Monthly Archives: July 2018

Anecdotes

Emergency

1 Comment

My brother and I were on our flight home from Kenya to Switzerland. We had just spent an exciting month visiting our parents in Nairobi, during which we had seen so much that it took us a long time after the trip to digest it all. This was only my second flight ever – the first one having been the flight from Switzerland to Kenya.

We had a stop scheduled in Cairo, because the Caravelle we were flying in couldn’t make it to Zurich without refueling. About an hour before getting there, the captain came on the intercom and informed us that we were going to fly a little of a detour westward, because Egypt and Israel were having some air skirmishes in the neighborhood of our planned route, and it was best to stay out of their way – no need to worry. This apparently was a routine occurrence in 1970. We’d have a few minutes’ delay, but on the upside, he said, this route would provide us with a better view of the Giza Pyramids on our approach to Cairo Airport.

And so it was: We got a very clear view of these impressive structures, just minutes before touching down at Cairo International Airport.

The plane was refueled, and soon we were airborne again, destination Zurich.

A couple of hours later, I started feeling an odd pressure in my ears, and then they popped. My brother turned to me and ask if I had felt that. We looked around, and I saw the passenger across the aisle starting to bleed from his nose. At the same time, the plane went into a fairly steep descent. Not so that it was jarring, but it was definitely noticeable, and many of the passengers did notice. The murmur of voices became a little louder, but there was not really a sense of alarm, even though a couple of other passengers noticed the man bleeding from his nose. Then the calm voice of the captain came on the intercom again: “Folks, we have lost some cabin pressure and have to descend to a lower altitude. We will be making an unscheduled stop in Rome. There is no need to be alarmed. The situation is not dangerous, but since we’re flying much lower, we are using more kerosene, and will need to refuel.”

Rome was not too far off, and we started the approach to Fiumicino Airport. The pilot flew a beautiful loop, right over the city center, and we got a nice, extended view of the Colosseum. We were flying quite low, and it seemed like we were getting an aerial tour of the Eternal City. A few minutes later – much to our surprise – we saw the Colosseum again. We had flown a full circle and were still at the same altitude. My brother and I took note, but we didn’t think about it any further, enjoying the view one more time.

When we saw the Colosseum for a third time, however, we started worrying. While not under emergency conditions, we were nevertheless in a plane that was not functioning properly and was coming in short on fuel. I would have thought that we would not be put in a holding pattern but granted immediate landing privileges. Something was up.

Then we noticed the plane lowering, straightening out, and we heard the routine announcement to prepare for landing. The Caravelle touched down smoothly. As it taxied down the runway, we noticed dozens of fire engines and other emergency vehicles with flashing red lights lining the outer perimeter. We were wondering if there had been an accident, and if that had been the reason for our delay in landing, but we couldn’t see anything.

We were asked to leave the plane and to take our carry-on luggage with us. Another machine would take us on our last leg to Zurich. On the way out, I asked one of the stewardesses (they were still stewardesses back then) if she knew what had happened. She said our landing gear had refused to deploy and the emergency vehicles had prepared to lay down a foam carpet for us, but then on the last turn over Rome, the gear did finally deploy – hence our uneventful landing.

Anecdotes

Speed

1 Comment

During my first trip to the Americas in 1977, I wound up in Valle De Bravo, Central Mexico, where I visited a friend. While there, I had the opportunity to borrow a motor cycle which allowed me to explore the surroundings in a way I otherwise never could have.

It was a Kawasaki 500 Mach III, an unbelievably fast bike with such a flimsy frame that it was considered extremely dangerous – just what an invincible 24-year-old, high on life during his first trip to America needs! I knew the bike from its reputation, and I also knew that it could get to 200 km/h in a blink of an eye. I was going to have the bike for a week, so I was pretty careful to learn its idiosyncrasies and soon noticed that they were not always benevolent. But I managed to stay on without incident.

On the third or fourth day, out in the lush country side around that quaint town, I came upon a stretch of road with only soft winding turns, almost straight, well-paved and with clear visibility for a good mile or so. Why not stretch this machine’s legs a bit? 200 km/h might be a bit much, but let’s see what I can handle before saying “I want my mommie!”

