This Is The Game That Never Ends

Remember these two names: John Isner and Nicolas Mahut.

This US and French player are (still) playing the longest match ever in Wimbledon history. Like longest match ever. Like, I'm sorry, you're not listening to me. Like looooooooongest match evvveeerrr.

They played four sets on the first day, tied at two sets apiece, and the game had to be suspended due to failing light.

They then played the fifth set on the second day, and are now tied at 59-59. And the game was suspended for a second day due to failing light.

59-59.

And they're still going.

These other remarkable facts that I had to borrow from here:

Among the other remarkable statistics from the match:

— It's the longest match in tennis history: 10 hours. The previous record was 6 hours, 33 minutes.

— Longest set in tennis history: 118 games.

— Most games in tennis history: 163 (previous record was 112).

— Both players broke the ATP record for most aces in a match. Isner had 98, Mahut hit 95. The previous record was 78. Combined, the two had 193 aces, more than double the old record of 96.

— Mahut had just three break points during the entire match.

— The first four sets took 2 hours, 54 minutes. The fifth set is at 7 hours, 6 minutes and counting.

— Mahut won 448 points to Isner's 428. Isner had more winners: 333 to 318.

— The final set is longer than the previous longest match in tennis history. That was 6 hours, 33 minutes.

— Isner had four match points, one at 11-10, two others at 33-32 and another at 59-58. The first and last match points came nearly six hours apart.

— At 50-50, Mahut had two break points and Isner promptly served a 134 mph ace.

— With Mahut serving at 52-53, the pair exchanged a 16-shot rally which ended with a Mahut forehand winner. It was the longest rally of the match. On the next point, Mahut dove for a backhand at the baseline following another long rally.

— The players took their first bathroom break at 58-58. While walking in the tunnel, they exchanged pleasantries, the first time they had spoken all evening.

— Mahut only qualified for Wimbledon after winning a qualifying match in a 24-22 final set.

— The match is almost two hours longer than the longest Major League Baseball game in history (an 8:06 game between the White Sox and Brewers in 1984).

— The scoreboard stopped working at 47-47.

We'll never see the likes of this again.

I remember watching the Andy Roddick and Younes el-Aynaoui match in the quarter-finals of the 2003 Australian Open with my Dad. The match was a minute short of five hours, after an epic fifth set.

We knew that we had seen something historic that night, as it was the longest tennis match of all time, at that time. At one point, Roddick gave his racquet over to the ball boys to take over and play, and el-Aynaoui followed suit, one of the classic "Awww..." moments in tennis.

That record was bested in the 2004 French Open by two Frenchmen, but it has now been obliterated by the ongoing match between Isner and Mahut.

And so if you can look away from the World Cup for just a little moment, and turn your TV station instead to one of the most momentous occasions in tennis history.

Sate, Sate, Sate Ria, Sate Sungguh Lazat

As usual, my procrastinating mind would wander during my periods of 'intense' studying into the realms of childhood, where the only thing I ever had to worry about was whether I watched He-Man sitting up, lying down, or with my head dangling upside down from the edge of the couch.

Random Memories: Seven Years Old

School kids are evil. There is no limit to their creativity in finding new ways to make you feel uneasy.

Take for example my eleven year old friends who used to think that reaching out to grab your crotch as they approached you was an acceptable way of saying hello.

But I'll save that story for another day.

I remember the one thing that we used to do as seven year olds was to creep up behind an unsuspecting friend in school, and then making a fanning motion with one hand over the open palm of the other while singing "Sate, Sate, Sate Ria, Sate sungguh lazat!" ("Satay, Satay, Satay Ria, where the satays are delicious!") as if you were barbequing your friend's ass. 

The normal reaction from your friend would be:
1) Thrusting his pelvis forward to get his butt away from your stupid fanning hands.
2) Making a disapproving noise, somewhere between irritation for dropping his guard and being crept up on, and being annoyed by your childish stupidity (Wooi! Tcht...heeesh!)
3) Turning around to chase you as you scampered away to safety, laughing like a maniac.

Sate Ria was a franchise where they sold satays in proper air-conditioned restaurants. The concept didn't go down very well with local Malaysians, who thought it ridiculous to pay twenty or thirty sen more per stick of satay just to eat it in a fast-food like joint.

