OK, so since I've last been on here there have been a few interesting things I've done that are worth sharing on this here web space. I've been really busy, and promise to be for the next few days before Durham (eek, so soon!), but here's a brief update on this and that for now:
Upholding a Tradition Or Two:
Since I entered college, my birthday has been largely unceremonious and my Thanksgiving has been away from home.
Back in 2002 I celebrated turning 18 by inviting my best friend at Duke at the time, a high school buddy, to my favorite greasy pizza establishment near East Campus, only announcing the occasion as we were on our way. It was a Monday night. I remember he gave me his list of top 5 American authors (Steinbeck, Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Faulkner, and either Salinger or Heller, as I recall). It was pleasant but not extravagant.
Then in 2003 I was in a sour mood about the whole not celebrating thing, and so I ate at the McDonald's on campus (it was a Tuesday). And there I ran into two younger teammates. I won't use names, but they represented Wisconsin and Tennessee, and one of the managed to wolf down a 20 pc. of Nuggets, a Big Mac, a large soda, a large fries, and something else, and still not feel full. He thought he had parasites. A funny night.
2004 saw me starting the tradition of cutting weight on my birthday, a Thursday this time. I went to an Animal Collective show, and the combination of their music in its crazy live form and my tired, hungry state led to one of the more spiritual feelings of my life. Ok, laugh away.
2005 was a Friday, and I drove down to Pennsylvania for a wrestling tournament and to begin my journey to Duke for the winter. Again, low on weight but high on energy, I managed to make it through the day alright.
As for Thanksgiving, every year but 2003 I celebrated at my Coach's brother's house, and in 2003 I was fortunate enough to be in Oklahoma, celebrating with a teammate and his family. (No sarcasm, I swear!) All the meals were fantastic, and the Oklahoma one especially left me in a panic that I wouldn't make weight for the tournament that Saturday. I was in quite a tizzy. But it ended well.
So here, while I thought that at least on my birthday I'd have huge plans, or at least a ton of options, my day unfolded as follows: Practice, which saw no coaches show up, meaning we could only run. Then I went to check email and thank people (and I thank again, everybody, you were awesome, thank you), then home to rest and see how the night would play out. My first thought, hanging out with Americans, was cancelled when one of those Americans had his flight cancelled. Then I thought to hang out with a wrestler and buddy at some cafe or another. But upon waiting for him in the center to see where he was at, and calling to no response, I went back home, only to find out upon my arrival at the bus stop that he fell asleep quickly but was still up for meeting up. I was already set on bed, and so, alas, another mundane birthday.
No worries though, because I've been filling up the schedule just fine.
My Biggest Victory Yet:
Another wrestling tale. In practice last Friday - my last practice as a 21-year old, if you will - we wrestled a scrimmage at the end of practice. I was feeling pretty good and wrestling well, and so as we split into two teams and lined up, I was excited to see my pairing. I would be facing Andrei Seminsonov (I may have screwed up the last name), an agreeable, good-looking fellow of medium height, about my weight, with a clean-cut goatee (vs. my grossly groomed one) and short hair. More to the point, he has a good sense of humor and is probably my favorite wrestler to compete against and watch in the practice room: he combines a Russian sense of technique with an American sense of aggressiveness, pushing the pace and always looking to score points. When we wrestle he usually beats me but I can also score points on him, so I was excited for the chance.
You see, each pair wrestled to the first point, sort of a sudden death dual meet. The pairings were fairly even, and as we stood there he gave me a few throat-slash gestures, while I returned with the Ivan Drago "I will break you" symbol. Maybe it would have worked better if he was the American and I the Russian.
Anyway, the dual meet started off not in our favor, but was back and forth, and when we stepped out, Andrei's team was leading us 3-2. The first team to 5 would clinch the dual, so at this point our margin of error was slim.
Meanwhile, I knew that I had one chance to beat him: I have one absolutely effective go-to move (just in case any future opponents choose to scout me by reading this blog, it will only be known as my GTM), and I needed to hit it right at the beginning and hope for the best. So we shook hands, started out fighting for position, and then bam, GTM with the sort of fury I usually only show when somebody withholds chocolate from me.
It wasn't the end, however. I was behind him, but he remained on all fours, which is a takedown in America but not anywhere else. I struggled with my rough technique for over 15 seconds, and now concerns of the period ending or the coach calling us up to neutral were entering my head. The other team insisted on us going to our feet, my team tried coaching me. Finally, my strength and weight prevailed and I got the point. I shook hands, walked away with a raised arm in triumph. Our team wouldn't lose another match.
I came away with a bruised knee, but what's glory without pain? And on that note, considering the glory I'm going through in foreign realms, I'm due for a whole world of hurt soon. Ce La vie, eh?
Dan
24.11.06
11.11.06
Maybe it's just my aura?
The following is a completely true, only rarely exaggerated story (and even then, most exaggerations will be obviously comical) involving, well, me, as well as the following themes or events: Blini, my first (but still legitimate) McDonald's purchase abroad, November snow, Egyptian vacations, messy eating, and, most importantly, my penchant for attracting the company of interesting and pretty women potentially twice my age.
I could have guessed that Friday would be a good day straight from the get go. On Thursday there was a beautiful snowfall with big fat snowflakes and a reasonable temperature, meaning I could enjoy making footprints in fresh snow on my way home, a winter thrill I've enjoyed from my wee days in Burlington. Unfortunately, that meant that with a little warmth on Friday, the streets were absolutely gross - slushy, muddy, dirty, wet, filled with puddles, just miserable. And me in my pretty little Roman, blue sneakers? Well, if there was a time for me to get sick in Moscow, it would be after that. But I don't have time for that.