So I opened it up. The massive acceleration almost ripped the bike from under me, and I had to lean forward, clinging to the handle bar. But of course I didn’t release the accelerator a bit. I was very focused, and only occasionally glanced down to see the speed. 80, 90 … hmm, this feels a lot faster … 100. Granted: High speed on a motorcycle was not an everyday occurrence for me, and so perhaps I was just not used to how strong the wind would get. I was wearing a pretty flimsy helmet with a leaky visor and my eyes were tearing, and yet the bike was barely making it past the 120 mark – nowhere near the 200+ it should do. I was a little surprised that I started getting intimidated by the violence of the event. I had gone 125 on a bike before, but this was different. There was a disconnect between my perception of speed and my knowledge that this Kawasaki should be able to do a lot more. “Perhaps it’s not getting to full speed because the altitude? And yet it feels so FAST! But it should do over 200. What, only 125?”

Then I saw: It was mph! 

“Mommie!!”

Uncategorized

The Table Tennis World Championships – from a Photographer’s View

The World Table Tennis Championships are a spectacle unlike any other. The atmosphere is electric from the presence of top players from countries throughout the globe – each a star where they’re from, each not used to losing, and each a fierce competitor in an individual sport with an ego to match.

Early in the tournament, one can easily distinguish the newcomers from the veterans. While the first-timer from a second or third division team enters somewhat cautiously, taking in the impressive, well-decorated hall, the Chinese team walks in like they own the place. And no one really dares say otherwise. Everyone knows that, in fact, they do.

One might think that a photographer’s ring-side seat is a perfect way to enjoy the sport. And of course there is much truth to that, but often it’s easier to follow the matches in their entirety as a spectator in the stands than through the lens at court side, where much of it can go by while we focus on getting the shot we’re after, seeing only one player at a time.

What we do get to witness, however, are little gems that only reveal themselves in extremely close proximity. Over the 20 years or so, during which I have followed these competitions, I have been privy to innumerable such little details – some more significant than others – but, after enjoying them and perhaps recounting them to my friends, I have let them pass to memory. This time, I decided to hold on to a few of them and dig some up from the past.

Not all have the weight of the match-deciding, yet practically invisible edge ball at the 2005 World Championships in Shanghai, the slightest “tick” of which was audible only to us photographers right next to the table – and Timo Boll, who without hesitation pointed to the edge of the table, even though it had been match point, 12-11 in the seventh game, and the umpire had already raised his arm giving him the point and with it the match. Boll went on to lose the match but was awarded the sportsmanship award for that tournament.

Some events are more mundane. The big, loud Spanish player, for example, who, after easily winning the first game against his Portuguese opponent, finds himself in deep trouble and finally, while walking past the Portuguese bench picking up a ball, comments on his own performance in a tirade of salty language. Aware of his closest audience, he does so not in Spanish, but in Portuguese.

The beginning of a match at court side feels much like I imagine the moments before the encounter of two gladiators must have felt in ancient Rome. Athletic, strong young guys step onto the court, pacing like lions locked into a confined space with their rival. While luckily it seems rare that there are personal feelings, by the time they are ready to start their matches, they have peeled back the layers of insulation that keep society working and have exposed the bare wire that allows them access to their primal instincts. From right next to them, that tension is palpable.

When women take to the court, the feeling is somewhat different. It reminds me more of a couple of race horses chomping at the bit to be let loose. Nervously they stand next to the coach, all but ignoring his last instructions, looking across the court to their competition, then they sometimes start hopping – as much to loosen their muscles as to dissipate excess energy. Nobody can go from zero to one hundred in no time flat, and they are clearly ramping up. By the time they start the match, they’re already at full speed.

Before the match starts, many competitors have little routines that they perform religiously: World Champion Zhang Jike is very meticulous in his preparation. He walks around the back court and arranges all the barriers so they are lined up correctly, neatly ties his shoes making sure the laces on both sides of the knot are evenly long, and after warm-up, after time has been called, he keeps everyone waiting while he pulls up his shirt, reaches for his short’s strings, ties them neatly, pulls down the shirt, arranges it, and only then is he ready to kill.

Looking at him closely, I noticed that sometime in the recent past an event that must have been extremely painful left the nail on his right ring finger blackened – an occurrence that must surely have interrupted his preparations for this tournament. It doesn’t seem to have slowed him down much.