Satays were always meant to be enjoyed in the open air, on plastic hawker stall seats, with the smoke billowing over your head as you bit into the juicy grilled chicken or beef bits dripping with peanut sauce.

The business quickly tanked, and now it remains nothing but a nebulous childhood memory.

At least we got some stupid juvenile fun out of abusing their jingle for awhile!

Mamak Terminology

So here I am trying to study, and Karen is being really supportive and helping me make a drink to keep me awake. It is a combination of Milo and Nescafe.

Here's the question: for the life of me, I can't remember what I would say to the mamak in Malaysia if I wanted this drink?

I know that:
1) Teh + Kopi = Cham
2) Teh + Milo = A scolding from the mamak - Lu gila ka? (Are you mad?)
but what do you call Milo+Kopi?

Thanks for helping me put this annoying question out of my head, once and for all!

Mamak, teh tarik tak mau tarik satu! (Mamak, one pulled tea, but hold the pull, thanks!)

Not Myself

Would you want me when I'm not myself?
Wait it out while I am someone else? 

- John Mayer, Not Myself

To all my friends who click on this blog ever so often to check if anything new is up, let me apologise that these next few months will be fairly scarce in terms of blogposts as I am (desperately) trying to study for exams in September. 

All my years of last minute studying are now coming back to haunt me, so I would appreciate all your prayers as I push through to these exams. 

Just to give you an indication of how little I actually love studying, let's just say I preferred a visit to the dentist yesterday than to actually picking up my books. 

That's right folks - I would actually prefer a lifetime of having my tooth drilled rather than study.  

Just when I had thought that I would never ever have to touch another textbook again, here I go again, unfortunately! 

Time to listen to my popo (grandma), and kan lik tit took shi ah (study hard ah)! 

P.S. Karen has suggested that I snap blog - no pictures, just a few words to update. I'm not sure - is it worth it?

Exams - Kill. Me. Now.  

Farewell, Rafa.

There is a man in many boys' (and girls') lives who yields a certain undeniable power over their emotions and wellbeing. That man dictates the mood of the said boy (or girl) for the rest of the week, based on his words and actions and leadership.

That man is not their father.

That man is the manager of their football club.

Greater than any star player in a team, a football manager is the man who is judged at the end of the day with regards to how a team performs. He is the conductor of the Soccer Club Symphony, the man who lifts and drops games with a wave of his hand, the ever-changing hero and villain from week to week depending on how the game eventuated.

Rafa Benitez exploded onto the English soccer scene with a breath-taking, seemingly impossible Champions League final win for Liverpool in 2005, making them the only English team to win the Cup five times. His tenure as manager has vacillated between the brilliant and the bizarre, buying outstanding performers while squandering money on a fair few duds.

No one can deny that he has orchestrated the emotions of millions of Liverpool fans worldwide, and I can remember at least three times where my heart had literally stopped when we managed to grab victory out of the wretched jaws of defeat:

1) The 3-1 win versus Olmpiakos which brought us into the group stages, leading to:
2) The 3-3 draw in Istanbul in the Champions' League 2005 final, where Liverpool had come from 3-0 down during half time to win the Cup on penalties.
3) The 3-3 draw in the 2006 FA Cup final, where Liverpool had to come back from 2-0 down and then 3-2 down to win the Cup, again on penalties.

There are many more moments like that which I can recall, watching soccer live at home by myself at 3 in the morning, my leg shaking uncontrollably from excitement, yelling at the TV screen for no good reason, and then jumping around the room like a delirious puppy whenever we scored.

Lately, though, it has been a more resigned slump as I reach for the TV remote to switch off the TV in disgust way before the game is over, knowing that defeat was inevitable. And then switching on the TV again right at the end to confirm my worst suspicions, secretly hoping against all hope that Liverpool had pulled a miracle out of nowhere to win.

Too many subsequent losses, and fingers start to point, and they always fall on the manager in the English game. Apart from Arsenal and Manchester United, managers are only as good as their last season in the English Premier League, and so, after six years, we have finally had to say goodbye to Rafa Benitez after a disappointing season last year.

Like a soccer orphan now, we are searching for a new father figure to lead the club to greater heights, and to the Holy Grail that is the elusive Premier League title.

Farewell, Rafa - Mr. Benitez sir - who has meant so much more to me and millions of other Liverpool fans than he will ever know.