Anyway, I meant I could have guessed Friday would be good because as I walked to the bus stop, one of my backpack pockets was open, and not only that, but the one with my journal, my copy of Bulgakov's White Guard and Master and Margarita, and my camera. So basically the most valuable possessions (if you don't count my falling apart, heavily taped, barely usable, foul-smelling wrestling shoes) I had on me were out in the open. And where as in the states somebody (or twenty people in a day, as with my broken backpack) would say, "You know, your backpack's open", here a women walked by and scathingly asked, "Is your bag specifically open like that so people can rob you?" Touche.
The day continued on a typical, pleasant but unspectacular route: I had a pretty good practice, I went and drank some hot chocolate (which in Europe is literally hot, melted chocolate), and then went down to the pool hall to speak English with my main man/student, Togrul. We talked, traded some movie suggestions, drank some tea, and then I headed out at 5.
Feeling hungry and in the mood, I decided to head into the center for blini, at that same underground mall I mentioned last time. I've decided that this food court, with Teremok as my vendor, is right there with the pond by Novodevich Monastery for my favorite spots in Moscow. I ordered and then sat around looking for a spot to sit down: the food court is always at capacity, so the hungry eater is forced to scavenge a table. If you are in a group of 2 or more, once you find the table it's yours and nobody will join you (though they may take your chairs). I was alone, so as I stumbled upon an empty table in the middle, I expected company. I turned to my newspaper and started chowing down anyhow.
Before I go any further - and don't worry, the intro is almost over - let me paint the picture. I haven't shaved in almost 3 weeks; my hair is long, and additionally because I wear a hat all the time, quite unkempt; I'm wearing a coat but sleeves rolled up; and I'm reading a newspaper and eating my blin with my hands in public, minding my own business. Clearly, the word to describe me at the time: irresistible.
So I don't even notice when a woman asks to sit at my table, which forces her to ask louder. I consent, of course, go right ahead, paying her no attention at all. That's just how it is here, I figure, no biggie. And if you have to ask whether I changed my eating habits in the presence of a lady or not, well, you don't know me well enough.
Which leads to her asking me about ten minutes later, "It's definitely tastier that way, isn't it, with your hands?" Caught blini handed, I say, "Yeah, it is, I know it's a little rude, but..."
"No, go right ahead, that's the right way to do it, no questions asked." I politely ask her about her soup, which I didn't recognize, she explains, and then I return to my meal. Of course, from my mildly stammered responses and clumsy tongue, she figures out that I'm a foreigner. So we start talking; I tell her where I'm from, she tells me how she visited there once (NYC and NJ, mostly, and you wonder why her impressions of the country weren't outstanding), then she starts showing off her tan, because you see, she was just in Egypt scuba diving. Soon we're talking about Egypt and Turkey, possibly the two most popular vacation destinations for Russians, and she's showing pictures from this last trip and telling me about how she started reading Orhan Pamuk, and everybody's impressed that she reads on vacation, and so on.
By this point I'm done eating and she is slowly working on her blin, meanwhile telling me about her family history: she has Polish roots and so says she doesn't look Russian (to paint her picture, she was small, slim, with long black hair, banked in the front, bright blue eyes, a sharp nose and chin, looked late 30's/early 40's, slightly wrinkled face in spots, wearing a gray sweater, jeans, narrow black shoes, and a red scarf to match her red leather gloves, and a brown jacket that was deceivingly warm), and I could concede the point. Her grandfather was a priest in the Orthodox church (bad news with the communists, as you may imagine), she's always been a believer but doesn't like the showy sort of faith practiced in much of Russian right now. Her grandfather was from Lower Novgorod, and her father was a professor.
Anyway, we're having a great time sitting there, no particular plans or goals for the night. By this point we've already slid past the formal you and onto the familiar, and later on I learn her name is Svetlana, though she goes by Lana. And I am ready with the response that Svetlana is one of the pure Russian names left, as my distant aunt here told me. Playing the game, I tell you.
She reveals that she's a big Led Zep and Deep Purple fan (the latter is really big here, oddly), as her ringtone for known calls is "Black Dog", and that she likes Limp Bizkit. My indie snob self cringes, my 15 year old memory does it all for the nookie.
Then she says that she's talked me to death, and I should start talking, because right now I talk like I have a hot potato in my mouth. So I tell her about Saturday Looks Good To Me, my friends in a band (Bombadil, and I realized when I got home that I should have shown her my 2nd edition t-shirt from the guys, which I was wearing), my penchant for writing a song or two in English or Russian, and my love of literature. Clearly, I'm opening up the important stuff.
As much fun as we were having, we were done eating and occupying a people, and though it was already about 8:30, people were still looking for places to sit down and asking to borrow our 3rd chair, which her jacket/purse was occupying. (The first time somebody asked, she refused, the second time, I did the talking: chivalry still lives!) So we decided that we should take it out to the streets. Whatever it was. We dressed up, gathered, walked up to near the exit of the mall. I asked her where she lived in Moscow: "The Northwest corner, on the border of Ximki," she laughed. I put my location on the map, wait a second, wait a second. I asked again, "What stop on the metro?" "Tushinskaya." Ha! I get off at the next stop, we're practically neighbors! She knows the street I live on! Oh what providence, what divine intelligence!