When the match has started, all that energy gets focussed onto the ball. To some players it becomes the enemy, to be pounded as hard as possible. They will run every ball down, crashing through the barriers, if need be, launching their bodies in its direction, the first goal always being contact with the ball and only after that do they develop a strategy on how to avoid landing face first.

To others, the ball seems to be an object of affection, a partner that allows them to mess with their opponent, gently taking the game out of his hand, softly aiding his temper to come to a boil and perhaps causing him to explode, or to implode – either will do.

Top players all have certain physical routines – whether they’re preparing to serve or to receive. Zhang Jike softly bounces the ball on the rubber with his right hand, five or ten times – the number increasing with the tenseness of the situation.

Zoran Primorac gets into receiving position and then reaches out with his left hand and gently rests the tips of his fingers on the table’s edge. Aware that it would be a lost point if they’re still there when the opponent tosses the ball, he glides them off just in time.

Germany’s Dmitrij Ovtcharov has a very deliberate routine folding his towel very neatly. It seems that, if he succeeds in getting the folds to be just in their right place, then his game will also be in order, and so one is drawn in, rooting for a perfect fold so perhaps the next point will be another beauty.

The contrast between what we imagine some players’ off-court personality to be and what they display on-court is intriguing. When she gets ready to serve, Japan’s Hirano Sayaka – chatty and full of smiles off the court – has one of the most intimidating stare-downs that can last five or six seconds – an eternity under those conditions.

The U.S.’s Ariel Hsing, a mild mannered, pleasant young girl, can scare the … shall we say “wind” – out of her opponents with her yell after winning a good point, and then go right back to the business-like, almost stoic demeanor that makes her the dangerous competitor she is.

All the physical energy present on the court is amplified by the emotional component. A Russian player quietly lets the ball roll deep into the back court after losing a point, but as he walks by, I hear him mutter something to himself – something I’m glad I don’t understand – , and it feels like a volcano is charging for an eruption. It gives a clearer context to the violent scream of satisfaction upon winning the next hard-fought point, obvious to even those in the next hall. Later, when he smashes the racket into the floor so hard that it bounces all the way to the net, it is not obvious to everyone that he mashed in the edge enough to make the racket’s further use questionable. Quickly, somewhat surreptitiously, he presses the damaged area together and takes the yellow card with a nod, hoping that the umpires won’t look at his racket. They don’t.

There is never a dull moment when Alexander Karakasevic is on the court. He makes up with his god-given talent what others gain in the gym, and he has the ability to do pretty much whatever he wants with the ball. It is a thing of beauty to see him solve problems with his marvelous touch and inventive play. From court side some subtleties are visible that, seen from a distance, make it look like some magic just happened. But his indomitable spirit does not take kindly to things not going his way. While most of the time his opponents run out of options to stop his devastating backhand, some do find a key – and then you don’t want to be his coach, because during the game breaks and time-outs you will suffer what sounds like an awful dressing down.

Some subtleties are quite amusing. The United States’ Lily Zhang, apparently completely unintimidated by her opponent, played a wonderful point against China’s Guo Yue and left her parked on the wrong side of the court with a perfect down-the-line forehand. Guo stood still for just a fraction of a second, and then turned to her bench with a look that could not more clearly have said: ”How dare she!!??” – completely forgetting that at Lily’s age, she, too, approached her opponents with the same irreverence, an attitude that ultimately helped propel her to the very top ranks.

Lily showed equal lack of intimidation when she defeated world #37 Daniela Dodean of Romania. She ended the match with a little unassuming fist pump, shook hands seemingly without particular emotion, but when she sat down, she had a quiet smile on her face, showing her deep satisfaction.

During a high-power match, the violence of it all becomes quite apparent. Sitting a few feet from them, seeing the distances close-up, it is sometimes still hard to fathom how they got from here to there in such little time, or how they reacted in time to play a ball that, when first played, quite obviously seemed unreachable – even though I saw it happen right in front of me. It is always impressive to hear the knock of the ball against the foam barriers. Long after it was struck, after it has flown across the table, hit the ground and rolled for ten feet it still sounds like someone smashed it into the barrier from immediate distance. Such is the power some of these athletes develop. When they walk by to pick up the ball, they create a gust of wind that seems more than a human body should generate.

