All posts by Diego

Anecdotes

DANGER

The mid-1970s were among the most challenging times the German Federal Republic ever faced. They were marred by terrorist attacks from the extreme leftist organization RAF. Their activities climaxed in September and October 1977, a period which has been dubbed “the German Autumn”. The president of the German Employers’ Confederation had been kidnapped in a violent attack in broad daylight, and Germany was on high alert. Police officers were in great danger, because the terrorists were armed and started shooting as soon as a police man looked at them with any kind of interest. Such an encounter had happened in Holland in mid September. Two police officer had walked into a restaurant and looked at three of the patrons for a few seconds too long, perhaps recognizing them as members of the RAF, when the young subjects drew machine guns and mowed down the officers before fleeing in a dark green VW bus with dutch plates. Days later, a young policeman at a road block accidentally fired a dozen rounds through the floor of a car because he had nervously clutched his unsecured automatic rifle while his colleagues were checking the passengers.

Into that atmosphere of fear and tension arrived two happy-go-lucky American friends of mine. They were blissfully unaware of any of this, and they decided to do what was a very common thing back then: Buy a VW van in Holland and drive through Europe in it.

The three of us had just driven across the US from California to New York, flown to Europe and after they bought the van, we met up in Heidelberg where I was studying at the time.

The morning after they arrived, the three of us hopped into the – dark green – van and drove to the post office. During the drive, I noticed a police car at a distance behind us. It followed us on every turn, and I mentioned it to my friend thinking that he might have committed an infraction. But since they oddly stayed at a distance and didn’t make a move, we decided to just continue on our drive.

We parked in front of the post office and got out. At that moment half a dozen police cars came screeching around corners from all directions, and the officers swung the doors open, took cover behind them, pointed their machine guns at us and ordered us to stand with our hands against the wall.

I had heard of all the occurrences over the past days, and suddenly the danger of this situation became clear to me: Terrified cops with their finger on the trigger and the safety off on their guns, and the three of us shocked by the turn of events – it was a situation fraught with danger. One of my friends is a bit of a hot head, and I was afraid he might do something that could be misinterpreted, so I said to him in English, and in a loud voice so the cops would hear it: “Do exactly what they say! This is the most dangerous situation we’ve ever been in.” The other friend, who did not speak a word of German was simply terrified. I translated the command to her, and so the three of us stood facing the wall. After what seemed like an eternity, two heavily armed cops crept toward us and patted us down. In order to further diffuse the situation, I told them that we would be in full compliance, that my friends were tourists and that this obviously was a case of mistaken identity.

We were handcuffed and each of us put in the back of a separate police car. Next to me was an officer who couldn’t be more than 18 or 20 years old, whose face showed fear, and whose machine gun barrel was poking me in the ribs. It was my most uncomfortable ride ever, and probably my most dangerous one.

We were treated with the appropriate civility, and at the station we were locked into separate cells, waiting for the specialists from the BKA ( the German equivalent of the FBI) to fly in and identify us. I think by now the police officers suspected that it was a mistake, but they had to wait for confirmation by the federal specialists. By the time they arrived I had fallen asleep on the cot because of my jet-lag, and when they stepped into the cell one of them said: “Aw, look, he’s sleeping like a baby. No, that’s not him.”

We were released with apologies and were asked for understanding. They told us that a citizen had seen us driving in the van and called the police thinking that we were the terrorists involved in the shootout in Holland. I later saw their pictures and understood how that mistake was easy to make: Similar age, similar haircuts, same color VW van, dutch plates, and they were – as we – two men and a woman.

More shootouts happened that autumn, and every time I was reminded of how much could have gone wrong in those minutes. But luckily it didn’t.

Anecdotes

SERENITY

In April of 2021 we all had just lived through the most unusual year of our lives. It was marked by the stark contrast of being disastrous for some and merely strange for others. Due to our place in life, Wei and I were lucky to belong to the second group. Even though it completely shut down our business for months and had a massive financial impact, we were able to perceive it more like a “pause” button had been pressed than a “stop” button.

A strange distortion of time perception set in, and a mixed jumble of concepts, experiences and mental pictures couldn’t quite find their place in the time sequence. Were they even real? Did I actually drive on the freeway through downtown LA in the middle of the day sometime in April 2020, – or was it July? – with not one car in front of me, as far as I could see nothing but empty lanes reflecting the glistening sunlight? Unexpectedly, though, it didn’t feel post-apocalyptic to me at all, just oddly serene. It felt like the world was taking a breather. The irony was palpable that it was able to do that only because a vicious virus was making it hard for hundreds of thousands of humans to draw a breath. Had the situation been described to me a year earlier, I would have found it terrifying, but now that I was actually in it, despite all the implications, it struck me as serene. That mix of horror and serenity became the defining feature of our 2020 experience.