So, now aware our destination is one and the same, we walk together to Tverskaya Street, which is to Moscow what Michigan Ave. is to Chicago. In between the major businesses and the night lights, she declares that her tea at Teremok got cold, and that she'd like to go to McDonald's and grab a tea. As much as I've strived to avoid the American hegemony of fast food (only stopping in KFC in Petersburg, once), I'm in no position to refuse. I mean, come on, if it wasn't freezing cold out, I'd literally have been putty in her hands.
The first McDonalds is small and not worth the stay, so we continue on. She asks me with whom I live, and after answering, I decide to return the question. By this point I'm certain she's not married, judging by her solo vacationing and willingness to go around with me on a Friday night, I know she lives with a cat, because she showed me a picture of him, but I'm not clear on the rest. Maybe she has a man at home, maybe she lives with friends? She answers that she doesn't really want to answer, and that she has time here, so why not enjoy what we're doing now and not worry about it. I agree, and believe me, I've been down this road before, and it led me to a wall in the old city in Tallinn. I'm an old hand at this, you might say.
So we resume our promenade to the McDonalds at Pushkin Square. After some futzing around we find a place to sit, I go and get our teas, we sit down and continue our discussion. Except at this point an interloper comes in: sitting next to us is a lone, big man who is fairly fluent in both English and Russian. It turns out he's from Ft. Washington, PA, right near Philly, and went to Temple U, and hasn't been in Russia for 20 years after leaving when he was 24. So he jumps into our conversation a couple times, for prolonged periods. I have no right to complain, and his input is actually almost as interesting as her's. Eventually his companion arrives, they leave, and it's just me and Lana shooting the breeze some more.
Our talk turns to her belief in not having any dependencies. She likes to stand out from everybody else but she also doesn't want to have a nicotine dependency, or an alcoholic dependency, or a...wait for it...dependency on love. The heart of the matter, in all senses of the word! She doesn't believe in love!
Oooh, my heart aches for her, how can this be? What are we here for if not some sort of love, be it for art or friends or romance? Of course, she was burnt by the latter, and though it was four years ago and she is well-recovered on the outside, she won't be fooled again. She says that every relationship is unequal, and well, I can understand, even if I tell her that I don't quite agree. I'll stick my neck out for that belief, anyway.
But our bond is already strong, and we ride out the disagreement and continue on our conversational journey. As we had known each other for nearly 5 hours by this point, we were wont to look back fondly on the past. Which led to her saying why she sat next to me at Teremok, rather than just by dumb chance or lack of other opportunities. This is a paraphrase, but wholly accurate in theme:
"I was standing there in line waiting for my food and looking for where I would sit, and I saw this comrade sitting there and eating his blini with his hands, and dipping it in sour cream, and I thought, 'There's somebody with no complex whatsover, no anxiety, just going at it.'"
I'll let that sink in for a few lines of blank space.
I tried to mildly defend myself, but then also told her how at school my friends get a big kick out of me eating nachos. So I guess some habits are universally appreciated by the right audience. And to show how well we were going, that led to her agreeing that Mexican food is tasty.
But all things must come to an end, even deep tea-drinking sessions at McDonalds. It was quarter past 11, and I had practice the next day, and perhaps it was time for us to leave. So we dress, roll out, straight onto our beloved Magenta line and the Pushkin station.
As we quietly wait for our train, she turns to me and asks, "would you like to take down my number?" I think the way it works for me is that I have long long dry spells and then incredible bursts of fortune, so it evens out to an average level. Anyway, I say of course, and that I was going to ask I just didn't think it was quite time. She pointed out that it was still quiet here, unlike on the trains, and I told her she was smart. Then we took down numbers, called one another (her ringtone for unknown calls is not "Stairway", denied!), and got on the metro home. We continued to talk over the roar of the train for the next twenty minutes, got off at the same stop, mine.
We went out the same exit of the station and made one intial turn together, but that's where it ended: she was off to the right to catch the tram, I was straight and to the left to catch the bus. We promised to call one another, she offered her hand, I shook it and leaned in for a kiss on the cheek exchange. And when we emerged from separate stairways I saw her sprinting for the tram. Ahh, such sweet sorrow.
Anyway, that was all two days ago, and I consider this story unfinished. But even if that's all there is, it's just the type of story I like to live, and if it gets better, you'll hear about it, for like Picasso, I can't keep my mouth shut about women but would rather "scream on the rooftops". (That's a quote from a museum in Hungary, I have it written down somewhere, it'll be on my facebook profile soon, if that helps.)
Dan
I could have guessed that Friday would be a good day straight from the get go. On Thursday there was a beautiful snowfall with big fat snowflakes and a reasonable temperature, meaning I could enjoy making footprints in fresh snow on my way home, a winter thrill I've enjoyed from my wee days in Burlington. Unfortunately, that meant that with a little warmth on Friday, the streets were absolutely gross - slushy, muddy, dirty, wet, filled with puddles, just miserable. And me in my pretty little Roman, blue sneakers? Well, if there was a time for me to get sick in Moscow, it would be after that. But I don't have time for that.
Anyway, I meant I could have guessed Friday would be good because as I walked to the bus stop, one of my backpack pockets was open, and not only that, but the one with my journal, my copy of Bulgakov's White Guard and Master and Margarita, and my camera. So basically the most valuable possessions (if you don't count my falling apart, heavily taped, barely usable, foul-smelling wrestling shoes) I had on me were out in the open. And where as in the states somebody (or twenty people in a day, as with my broken backpack) would say, "You know, your backpack's open", here a women walked by and scathingly asked, "Is your bag specifically open like that so people can rob you?" Touche.
