Consummatum

Dear Sensei.

You're leaving now. After so long with us. I don't know why the state government refused to let you continue teaching us, to let you finish what you started. But it doesn't matter anymore. You're going. To where not even you know. Maybe you'll be done with Malaysia and go to that German Olympic Training Centre you were offered several years back. Not likely, I know, because you promised your sensei to improve the standard of Judo in Malaysia. And you're tied to that promise. Binding words, those are - and we know you're a man of your word.

But anyway, thank you. Thank you for being there for us. Thank you for teaching me my Osotogari. Thank you for clapping your hand on the small of my back before my first match at the Nationals, against that national player. Thank you for yelling at me whenever I lost a match.

Thank you for teaching us about spirit. About never giving up, no matter who the opponent. Thank you for telling us stories (the one about Kankenai, for instance, changed the way Tang and I thought about life, forever). Thank you for tending to our injuries, no matter how trivial, or how bad. You were there at the hospital when Vincent broke his collarbone, you were constantly on the phone with the doctors when Shahirah compressed a disc in Johor; you taught us conditioning to prevent most major injuries from happening. Remember when I passed out from a choke last year? You stopped the match when I turned blue, treated my neck muscles after the competition and joked about it in training afterwards. Stupid of me to have fallen forward.

Thank you for yelling at us when we were running. That the only reason we were to stop was if we passed out of exhaustion. Thank you for telling us about Steffi. Being compared to a girl was precisely what we needed, nevermind that she was one of the toughest judoka you ever taught. You told us she got up faster than all of us during Randori - and we didn't like that. So we got up. Again and again. Every time you slammed us to the ground.

Thank you for lying to us in the gym. I've lost count of the number of times you've said "One last time!" on the bench press, only to have it repeated again and again as we strained against the weights. You taught us style and you taught us technique, and you were never satisfied with our performances. Our Judo was shaped by your hands.

Most of all, Sensei, thank you for teaching us about life. Like politics, for instance. In Penang, you sat us down and talked to us till late in the night about our country. About how being sent for competitions on state money was no small thing - it wasn't the government's money, it was ours. About how our government heads were our servants, not our leaders - leaders only if they gained our respect and if they were willing to lay down their lives for us. Through Judo you taught us about obstacles, and how to deal with them; you taught us respect - for officials, opponents; you taught us attitude. To know what you want in life and to work hard towards it. No nasi lemak culture. No shortcuts.

We made an agreement with you very early on in 2008 to give up our social lives for Judo. And for academics. You gave us our priorities: exams first, Judo second, everything else after that. Those were the conditions of being in the state team, and you sat us down one Sunday to explain it to us. We agreed. We never complained afterwards, because it was clear what you expected of us. And everytime I came close to falling from exhaustion I reminded myself that it was this deal I made with you, that we made with you, and it was my choice. And somehow I always managed to carry on. Thank you for pushing me to my limits, and for making me find out that my limits aren't so clear cut after all.

And do you know that Horng Eng's leadership style, Tang's management can-do, my teaching technique for debate, these were all from you? We learned more about leadership from your Judo than we did from anywhere else (the *ahem* prefectorial board, for instance - but that's just ironic considering Horng Eng and Steffi were both head girls). You were a great leader. And yes, we know you're not without your faults - but you taught us that being human was no excuse for stagnating. Come to think of it, you didn't like excuses. Period.

My last lesson with you was on Saturday. I didn't know what to say, when I shook your hand: "Goodbye Sensei. Thank you for -" and my brain froze up. Circuit overload. I struggled for the right word, and settled for: "- everything."

You smiled. "You're welcomed," you said to me. "I hope you learned something."

"I did! Spirit ... Not giving up, Judo." Clipped. Staccato. A rush of images behind each word.

"Good, good." I stepped back to collect my shoes, my gi, to leave my last lesson under you. "Oh and - ?" you cut in. I turned.

"Remember to pay your fees."

Damn.

Goodbye Sensei. Wherever you'll be, whatever you do. We'll miss you. I'll miss you.

Take care.

Heavy

I found out I was 64kg today.

That made me feel very bad. I went downstairs and opened the fridge and took out a bar of Elvan chocolate and finished that, and then I opened the larder and took out a bag of sugared cookies and finished that, and then I went to the dining room and opened a packet of Mentos and sucked on that.

Then I was better so I watched the Olympics until I felt thinner, and then I went back upstairs to stare at my Physics textbooks for the next four hours.

Which is all a lie.

But here's the sad fact: my lie isn't too far from the truth. Over the past 2 months I had been doing all of the above, only over the space of weeks, not hours. I hadn't been to the gym, played Judo or ran in those 60 days, and I had a bad shock when I stepped on the scales in the afternoon.

Let me clarify. Weighing yourself isn't as easy as jumping on a scale and screaming your head off. I stripped down to my underwear and distributed my weight evenly on the metal surface, and then I stared as the meter swiveled up, up past the 60 kg mark and onwards to the half-point. I was in my parents' bathroom - a completely weird thing to do and probably even weirder had they barged in. Imagine finding your teenage son near naked and staring at an analog meter.

Totally freaky.

(Oh and by the way, if you ever get the opportunity to play at a national level Judo tournament be sure to bring nice underwear. The weighing-in ceremony takes place in a roomful of opponents, random coaches and fierce-looking officials - in your underwear - so it makes sense to leave your pink playboys at home. I find it really distracting to fight against a guy in a thong - don't you?)

So anyway I found out I was 64 kg. Which meant that I was 4 kg overweight. I figured that at least 2 kg of that was water (I sweated out as much the last major tournament), and since I had not being gaining muscle in the past 2 months .... the other 2 kg was fat.

Damn.

I started running. I knew what I was getting myself into, but I strapped on my shoes and plugged in my iPod and got my dog all excited at the prospect of a walk. She rushed out wag wag wag. Poor girl.

And everything came back to me quickly. The slap of rubber on cement, the steady thump of beats from my earbuds, the smell of sweat as it trickled down my chin. And the pain! Oh how welcomed the pain was! A burning sensation reached out from inside my chest and spread its fingers down, past my solar plexus, stabbing right into the stomach muscles. It hurt so badly! Breathe. Stabofpain. Breathe. Wobbly legs. I thought back to the afternoons being yelled at by Sensei and kept at it.

The idea behind running is to maintain a rapid pulse, and to keep at it for a good period of time. 1 kg, for instance, takes approximately half an hour of aerobic running to burn. And my metabolic rate had skyrocketed after training this year - while my training intensity had gone down my hunger hadn't. I can now eat two packets of rice and still forage for cookies. D'oh.

I came back and stripped down and weighed myself again. The analog meter swung right up, up, past the 60 kg mark, and it settled at ... 64.

Dammit I'm fat.