So, yes, in April of 2021 we were ready to resume life and do some “revenge traveling”. Vaccines had become available which all but removed the threat of death from the virus, which was the only thing that had really worried us.

The day after we both had reached the full protection offered by the vaccines, we hopped on a flight to Hawaii. The state had just re-opened and allowed tourists back in on a very restricted basis, and only following tight protocols. We arrived at the resort in Kauai as some of the first tourists after they had just re-opened days before. The place was empty, only partially staffed, and it had the feeling of Sleeping Beauty just re-awakening.

We got up early the next day and walked to the beach to see the glorious sunrise. More serenity. It seemed that this feeling continuously suggested itself into our lives during a time when much of the rest of the world was struggling to cope with unspeakable horrors.

After breakfast, we went for a walk on the beach, which was completely empty, and I was reminded of my drive through an LA devoid of cars, sometime in the recent, or not so recent past – I wasn’t sure. But now Hawaii, and we’re the only tourists? How bizarre is *this*?

During our two and a half hour walk we saw a total of perhaps five other people. About twenty minutes in, we encountered a couple strolling in the opposite direction, and a bit later, there was a fisherman surf fishing with his pole stuck in the sand. Another half hour passed, and a few hundred yards in the distance, a young woman emerged from the trees, walked down to the water and then proceeded along the beach in the same direction as we were walking.

What a picture, almost surreal in its serenity: A beautiful Kauai beach, empty as far as the eye could see, except for a Hawaiian woman slowly strolling along the water’s edge. We both watched her every now and then, fully aware that this scenario might have occurred every day for hundreds of years, but probably not since the middle of the last century, and it would likely never occur again. We both felt a deep calm and an enhanced ability to enjoy the surroundings, and we imagined she felt the same. At one point, she reached for a stick and drew something in the sand. Then she slowly walked up toward the trees and disappeared. A few minutes later we got to the spot where she had written in big letters: “Fuck you, Jim”.

Anecdotes

Stage Fright

For many artists, stage fright has put a severe limitation on their career. Who knows how many prodigious musicians there have been of whom we never heard because of that affliction.

My guess is that the vast majority of performers have experienced some form of that fear, ranging from a mild uneasiness to outright terror. Most of those we know well have somehow managed to come up with a coping mechanism.

My version of stage fright was quite mild and manageable by an easy trick: Even though I rarely drink alcohol, I would take two sips of red wine about half an hour before the show. Not more, not less. It settled me into a comfortable state of alertness and worked OK.

A few years into my career as a musician, my friend Carlos and I were hired to play a live TV gig as a guitar duet. Our repertoire was jazz standards and Brazilian music. We had been performing at a local club for a while and had acquired a bit of a following, and we eventually came to the attention of that TV music program’s producer.

Live TV was a new thing for me, but I was confident that I’d manage OK based on my experience of playing for audiences and having learned to focus purely on the task at hand. We arrived at the TV station all prepared. I had had my couple of sips of wine and felt ready.

As we walked into the studio, I checked out the set where we were to play, and, against the opposite wall, I saw the huge TV cameras that were the state of art in the early 80s, weighing down heavily on big hydraulic rolling tripods. The operators were in place – we were about 15 minutes from air time.

Carlos and I took our guitars from their cases, tuned them, and then we both went into our warm-up routine, loosening the fingers with some scales and occasionally playing something together. The cameras were at a good distance from us, and that big gap made the whole scene feel much less intimidating than I had anticipated. It gave us the comfort of feeling like we were on stage and the audience was at a distance.

Air time approaches. The director steps forward. A fleeting thought glides by: This is actually live and being seen by many thousands of people. But the thought takes no hold. We are calm and ready to go. 

“10 seconds, 9, 8, 7 ,6 ,5, 4, 3, 2” – I notice they leave out 1 – and then the director points at us.

As soon as we start to play, one of the camera operator quickly pushes his gigantic camera forward across the gap to within a foot of the stage and points the massive lens right at my face.

I don’t remember much of those first few minutes. Carlos says we continued without missing a beat, and the program got pretty good reviews so it must have felt smooth enough. But what was seared most clearly into my memory from that day was that enormous piece of glass sucking the light right out of my face.

Anecdotes

Janet

In the early years of my life in America, in the mid-eighties, while I was still struggling to find a foothold in this glorious country and was looking for something that did not involve a corporate life, I took a job at Guitar Center. Music was always a huge part of my life, and while I didn’t expect this job to directly open doors into the music business, it seemed like a good solution for me: I’d be around musical instruments, got to deal with musicians and I got to make a little money. It was certainly not a career choice – although it could have been, even at Guitar Center, but only if I was willing to join the corporate structure of the company, the very structure I was running away from. A sales job was the perfect holding pattern until I got my feet under me.