The theater changes pace when the players go to their coaches in between games or during time-outs. There are lectures, discussions, arguments – occasionally the coach can’t get a word in, other times he can’t shut up. Some players pace back and forth, their body language indicating they want to get back to the table, others look more like a battered boxer who is hoping for someone to throw in the towel. One player – after having endured the coach’s sermon – relentlessly delivered in a hushed but urgent tone – finally bursts out: “I can’t be more aggressive. My arm feels like a piece of wood.”

Everyone gets nervous under these pressure cooker conditions. I once saw The Master himself, J.O. Waldner standing just so that the bright lights were reflecting off his racket, showing that his hand was trembling severely. It was a final against Ma Lin – and it was the scene of an another of the many acts of honesty that grace our sport. The umpire thought she saw an edge ball, which would have ended the match in Waldner’s favor. But, aware that the ball had missed, he declined the point and immediately got ready to continue playing – and went on to lose.

Honesty, it would seem, doesn’t pay – at least not in undeserved wins. It does, however, in the long run, cement the undying respect their fellow competitors have for these greats.

The people tasked to keep these wild tempers and powerful egos in check do so with varying techniques and varying levels of success. The best umpires seem to be quite well-equipped to handle it, leaving the players alone as much as possible. As long as the sport is not affected and rules are not broken, that seems to be the wise course. Wanting to be judges rather than participants, they issue a warning when necessary, but they rarely need to resort to more. Some others unfortunately lock horns with the players, and that almost never benefits the match. In either case, it is not a job I envy them.

This reminds me of one of my pet peeves: It is the whole handshake issue. It is meaningless to shake someone’s hand if you don’t look them in the eyes while doing it. A few players make a point of looking at the umpires, and it seems like they’re actually thanking them for their service.

Others are already on their way to the other side by the time their hand makes contact with the opponent’s or the umpire’s. I think that’s worse than no handshake. At that point, you’re just wiping your sweaty hand on someone else’s.

Sitting in immediate proximity lets the photographer in on some strangeness, too. For example Tamara Boros of Croatia getting her racket rejected by an umpire for having too thick rubber – after having used it the previous four days.

For photographers, it is almost impossible to stay out of the TV pictures, because we are assigned to specific areas. Over the years, it appears, some of my friends have taken to playing a variation of a famous game, which they call “Where is Diego”. I get e-mails from friends all over the world saying that they saw me on TV, and even though my profession and distinct preference is to be behind the camera, I guess it’s something I can live with.

The experience is definitely an interesting one. Perhaps not so much to watch the development of matches – that is better done from a little farther back – but to get some insights on nuances that are lost at a distance. They remind me that even the stars are regular people, with superstitions and habits and tempers and egos and a stubborn drive to win, pretty much like most of us. They’re just a hell of a lot better at table tennis…

Anecdotes

The Rachet

During one of our many visits to the World Table Tennis Championships, we decided to sit in the stands with some of our friends. Generally, due to our role as journalists, we sat either in the press seats, or on photographer’s stools next to the courts. But this was the opening ceremony, and we chose to enjoy it with our friends. Seated behind us was a group of very vocal German fans, and while their enthusiasm was laudable, it got a bit much when the one right behind us pulled out a huge wooden ratchet noisemaker and started twirling it right over our heads. The noise was deafening and made any conversation completely impossible.

 

Soon, one of our friends was getting a bit annoyed, but he didn’t really want to make a scene. I could see in his expression that he was formulating a plan. He is a man of means, and as such he is used to finding monetary solutions to problems that often please both parties. After a few minutes, he turned around and said to the German fan: “Man, this thing is so cool! Can I buy it from you? I’ll give you $50!” The German was surprised by the generous offer for an item that in his home country probably cost no more than $10. He hesitated for a second, but then he shook his head and said: “Oh, no thanks. I don’t want to sell it.” My friend, undeterred, countered: “How about $100?” The fan – even more surprised – paused and looked at his friend, who gestured he should take the offer. So he shrugged as if to say: “Really? It isn’t worth anywhere near that, but if you really want it…” and he handed the racket over while my friend gave him a $100 bill.

Fully satisfied with having solved the issue elegantly my friend turned forward, with the massive ratchet in his hand and a big smile on his face, while the German fan dug into his bag – and pulled out another one.