The day continued on a typical, pleasant but unspectacular route: I had a pretty good practice, I went and drank some hot chocolate (which in Europe is literally hot, melted chocolate), and then went down to the pool hall to speak English with my main man/student, Togrul. We talked, traded some movie suggestions, drank some tea, and then I headed out at 5.
Feeling hungry and in the mood, I decided to head into the center for blini, at that same underground mall I mentioned last time. I've decided that this food court, with Teremok as my vendor, is right there with the pond by Novodevich Monastery for my favorite spots in Moscow. I ordered and then sat around looking for a spot to sit down: the food court is always at capacity, so the hungry eater is forced to scavenge a table. If you are in a group of 2 or more, once you find the table it's yours and nobody will join you (though they may take your chairs). I was alone, so as I stumbled upon an empty table in the middle, I expected company. I turned to my newspaper and started chowing down anyhow.
Before I go any further - and don't worry, the intro is almost over - let me paint the picture. I haven't shaved in almost 3 weeks; my hair is long, and additionally because I wear a hat all the time, quite unkempt; I'm wearing a coat but sleeves rolled up; and I'm reading a newspaper and eating my blin with my hands in public, minding my own business. Clearly, the word to describe me at the time: irresistible.
So I don't even notice when a woman asks to sit at my table, which forces her to ask louder. I consent, of course, go right ahead, paying her no attention at all. That's just how it is here, I figure, no biggie. And if you have to ask whether I changed my eating habits in the presence of a lady or not, well, you don't know me well enough.
Which leads to her asking me about ten minutes later, "It's definitely tastier that way, isn't it, with your hands?" Caught blini handed, I say, "Yeah, it is, I know it's a little rude, but..."
"No, go right ahead, that's the right way to do it, no questions asked." I politely ask her about her soup, which I didn't recognize, she explains, and then I return to my meal. Of course, from my mildly stammered responses and clumsy tongue, she figures out that I'm a foreigner. So we start talking; I tell her where I'm from, she tells me how she visited there once (NYC and NJ, mostly, and you wonder why her impressions of the country weren't outstanding), then she starts showing off her tan, because you see, she was just in Egypt scuba diving. Soon we're talking about Egypt and Turkey, possibly the two most popular vacation destinations for Russians, and she's showing pictures from this last trip and telling me about how she started reading Orhan Pamuk, and everybody's impressed that she reads on vacation, and so on.
By this point I'm done eating and she is slowly working on her blin, meanwhile telling me about her family history: she has Polish roots and so says she doesn't look Russian (to paint her picture, she was small, slim, with long black hair, banked in the front, bright blue eyes, a sharp nose and chin, looked late 30's/early 40's, slightly wrinkled face in spots, wearing a gray sweater, jeans, narrow black shoes, and a red scarf to match her red leather gloves, and a brown jacket that was deceivingly warm), and I could concede the point. Her grandfather was a priest in the Orthodox church (bad news with the communists, as you may imagine), she's always been a believer but doesn't like the showy sort of faith practiced in much of Russian right now. Her grandfather was from Lower Novgorod, and her father was a professor.
Anyway, we're having a great time sitting there, no particular plans or goals for the night. By this point we've already slid past the formal you and onto the familiar, and later on I learn her name is Svetlana, though she goes by Lana. And I am ready with the response that Svetlana is one of the pure Russian names left, as my distant aunt here told me. Playing the game, I tell you.
She reveals that she's a big Led Zep and Deep Purple fan (the latter is really big here, oddly), as her ringtone for known calls is "Black Dog", and that she likes Limp Bizkit. My indie snob self cringes, my 15 year old memory does it all for the nookie.
Then she says that she's talked me to death, and I should start talking, because right now I talk like I have a hot potato in my mouth. So I tell her about Saturday Looks Good To Me, my friends in a band (Bombadil, and I realized when I got home that I should have shown her my 2nd edition t-shirt from the guys, which I was wearing), my penchant for writing a song or two in English or Russian, and my love of literature. Clearly, I'm opening up the important stuff.
As much fun as we were having, we were done eating and occupying a people, and though it was already about 8:30, people were still looking for places to sit down and asking to borrow our 3rd chair, which her jacket/purse was occupying. (The first time somebody asked, she refused, the second time, I did the talking: chivalry still lives!) So we decided that we should take it out to the streets. Whatever it was. We dressed up, gathered, walked up to near the exit of the mall. I asked her where she lived in Moscow: "The Northwest corner, on the border of Ximki," she laughed. I put my location on the map, wait a second, wait a second. I asked again, "What stop on the metro?" "Tushinskaya." Ha! I get off at the next stop, we're practically neighbors! She knows the street I live on! Oh what providence, what divine intelligence!
So, now aware our destination is one and the same, we walk together to Tverskaya Street, which is to Moscow what Michigan Ave. is to Chicago. In between the major businesses and the night lights, she declares that her tea at Teremok got cold, and that she'd like to go to McDonald's and grab a tea. As much as I've strived to avoid the American hegemony of fast food (only stopping in KFC in Petersburg, once), I'm in no position to refuse. I mean, come on, if it wasn't freezing cold out, I'd literally have been putty in her hands.
The first McDonalds is small and not worth the stay, so we continue on. She asks me with whom I live, and after answering, I decide to return the question. By this point I'm certain she's not married, judging by her solo vacationing and willingness to go around with me on a Friday night, I know she lives with a cat, because she showed me a picture of him, but I'm not clear on the rest. Maybe she has a man at home, maybe she lives with friends? She answers that she doesn't really want to answer, and that she has time here, so why not enjoy what we're doing now and not worry about it. I agree, and believe me, I've been down this road before, and it led me to a wall in the old city in Tallinn. I'm an old hand at this, you might say.