It actually turned out that the Guitar Center gig gave me invaluable training in several fields in which I had had no exposure. It taught me how to sell, but more importantly it put the onus on me to learn to do it in a way that preserved my dignity. The last thing I wanted to do was to come across like a car salesman, so I developed my own style, which required that I engaged with the customers on a personal level beyond what they were used to. Music and its creation is a very personal topic, and I found that to be the access door to my customers. I became quite proficient at quickly establishing a personal connection with what was minutes earlier a total stranger.

One morning, while working at the Sherman Oaks store, a beautiful black girl came in to buy a guitar. She was about 20 years old, quite soft spoken, yet had a distinct air of confidence about her, one that made her attractive beyond her striking physical appearance. She seemed to have a rough idea of what she was looking for and wanted to be guided toward her final choice. I spoke with her about the music she wanted to make, connected it to the guitar’s tone, the choices of wood and other factors that affect the playability of a guitar, and after about a half hour of conversation she settled on one of my recommendations. I walked her over to the desk to write up her sales receipt. The beautiful guitar lay in its case on the sales desk, and she inspected it a little further while I got out my order book.

When I asked her for her name, she turned her head with a funny expression, looked me straight in the eye and said “Janet”, which I dutifully wrote down. Then I looked up again and I asked: “Your last name?” A big smile came over her face as she slightly tilted her head and said, in a surprised, almost enquiring tone, “Jackson”.

Opinion

Can we handle the right to bear arms?

Once more a mass shooting, and once more we hear the exhausted, impotent complaint “How many more”. And again, the knee jerk reaction of calling for an assault weapon ban is, while in its essence correct, doomed to being ignored as it has been mere days after each of the horrible mass shootings our country has suffered, because it is based on a lack of clarity. Unless we dig deeper, the gun lobby has too easy a time in contradicting our arguments.

Yes, we should ban military-style assault weapons, but we have to use the correct reasoning.

In this context, it is interesting to take a look at Switzerland, where every citizen soldier has his assault rifle at home, yet mass shootings are extremely rare. While Switzerland’s 231 gun deaths in 2015 puts it in second position after the US (7.7 per million versus the US’s 29.7), it is significant that 211 of them were suicides. There is just no propensity to turn those weapons on others. Why is there in our country?

A closer look at Switzerland’s second place in this dark statistic is also interesting: First, let’s note that, while in second place, its gun death rate is still less than a third of that of the U.S.

But it *is* higher than everyone else’s. This cannot be unrelated to the fact that only a slightly lower percentage of Swiss households have guns than in the U.S.. The sheer density of guns does increase the gun death rate. That seems like a no brainer, yet it is continually challenged.

More troubling for us, though, is the fact that 34% of the U.S. Gun deaths are homicides, compared to only 9% in Switzerland.

So there is a fundamental difference that lies not in the weapon itself, but in the way it is used, and *that* is what we need to identify. The United States doesn’t have a higher percentage of people with mental illness than Switzerland, Swiss schools are not better fortified than American ones, nor are their active-shooter drills more prevalent or better-structured. The difference is that almost nobody there seems to develop the wish to pick up a weapon and use it to settle personal grievances or satisfy some homicidal fantasy. Why is that?

One possible answer lies, in my opinion, in the basic approach to the gun. While our Second Amendment speaks of “a well regulated militia”, the Swiss Citizen Army actually traces its roots back over 700 years to a time, when three regions in what is now the core of Switzerland rebelled against their tyrant and formed an independent union. To this day, the army’s character as a militia is quoted in the Swiss Defense Department’s description of the Swiss military duty. The possession of an assault weapon is seen in this context, and it is regulated. Until 1996, membership in a civilian shooting club was mandatory for every citizen soldier. These clubs served as an extension of the military and were charged with the administration of the yearly mandated target practice. This ties gun ownership to national pride. Where the national hero is a cross bow marksman who killed his country’s oppressor, the gun is a symbol of the fierce independence of a small state ready to defend itself at any time, not a tool for violent self expression.

In the U.S., such a relationship to guns is the exception, and “militias” have an entirely different connotation, even though many actually derive a more legitimate right to gun ownership from the Second Amendment than a troubled Florida teenager, or, for that matter, any of us. While legal scholars debate the meaning of the “well regulated militia” qualification and the gun lobby somehow concludes that it needs to be essentially ignored, to a layman, “well regulated” means at the very least one thing: There have to be regulations.

Another point, in which the lack of clarity hinders any progress, is one, in which the opposing camps are actually conflicting with their own theories: The gun lobby centers much of the discussion on guns as tools for leisure activities such as hunting or shooting sports, none of which are addressed in the Second Amendment, nor were they by all indications the motivation behind its creation.

