30 record(s) found
I am a rhythmic gymnast. I train four hours a day, six days a week. Sleeping at around 11 at night and waking up at four in the morning, my normal schedule is set up as such mainly for the sake of finishing my homework. As you can see, it’s a hard tasking juggling between my studies and sports training. I feel that I am constantly rushing everywhere, from school to the training centre to then back home. Sometimes I do wonder though: why am I doing this? Why should my parents sacrifice so much? They certainly have better things to do other than being “chauffer” day in, day out. My giving parents have always regarded this as supporting me in my passion and love for the sport.
The first silvers of daylight from the dawning sun flitted through the crack in the heavy velvet curtains, encasing the mahogany cabinet in a sublime radiance. Encircling me were ornaments and jewellery that glistened with an imposing sheen, encrusted in the glory of the morning sun. Even the cabinet I was standing on gave off a warm, ambient glow that shone from the polished, ornate wood. Yet I remained as I was – drab, dismal, and foreign, as always.
Thud! Thud! The steady rhythm of a basketball being bounced on the highly polished, hardwood flooring resounded throughout the entire court. It was the only sound to be heard, with the only exception of squeaking sneakers and ear-piercing whistles from the coach signaling a timeout. A practice match occupied centre, which was obviously the reason why the court was jam-packed with a loud cheering crowd
Cold. The sensation bombards me as I first step onto the slippery blue swimming pool block nearest my feet. It’s hard to imagine that it’s just another midsummer day. My bathing suit feels damn and clings to my skin. A bead of water escapes for my hair cap, the tiny rivulet tracing down my left cheek like a teardrop. The air around me “is charged with excitement, the crowd buzzing like bees in the stands. Everyone is excited about this meet. After all, today’s winner would be the one representing our country in the next Olympics.
Rakesh Padmanabhan Parmeshwar. A suitably large name for a rather large person. We used to call him Cannonball – a suitably rotund nickname for a rather rotund person. He was generally the kind of person other people generally avoided treating to lunch – they might not be able to foot the bill afterwards.
Sweat dripped from my face like tears. I lay face down on the tatami mat, silent for a second of two, slightly winded from the impact of my opponent’s throw. “Matte!” called the referee, signaling for both of us to pause and return to our starting positions on the competition arena. I was exhausted. My heart was beating rapidly, my breathing heavy.
The outline of the setting sun blurred as the bright yellow with the flaming red. The whole swimming complex was bathed n a tangerine glow as the sun sank into a bank of clouds. Pleased that my team had finally clinched the water polo championships after months of training, I glowed with delight.
We were born conjoined at the hip, my sister Sandra and I, at 12:08 am on a rainy Sunday on July 29, 1990. For six months we had been “stuck together,” as our Grandma puts it now.
The strong smell of antiseptic wafted up my nostrils. This is a smell I’ve been accustomed to for most my whole life; yet, quite abruptly, I felt as if this would be the last time. I opened my eyes to see people in masks fuss around me, but I felt no worry, no anxiety. The happiness that was evident on my face puzzled a few of the nurses. My life was in danger, but why was I so elated? They must have wondered, if I didn’t have that oxygen mask over my nose and mouth, I would have filled them in on how wonderful my life had become.
“BASKET!!!” everyone screamed at the top of their lungs. I was among them, because our school, the Spindales School’s Girls’ basketball team had just scored. There was hardly any time left, and our score was tied with that of the Notterdame Academy. The crucial 20 seconds left would decide the winners of the interschool Basketball Championship. Everyone present at the match had their fingers crossed.
Fire The foul-smelling toilet was filled with the sound of fists hitting flesh. Jeremy crouched down on the stained floor, shielding himself from the neverending blows. He whimpered as the toe of a white Bata shoes came painfully into contact with his ear. “Get up, you puny idiot,” boomed a mean voice into his ear. He was hauled up brutally by the collar. Before he could shield himself, a huge fist connected with his nose. Jeremy howled in pain.
It had always been like that. For as long as he could remember, at least. That burning flame within him that never went out, lighting up his heart with all the warmth in the world – it was all that he ever needed. Then there was the rush, that surge of speed and strength as the hoop, goal or finish line drew closer, taking him away from himself for a few minutes before he lay sprawled at the end, drenched in sweat, but always smiling.
Magic Johnson once said, “All kids need is a little help and somebody who believes in them.” It was not until I was in Secondary 2 that I experienced the true meaning of having passion for something you love, something that you care about.
The sweltering heat failed to drown the rousing cheers of the spectators in the stadium. However, the atmosphere was intense for both western Oregon and Central Washington softball teams.
I was six, and at my grandfather’s house for a visit. There was a programme on disabled sportsmen showing on TV, and I was marveling at the stories of paraplegics playing basketball, running marathons and the like. Grandpa was chuckling when he saw my reaction.
Radha was your “regular” Olympic medalist. She trained several hours a day, six days a week, 52 weeks a year, for four years before an Olympics meet. Yes, she was your completely normal, sole gold medalist from India at the most recent Olympics. The only woman – nay, the only Indian – to qualify for the final races. However, she didn’t always show a flair for swimming.
The last quarter of the game was drawing to an end, and neither team had yet to score. The ball was now in the possession of the Fortiori Girls’ school team. One of the start players of the season, Jeslynn Lee, ran like the wind with the ball safely in her lacrosse stick. All around the stadium, cheers of encouragement were being shouted at her from all directions, the tension felt palpable by everyone, from the sweaty hotdog seller to the sports commentator comfortably seated in the air-conditioned viewing room.
I crashed onto the surface of the pool. As I somersaulted down below, I felt all the tension drain away from me. Every single problem was forgotten when I’m underwater. I was no longer the scrawny, clumsy girl I was I reality, but a graceful water nymph. I twirled in the middle of the water, my hair a dark halo. Then I felt the sunlight streaming through the water on my face and opened my eyes. All anyone could see was a hazy blue tinted with gold, but I saw my safe heaven.
“And in lane three, we have …” the announcer’s voice echoed through the complex, followed by the deafening roar of cheers from the stands. My body instinctively rose up at the sound of my name, and I got myself ready for the event just coming up. While my arms waved to the crowd as I rose, my mind blocked out all the noise and distracting thoughts, and instead focused on the one thing that mattered, the one thing that I had put all of my heart and mind, body and soul into preparing for: the 200-metre butterfly race.
I love tennis I had been interested in the game since I was little, and my family had always been supportive. They encouraged me to enter tournaments for the experience and, of course, the trophies. Having this kind of supportive environment enabled me to believe that my dream to become number one was within reach.