So we resume our promenade to the McDonalds at Pushkin Square. After some futzing around we find a place to sit, I go and get our teas, we sit down and continue our discussion. Except at this point an interloper comes in: sitting next to us is a lone, big man who is fairly fluent in both English and Russian. It turns out he's from Ft. Washington, PA, right near Philly, and went to Temple U, and hasn't been in Russia for 20 years after leaving when he was 24. So he jumps into our conversation a couple times, for prolonged periods. I have no right to complain, and his input is actually almost as interesting as her's. Eventually his companion arrives, they leave, and it's just me and Lana shooting the breeze some more.
Our talk turns to her belief in not having any dependencies. She likes to stand out from everybody else but she also doesn't want to have a nicotine dependency, or an alcoholic dependency, or a...wait for it...dependency on love. The heart of the matter, in all senses of the word! She doesn't believe in love!
Oooh, my heart aches for her, how can this be? What are we here for if not some sort of love, be it for art or friends or romance? Of course, she was burnt by the latter, and though it was four years ago and she is well-recovered on the outside, she won't be fooled again. She says that every relationship is unequal, and well, I can understand, even if I tell her that I don't quite agree. I'll stick my neck out for that belief, anyway.
But our bond is already strong, and we ride out the disagreement and continue on our conversational journey. As we had known each other for nearly 5 hours by this point, we were wont to look back fondly on the past. Which led to her saying why she sat next to me at Teremok, rather than just by dumb chance or lack of other opportunities. This is a paraphrase, but wholly accurate in theme:
"I was standing there in line waiting for my food and looking for where I would sit, and I saw this comrade sitting there and eating his blini with his hands, and dipping it in sour cream, and I thought, 'There's somebody with no complex whatsover, no anxiety, just going at it.'"
I'll let that sink in for a few lines of blank space.
I tried to mildly defend myself, but then also told her how at school my friends get a big kick out of me eating nachos. So I guess some habits are universally appreciated by the right audience. And to show how well we were going, that led to her agreeing that Mexican food is tasty.
But all things must come to an end, even deep tea-drinking sessions at McDonalds. It was quarter past 11, and I had practice the next day, and perhaps it was time for us to leave. So we dress, roll out, straight onto our beloved Magenta line and the Pushkin station.
As we quietly wait for our train, she turns to me and asks, "would you like to take down my number?" I think the way it works for me is that I have long long dry spells and then incredible bursts of fortune, so it evens out to an average level. Anyway, I say of course, and that I was going to ask I just didn't think it was quite time. She pointed out that it was still quiet here, unlike on the trains, and I told her she was smart. Then we took down numbers, called one another (her ringtone for unknown calls is not "Stairway", denied!), and got on the metro home. We continued to talk over the roar of the train for the next twenty minutes, got off at the same stop, mine.
We went out the same exit of the station and made one intial turn together, but that's where it ended: she was off to the right to catch the tram, I was straight and to the left to catch the bus. We promised to call one another, she offered her hand, I shook it and leaned in for a kiss on the cheek exchange. And when we emerged from separate stairways I saw her sprinting for the tram. Ahh, such sweet sorrow.
Anyway, that was all two days ago, and I consider this story unfinished. But even if that's all there is, it's just the type of story I like to live, and if it gets better, you'll hear about it, for like Picasso, I can't keep my mouth shut about women but would rather "scream on the rooftops". (That's a quote from a museum in Hungary, I have it written down somewhere, it'll be on my facebook profile soon, if that helps.)
Dan
3.11.06
Will this go on my Record?
I'm going to do this the way the "Sovetskii Sport" handles game recaps: from the lead in all the way to the final whistle.
So there I was wandering around the Olympic Village somewhere in Southwest Moscow on a Tuesday afternoon before weigh in. You know, they did have the Olympics here, back in 1980 (We in the states had other plans, as you may recall). Anyway, I asked several different people where the sports complex, or sports hall, is. No luck, with a standard response of "I don't live here, I just work here." Thanks.
Anyway, after a few tries I hit on some knowledge and got pointed in the right direction. I stumbled into the gym about 2 hours before the scheduled weigh in. There my short, pudgy Yakuti teammate/friend Valeri was cutting weight to make 57 kilos. We shook hands, sort of (when their hands are sweaty or otherwise unfit for shaking, the guys will often ofter a limp wrist of peace), and then I went looking around for the scale. Not that I cut 5 kilos or anything. I just maintain a hard body and compete.
Lurking around the basement of the complex, I found a store to buy singlets in (for those not in the know, the funny spandex I'll be appearing in below), the trainer's room, and a few locker rooms, but no scales. Again, asking proved largely fruitless: "You're here to early, young man, the weigh in starts at 5." Well, yes, I'm not quite as dumb as I look, usually we can check before, thanks. I ran into a few more guys from ЦСКА, and through their conversations and our handshakes I figured out that we could check at 4.
In general here in Moscow, and especially with regards to wrestling, schedules are more of a rough sketch than an accurate, to the date/minute summary of when events will go on. The general case is bus schedules, where a route is expected to come every 7 minutes: on average that may be true, but often times it means that 3 will come in a row within a 2-minute span and no other ones will arrive for 20 minutes. For wrestling, that meant that a) this tournament, on the schedule for Nov. 10th-12th, happened Oct. 31st-Nov. 2nd, and that b) while we did indeed get to check our weight at 4 (right on, as expected), the weigh in got bumped up to 4:30 rather than 5, meaning I could rehyd...er...further hydrate and eat earlier. Also, the tournament would start an hour earlier the next day.