On the other hand, the undifferentiated assertion by gun opponents that a military-style weapon should not be allowed in civil society collapses when the very literal interpretation of the Second Amendment they prefer is applied: The Amendment specifically mentions a militia – albeit a regulated one. Militias train to shoot people. An automatic AR-15 is the appropriate weapon for that task. Notwithstanding the point that there is a world of difference between a front-loading single shot rifle and a modern assault weapon, their function is ultimately the same: To stop a military opponent. It is a losing proposition to somehow look for justification for an assault weapon ban in the text of the Amendment. It actually does talk about military weapons.

No doubt, the healthiest solution for the United States would be to convert the right to gun ownership into a privilege. This would require a repeal of the Second Amendment, followed by legislation that allows responsible, well regulated gun ownership and requires a license, which, just like a driver’s license, can be repealed if circumstances warrant. But considering the way our political system has jammed itself up, chances of that happening anytime soon are close to zero, no matter how many mass shootings our country has to endure.

Rather than creating respect for it, we have trivialized assault weapon ownership. We can shop for an AR-15 and for a pair of sneakers in the same mall, and buying one is not much more difficult than buying the other. That does not engender the necessary respect for, or the correct attitude toward the gun – the only factors that might actually keep us safe. The path between fear – or anger – and acquisition of such a gun is too short, too direct, unencumbered by thoughts of patriotism or any other consideration outside of one’s own sphere.

Let’s face it: For most owners, an assault weapon is not much more than a cool toy. They may claim personal self defense needs (for which it is remarkably unsuited), or some imaginary readiness against an oppressive government (which almost nobody really takes seriously, considering the firepower they would have to face). I cannot imagine that in a thinking person’s honest assessment, either of these justifications really carry the day. They are but excuses to justify having the toy. But the unbearable price our society is paying to enable ownership of this cruel toy is just too high.

Even though the overwhelming majority of gun owners are responsible, too large a number of them are not. However small the ratio of “bad owners” to “good owners” may be, in our country it is greater than our society can handle. It is just an undeniable matter of fact borne out by the number of gun homicides in this country compared to all other equally developed nations. So here comes the difficult conclusion: The fact that we cannot seem to reduce that ratio to a bearable level proves in my opinion that we are, as a society, not ready to handle the heavy responsibility of a right to bear arms.

An analysis why we Americans can’t handle this issue as well as others might lie in our country’s relatively short, but violent history. It might also lie somewhere else, but it is less important to find out why we’re not prepared to manage such a right than it is to purely accept the conclusion that – for now – we are not.

My appeal to the responsible gun owners would be to support restrictions and even – dare I say? – the repeal of the Second Amendment. They cannot possibly want the status quo to be maintained in their name. It would be trivial for them to qualify for a license, after which nothing would have changed for them, except they wouldn’t have their AR-15 toy.

Of course, even a repeal of the Second Amendment would not solve the problem overnight. Nothing will. It has festered too long, and there are too many guns already out there. But gradually, for every gun that is kept from the hands of someone, who shouldn’t have it, our country would be a step closer to begin healing from this scourge. Others have done it. We can, too.

Anecdotes

Emergency

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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

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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.

Anecdotes

The TV

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In what feels like an earlier life, I lived in the heart of Hollywood for a while. To those unfamiliar with Hollywood and its recent history, this may sound a bit more glamorous than it was. Far from its reputation as the Tinseltown full of beautiful people, large portions of Hollywood in the early 1980s were lined with seedy, run-down apartment buildings, and hookers populated many street corners along Sunset Boulevard. I had a ground floor one-bedroom apartment in a slightly less shabby building on Cherokee Ave facing De Longpre Park.

I was in my first (and only) semester at Loyola Law School, and as a student, one bought old, used TVs, not new ones. So I used “The Recycler” – the Craig’s List of the day – to locate one that probably was from the early ’70s and bought it for about $50. Color TVs in those days weighed a ton! I don’t know if they lined them with bricks or what the reason was, but if you wanted to move a 20” TV without endangering your back, you better asked for someone’s help. I don’t exactly remember how I got mine into the apartment, but I did. I hooked it up to the antenna and enjoyed it for many… days. I watched the whole 1981 World Series on it, and mere minutes after the Dodgers won it – while the players were still celebrating on the field – there was a pop and an electric sizzle and the TV went dark, with a little puff of smoke rising from the back. The behemoth was dead.

Repair was obviously not an option, but I wasn’t quite sure how to dispose of it. After some deliberation, I had a Eureka moment: I decided to use the criminal element, which was not in short supply in Hollywood at the time, to get the job done. My kitchen door opened to an alley, and a staircase passed right over the top of the door, and so there was a nook underneath the stairs, next to my door, hidden from view from the street. I decided to drag the monster out the door and “hide” it under the stair case, and for good measure, I covered it up with a blanket.

The next morning, it had been stolen.