bike didn’t reach those speeds when I last rode down Helvelin. I can just imagine the end of the 10k walk and there’s two guys battling it out right on each other’s heels - the marshalling is, well, non-existent. The second they get in sight of the finish line they open up into a full on sprint, arms swinging and knees up to their chest. It’s gotta happen. Well, that’s the leaders anyway. Those bringing up the rear in this particular race (race?) were, let’s say a little less hasty. I swear I saw one couple walking arm-in-arm having a little smooch. It’s like the walk was just an excuse for getting out of the house.

Now I’m all for the PARTICIPATION, but come on people. Katy, the girl who looks after Bitsy (AKA Oblivion/Shaun/More Animal Crimes etc) was telling me about this American lady - sorry all my American friends, but you bring it on yourselves by letting these people fly to foreign countries and venture into the public domain. You need to start some sort of assassination campaign against those American’s who like to travel who aren’t representative of your country. Anyway, this American lady is in the triathlon (to be fair, I could tell this story without even mentioning her nationality, but in fact the story just becomes much clearer when you realise that she’s American), and she’s just entering the transition area from the bike to the run. Now in triathlon terms, the transition is a bit like a pit stop, a critical part of the race that can only lose you time. For example, in Formula One racing you can change 4 tyres, clean the driver’s visor and fill up your fuel tank in under 8 seconds.

However, in this lady’s head, the pit stop (transition) is a natural break in the race where you kick back, reflect upon your previous event, plan ahead for your next section, take on board a bit of food, a few sips of water (all very admirable proceedings), or perhaps start a conversation with a random stranger in the crowd, catch up with a few friends, ask your mum which restaurant you’re eating dinner at tonight, and of course ensure that you are appropriately dressed for the next stage which means putting on a pair of running shorts over the top of your cycling shorts (because why look like a cyclist when you’re going to be running?, that’s just silly, silly it is.)

That last phrase reminds me of one of my favourite quotes from Brant Lake a couple of years ago. I digress, but this, at least I found quite funny. Eric Reiss, a natural born comedian, on this occasion was not making any attempt at humour, in fact he had only a few days earlier rolled his car, with the hood/roof collapsing to within a few inches of his life, so comedy probably wasn’t at the forefront of his mind at this point. Anyway, Eric described one of the camp kids (not a typical kid I’m glad to say) by saying “He’s just a tool. He brings it upon himself by just being the tool that he is.” Nothing like making a point, hammering it home, then giving it one more thwack for good measure. Point taken Eric. This quote was marginally preceded by Mike Hall’s infamous line, discussing whether Eric was deserved of a trip to an upcoming concert with a group of boys (presumably trying to make a case for Mike going to the concert rather than Eric) Mike said - “He’s had 2 days out of camp, and now an early night and a day-off - he’s had a pretty good week, well besides a near death experience!” I don’t remember if Eric made it to the concert, but I’m certain Haller did, as usual.

Back to the American transition lady. Katy was rather dumfounded at her behaviour, especially as she strolled through transition, only to “tut” loudly, turn around chuckling at herself and remark “I forgot my iPod, tee, hee”. Commendably Katy couldn’t help herself from saying “you do know it’s a race don’t you dear?” Nice one. Somehow I don’t think her iPod was playing “Eye of the Tiger” or “Final Countdown”. “Sweet Caroline” at a push I guess.

So there it is. The NZ Masters Games. A pretty special week. Thanks to all my team mates for inviting and accepting me into their teams and making it such a memorable experience.

If you’ve not seen enough. You’ll catch a photo of my soccer exploits from last week - here.
http://www.photos.nzmg.com/soccer/soccer/soc142.jpg

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Photos

The Corinthians
Out team name came from that great letter that Paul wrote to the Corinthians in the new testament. Sorry dad, that\'s a little white lie (well, a dark grey lie) Corinthians is a Luis\' favourite Brazillian Soccer team.

Sasan
The Sassanator - keeps his hands to himself and lets his feet do the talking... (this time)!

Jia Yi Chow
The Singapore Kid! AKA: Jeremiah Yigualagua - AKA: Jerry Cow!

Keith Davids
Professor Stepover

Rick Shuttleworth
Rick "Clean Sheet" Shuttleworth - The Aussie Sensation

Chris Button
Dr Crazy Legs Button -

Rob Weeks
The Powerplay Bulldog!

Duncan Mascarenhas
Duncan Miscellaneous adopts his favourite position. Anyone got a cushion?