So, with the benefit of a day before weigh-in and the extra time from getting out early, I hopped back on the metro and met up with friends at the underground mall in the center, right next to the red square, for blini. Basically, huge pancakes/crepes stuffed with food. And I ordered a kasha with chocolate paste. Mmmm. Not quite doable in the states, where we weigh in an hour or two before competition.
Gameday
I appear in plenty of time and get loose, ready to go. Of course, the store I was going to buy my sweet singlet from is closed. Again, the kindness of teammates (in this case one I don't even know well) set me up with a spare singlet. I warm up, and everybody from the club is excited to see how the American does. As usual, I have filled the role of "younger brother", so to speak, perfectly in my social cliche.
It turns out that in the random draw, I pulled a teammate. Alegojai Aleef (that's a guess both on spelling and on the actual name, I didn't completely get it) is from Daghestan, is shorter and fatter than me (hard to believe, eh?), and beat me in a barnburner in practice last Friday, 3-0 0-1 3-2. Which leads to a detailed wrestling discussion:
In American colleges, we have folkstyle wrestling, which goes for 7 minutes of regulation time over 3 periods and with the points all added up. So if I score 2, 4, and 3 points in the first, second and 3rd periods respectively, I have 9 for the match. Say my opponent scores 3, 5, and 0 in those periods: I win, despite "losing" the first 2 periods. In freestyle, the olympic/international form of the sport, I would have lost- the scoring is more akin to boxing, perhaps, and you need to win 2 of 3 rounds (a pin in either style ends the match then and there, true). There are other differences, but for now that's all you need to know.
What this leads to is a different mentality out there, a far more strategic one as I see it. I'd analogize it to football:soccer. In football and folkstyle wrestling, there is far less risk to scoring as many points as you possibly can, and so while defense is essential, if you have an attacking attitude you will do a lot better. In soccer and freestyle wrestling, it's more important to capitalize on your scoring opportunities, and trying to create or force chances when they aren't there can be punished (by points for your opponent) far easier than in the American sports.
As such, the Russian style of wrestling is often as follows: grind through the first two periods, make sure you win at least one if not both, and then if there's a 3rd period, open up the vault. Of course, Russians are generally in worse shape than Americans, say, so sometimes the 3rd period is a struggle.
Back to the match: I step out in a red singlet and headgear against Ale, ready to make the corrections from last time and beat him. I start out strong, pushing the pace, getting on his head, but not risking anything stupid. He takes a bad shot, I get over top, and after some work I spin behind, bring his knee to the mat, and score the first point.
But then see, ol' Ale gets right back at it when we go back to our feet, taking a good shot and pulling it in. Despite not looking like all that much, he manages to pull in my legs out of the most improbable positions, and here he is rewarded with a point. As he scored the last point, he now has the lead for the period. I push the action, get in on a single leg, we scramble in that position, and I get a point right at the bell (literally a gong, a kid at the table rings it). Or wait, do I? The ref looks at the other refs: was it in time? In the end they rule against me and he holds on for a resounding 1-1 first period victory.
I return to my corner, where my Yakuti coach is shaking out my arms and telling me good things: I'm shooting well, I'm looking good, just better finishes. I feel good too, I just need to put this guy away.
This is the sort of position called "over top" where I (in red) score points. Well, in freestyle, single points.
It's strange how high a percentage of pictures taken of me wrestling feature me with head between my opponent's legs.
At least this time it looks like I mean a world of hurt for my man Ale.
Unfortunately, the second period doesn't go quite as planned: I give up a point early, and now wrestling from behind I start to force my positions, which leads to an easy second point scored off my shot, and that's all they wrote. 1-1 0-2 was the final. I get off the mat, espying my two friends from the night before who came to see me (in the unofficial but vital category of "Most girls watching", I took the title by a landfall on the first day), and smiling a hello before doing some cooldown running. My coach comes over and talks to me, still insisting I looked good out there, which is encouraging.
Now I have to wait: the olympic style tournament features a consolation bracket only for wrestlers who lose to a finalist (they also have two bronze medalists, for some reason), so I need AA to get into the finals. Considering he wins every period by a point, it's a pretty excruciating day. Still, I stand with my friends and watch as he makes it to the semis, where he meets with another ЦСКА wrestler, one of the complete opposite body build: tall, skinny. Ale is exhausted by this point, and doesn't turn out so hot, losing in two periods and ending my day. He ends up losing the 3rd place match as well, while the guy who beats him wins the tournament.
Naturally, I'm a little unsatisfied over my day, like a young man in for a quickie, so when a bigger guy mentions that he's going to enter in a different weight class tomorrow and suggests I do the same, I think about it. I would be giving up weight (74 KG + 2 was the weight class), but I'm strong: I'd be tired, but whatever: it'd cost 300 rubles, but that's barely over $10, and then I could buy a cool Russian singlet too. After some thinking and discussing, I went for it, weighing in and impressing one of the refs running the scale (Look at this fellows, an American is wrestling, and in both days too!). Another blini with friends and back to home to get ready for...
