“FIGHTING!”

I had never watched the Asian Games until the last two weeks as it ended today (Oct 8). Since our Airbnb features a TV of generous proportion, I have been immensely enjoying the Asian Games, from archery to badminton to high jump to table tennis to soccer, among other sports. Having grown up in Los Angeles, at this time of the year, I would be fixated on my Dodgers post-season run as they are poised to make a deep run again this year. I will also be following my Lakers as they get ready for their season opener. NFL and college football seasons are stimulating garnishes and time fillers that would keep me properly entertained.

These are the best Asian athletes competing in their sports except for a few big-name sports. What we see as casual observers are actual competing times anywhere from 10 seconds to 90 minutes. What we do not see are the long hard-working hours, often most of their life, dedication, craft, and improving team plays and chemistry if applicable. Most of these hours they spent are not under the spotlight, cheers, and significant encouragement. They represent the grinding hours of dedication, fighting often against oneself to push and push harder. Bruce Lee once said, “I fear not the man who has practiced 10,000 kicks once, but I fear the man who has practiced one kick 10,000 times.” Additionally, it is not hard to imagine an endless cycle of failure upon failure and repeat ad infinitum. As such, any sport is a long hard battle of overcoming adversities of failures. I mean, in basketball, if you miss 6 out of 10 shots from three-point lines, you are a great shooter at any level. In baseball, if you miss or get outed 7 out of 10, you are a great hitter. It is a lonely, dogged fight against oneself to console, encourage, push, and most of all, not give up. Giving up will come soon enough for all athletes, but they often say, not now or not today.

I am an active person, perhaps a very casual athlete at best. Even as a casual athlete, I have had to face constantly nauseating inner battles to pick up my ball (basketball) and play again the next time especially when I was awful the last time I played. And learn what I can but forget what happened, embracing short memory and thick skin. Sure, a few times I have played well, I replay the plays in my mind to sleep with a smile on my face. But those times have been shrinking as I age. Granted that I remain incredibly thankful that I have had no major injuries. The most serious injury was a partial medial collateral ligament tear on my right knee that sidelined me for about 5 months in my 40s. Plus a couple of broken fingers including my right middle finger which made me sheepish any time I had to raise my hand to say hi or bye, and frequent ankle sprain injuries, too many to count. I know I could have folded playing basketball years ago, sighting my slow footedness and blaming a well-worn scenario that says—my mind is making all the right plays, but my body is woefully lagging. However, even now, the pleasure of playing outweighs the pain after playing or not playing at all. When the scale tips over to pain more than pleasure (and it will), then I know it is time to quit. I have brought my basketball shoes this time, hoping to play. But so far, I have not found any opportunity.

I have thought about what sport I would pick up when I “retire” from basketball. It is an exercise I have played in my mind repeatedly. I have not landed on anything, but I think I am going to see if I can push myself to continue to play basketball. While I can take on walking (and I have) as well as hiking, I know I am unusually drawn to any kind of “ball” play. My heart still flutters when I hear a ball pounding the gym floor or walk by a tempting display of the latest and vintage basketball shoe store. I must listen to my heart, I tell myself.

Earlier this year in the evening while in Singapore, I told my wife I was walking. In the middle of my walking, I began hearing the pounding of the ball far away. The sound hypnotized me and I instinctively followed the sound, almost sleepwalking toward the sound. I walked into the semi-outdoor court without thinking, still on autopilot. I played a few pickup games with complete strangers for a couple of hours, with my running shoes. My impromptu teammates comprised a Philippino in his 40s and an Indonesian in his 30s, both engineers working in Singapore, playing against the young and athletic Singaporeans. We appreciated each other’s craft and high-fived each other throughout, grinning with joy the whole time. While playing, it did dawn on me that my wife might be worried, but my spontaneous joy was too great. Thanks largely to the humidity, I came home soaked with my dome head like a leaky faucet. My wife took a look at me and smiled. Somehow, I knew that she knew what happened not only from my sweat but also from my big penitent grin.

Back to the Asian Games. What was a pleasant surprise for me was to witness many Korean athletes smiling, even during the competition. I have viscerally felt their ecstatic enjoyment as alluring and contagious. I was more used to seeing resolute and determinative faces, nothing wrong with that either, but beams and twinkles are more inspiring. On the contrary, I have frequently not felt the same from the sports broadcasters and commentators, especially in team events. Regrettably, the broadcasters and commentators (who are all former athletes) represent the honor and shame system as well as the general Korean high standard of failure-proof culture while the athletes are mainly competing against themselves to be the best in their sport. I am sure the athletes are incredibly honored to represent Korea, but I wonder if they are foremostly representing themselves and maybe their families.

I find myself saluting the athletes in the Asian Games and the “athletes” in us all, fighting and overcoming adversities of failures inwardly as well as the “resistant to failure” system outwardly, again and again. To that end, I would like to salute myself for keeping the “fighting” spirit!