Gameday 2
For whatever reason, day 2 started at 12. So I got there earlier, went through the same routine, and got ready to go. This time my coaches were two Chechen teammates, Timur and Beslan. As I got into my singlet for the first match, Timur tells me, "You should beat this guy..no, put your singlet on before you get on the mat, they might give you a warning!" Avoiding those problems, I get loose and limber. My opponent is a little older, and it becomes clear that I'm actually on a higher class: after working for position for the first minute, I hit a single, score, and then hit a 2-pt. gutwrench on top (the main freestyle roll) and take a 3-0 lead. Really excited about the prospects of winning a period, I cool the jets and stick to that score.
In the corner Timur tells me I need to move more, which is kind of neat, because I don't think Russian coaches would say that, it sounds more like American advice. Anyway, I go back out there and resume with the same sort of success, carving the guy up with a finishing 3 pt. takedown to end the match by techical decision, 6-0. He wasn't very good. But I did get called a "pretty boy" for how well I wrestled, so that was fun.
After about a half hour of rest I was out there again, this time in my new, cool-looking Red Russian singlet. If only my wrestling matched it: Again, after battles for position for about a minute, action picked up, literally. My opponent shot in on my leg, and the way I defended (in a word, stupidly) allowed him to pick me up. In Folkstyle, this isn't a huge deal: it's not good, but I can still fight, and at worst I'll probably give up a two point takedown. Here, he went straight to his back and took me with him, and the move was scored a 5-pt. takedown, which automatically ends a period. Yeesh.
The second period was, sadly, not much better: I gave up a point for getting pushed out of bounds midway through, and then instead of using good stuff resorted to a classic sit and lay technique, resulting in two points for my opponent and the end of the match, 5-0 3-0. And then he lost his last match and I was done with my Moscow tournament season.
In total, it was all worthwhile and interesting, even if I could have done better. There's always practice and all those Duke matches and tournaments to hang my hat on, isn't there? Especially when I bought two winter hats here: one is a standard winter hat, you've seen the like. The other, well, I won't say too much without a picture, but two words: leather, earflaps.
See, I didn't lose my sense of fashion or humor.
Dan
So there I was wandering around the Olympic Village somewhere in Southwest Moscow on a Tuesday afternoon before weigh in. You know, they did have the Olympics here, back in 1980 (We in the states had other plans, as you may recall). Anyway, I asked several different people where the sports complex, or sports hall, is. No luck, with a standard response of "I don't live here, I just work here." Thanks.
Anyway, after a few tries I hit on some knowledge and got pointed in the right direction. I stumbled into the gym about 2 hours before the scheduled weigh in. There my short, pudgy Yakuti teammate/friend Valeri was cutting weight to make 57 kilos. We shook hands, sort of (when their hands are sweaty or otherwise unfit for shaking, the guys will often ofter a limp wrist of peace), and then I went looking around for the scale. Not that I cut 5 kilos or anything. I just maintain a hard body and compete.
Lurking around the basement of the complex, I found a store to buy singlets in (for those not in the know, the funny spandex I'll be appearing in below), the trainer's room, and a few locker rooms, but no scales. Again, asking proved largely fruitless: "You're here to early, young man, the weigh in starts at 5." Well, yes, I'm not quite as dumb as I look, usually we can check before, thanks. I ran into a few more guys from ЦСКА, and through their conversations and our handshakes I figured out that we could check at 4.
In general here in Moscow, and especially with regards to wrestling, schedules are more of a rough sketch than an accurate, to the date/minute summary of when events will go on. The general case is bus schedules, where a route is expected to come every 7 minutes: on average that may be true, but often times it means that 3 will come in a row within a 2-minute span and no other ones will arrive for 20 minutes. For wrestling, that meant that a) this tournament, on the schedule for Nov. 10th-12th, happened Oct. 31st-Nov. 2nd, and that b) while we did indeed get to check our weight at 4 (right on, as expected), the weigh in got bumped up to 4:30 rather than 5, meaning I could rehyd...er...further hydrate and eat earlier. Also, the tournament would start an hour earlier the next day.
So, with the benefit of a day before weigh-in and the extra time from getting out early, I hopped back on the metro and met up with friends at the underground mall in the center, right next to the red square, for blini. Basically, huge pancakes/crepes stuffed with food. And I ordered a kasha with chocolate paste. Mmmm. Not quite doable in the states, where we weigh in an hour or two before competition.
Gameday
I appear in plenty of time and get loose, ready to go. Of course, the store I was going to buy my sweet singlet from is closed. Again, the kindness of teammates (in this case one I don't even know well) set me up with a spare singlet. I warm up, and everybody from the club is excited to see how the American does. As usual, I have filled the role of "younger brother", so to speak, perfectly in my social cliche.
It turns out that in the random draw, I pulled a teammate. Alegojai Aleef (that's a guess both on spelling and on the actual name, I didn't completely get it) is from Daghestan, is shorter and fatter than me (hard to believe, eh?), and beat me in a barnburner in practice last Friday, 3-0 0-1 3-2. Which leads to a detailed wrestling discussion:
In American colleges, we have folkstyle wrestling, which goes for 7 minutes of regulation time over 3 periods and with the points all added up. So if I score 2, 4, and 3 points in the first, second and 3rd periods respectively, I have 9 for the match. Say my opponent scores 3, 5, and 0 in those periods: I win, despite "losing" the first 2 periods. In freestyle, the olympic/international form of the sport, I would have lost- the scoring is more akin to boxing, perhaps, and you need to win 2 of 3 rounds (a pin in either style ends the match then and there, true). There are other differences, but for now that's all you need to know.
What this leads to is a different mentality out there, a far more strategic one as I see it. I'd analogize it to football:soccer. In football and folkstyle wrestling, there is far less risk to scoring as many points as you possibly can, and so while defense is essential, if you have an attacking attitude you will do a lot better. In soccer and freestyle wrestling, it's more important to capitalize on your scoring opportunities, and trying to create or force chances when they aren't there can be punished (by points for your opponent) far easier than in the American sports.
As such, the Russian style of wrestling is often as follows: grind through the first two periods, make sure you win at least one if not both, and then if there's a 3rd period, open up the vault. Of course, Russians are generally in worse shape than Americans, say, so sometimes the 3rd period is a struggle.
Back to the match: I step out in a red singlet and headgear against Ale, ready to make the corrections from last time and beat him. I start out strong, pushing the pace, getting on his head, but not risking anything stupid. He takes a bad shot, I get over top, and after some work I spin behind, bring his knee to the mat, and score the first point.
But then see, ol' Ale gets right back at it when we go back to our feet, taking a good shot and pulling it in. Despite not looking like all that much, he manages to pull in my legs out of the most improbable positions, and here he is rewarded with a point. As he scored the last point, he now has the lead for the period. I push the action, get in on a single leg, we scramble in that position, and I get a point right at the bell (literally a gong, a kid at the table rings it). Or wait, do I? The ref looks at the other refs: was it in time? In the end they rule against me and he holds on for a resounding 1-1 first period victory.
I return to my corner, where my Yakuti coach is shaking out my arms and telling me good things: I'm shooting well, I'm looking good, just better finishes. I feel good too, I just need to put this guy away.
This is the sort of position called "over top" where I (in red) score points. Well, in freestyle, single points.
It's strange how high a percentage of pictures taken of me wrestling feature me with head between my opponent's legs.
At least this time it looks like I mean a world of hurt for my man Ale.Unfortunately, the second period doesn't go quite as planned: I give up a point early, and now wrestling from behind I start to force my positions, which leads to an easy second point scored off my shot, and that's all they wrote. 1-1 0-2 was the final. I get off the mat, espying my two friends from the night before who came to see me (in the unofficial but vital category of "Most girls watching", I took the title by a landfall on the first day), and smiling a hello before doing some cooldown running. My coach comes over and talks to me, still insisting I looked good out there, which is encouraging.
Now I have to wait: the olympic style tournament features a consolation bracket only for wrestlers who lose to a finalist (they also have two bronze medalists, for some reason), so I need AA to get into the finals. Considering he wins every period by a point, it's a pretty excruciating day. Still, I stand with my friends and watch as he makes it to the semis, where he meets with another ЦСКА wrestler, one of the complete opposite body build: tall, skinny. Ale is exhausted by this point, and doesn't turn out so hot, losing in two periods and ending my day. He ends up losing the 3rd place match as well, while the guy who beats him wins the tournament.
Naturally, I'm a little unsatisfied over my day, like a young man in for a quickie, so when a bigger guy mentions that he's going to enter in a different weight class tomorrow and suggests I do the same, I think about it. I would be giving up weight (74 KG + 2 was the weight class), but I'm strong: I'd be tired, but whatever: it'd cost 300 rubles, but that's barely over $10, and then I could buy a cool Russian singlet too. After some thinking and discussing, I went for it, weighing in and impressing one of the refs running the scale (Look at this fellows, an American is wrestling, and in both days too!). Another blini with friends and back to home to get ready for...
Gameday 2
For whatever reason, day 2 started at 12. So I got there earlier, went through the same routine, and got ready to go. This time my coaches were two Chechen teammates, Timur and Beslan. As I got into my singlet for the first match, Timur tells me, "You should beat this guy..no, put your singlet on before you get on the mat, they might give you a warning!" Avoiding those problems, I get loose and limber. My opponent is a little older, and it becomes clear that I'm actually on a higher class: after working for position for the first minute, I hit a single, score, and then hit a 2-pt. gutwrench on top (the main freestyle roll) and take a 3-0 lead. Really excited about the prospects of winning a period, I cool the jets and stick to that score.
In the corner Timur tells me I need to move more, which is kind of neat, because I don't think Russian coaches would say that, it sounds more like American advice. Anyway, I go back out there and resume with the same sort of success, carving the guy up with a finishing 3 pt. takedown to end the match by techical decision, 6-0. He wasn't very good. But I did get called a "pretty boy" for how well I wrestled, so that was fun.
After about a half hour of rest I was out there again, this time in my new, cool-looking Red Russian singlet. If only my wrestling matched it: Again, after battles for position for about a minute, action picked up, literally. My opponent shot in on my leg, and the way I defended (in a word, stupidly) allowed him to pick me up. In Folkstyle, this isn't a huge deal: it's not good, but I can still fight, and at worst I'll probably give up a two point takedown. Here, he went straight to his back and took me with him, and the move was scored a 5-pt. takedown, which automatically ends a period. Yeesh.
The second period was, sadly, not much better: I gave up a point for getting pushed out of bounds midway through, and then instead of using good stuff resorted to a classic sit and lay technique, resulting in two points for my opponent and the end of the match, 5-0 3-0. And then he lost his last match and I was done with my Moscow tournament season.
In total, it was all worthwhile and interesting, even if I could have done better. There's always practice and all those Duke matches and tournaments to hang my hat on, isn't there? Especially when I bought two winter hats here: one is a standard winter hat, you've seen the like. The other, well, I won't say too much without a picture, but two words: leather, earflaps.
See, I didn't lose my sense of fashion or humor.
Dan
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