Tennis Day Three.

Board assignments: 

Anna--winner of Janko Tipsarevic (SRB) v. Oliver Rochus (BEL)

Slated for the second match of the day on court 8, my day started out by watching Serena Williams on court one.  I moved quickly to court two to catch the end of the Bryan brothers doubles match.  Bahamans didn't an answer to their quick, slam game.  My match came after another canteen meal, eating the usual bland flour roll, mystery meat with large bones, vegetable goop, one banana, and a crispy chocolate wafer.  

Geared with a my tape recorder, pen and notebook. I headed over to court 8, prepared for what had become the usual quick murdering of tennis in two straight sets.  I forgot water, something I dearly regretted later when the match was going into its second hour, and it looked from the competitors' aggressive play, that the match would be going into a third set.  After the first set went into tie break, I could smell myself as I profusely dripped with sweat.  The spirited Belgian crowd didn't seem to mind, as they chanted, "Olie, Olie"  between points, but if they had noticed my scent, I wouldn't have known.  I was surrounded in a language emersion where I didn't understand a lick of what was being said, except for their universal shouting, "Belgium, Belgium."  The opposing Serbian crowd sat across the court, a little meeker, but still showing a country pride with a waving Serbian flag.   

The play on the court continued, unmarked by anything unusual, until Tipsarevic lost his early lead of 2-0 in a close contested game.  Rochus kept his serve and took the momentum to break Tipsarevic in the next game.  After this, the Serbian lost his mental edge.  The cheering Belgian crowd felt the heat of this as Tipsarevic stopped mid-pre-serve bounce and glared at the Belgian fans surrounding me.  From my perspective it sounded like this ";alksjdffj;a, chips!"  I don't understand Serbian and from the sounding confusion of the Belgians, they didn't either.    The word, chips, however, did ring with clarification.  The girls next to me, in their hunger, had been wrestling with the sack to get it open.  So Tipsarevic was blaming his two current losses on chips.  The tennis official tried to keep a calm composure on the court by announcing twice that the crowd must keep quiet in respect to the players.  Tipsarevic kept glaring.  I made a note on the notebook, under the game's score, "chips."  At the moment, I wished for Tipasrevic to regain the lead.  I wanted to ask him his waning concentration and his frustration about the chips.  

The question was never asked, in the disappointing finish.  Tipsarevic lost the tie break and retired early in the second set from a sprained ankle.  The Belgian crowed cried, in a flase apologetic tone, "Merci, Merci."  Interviewing Rochus, he gleamed with sweat and excitement.  Rushed by fans asking for autographs and pictures, I stopped Rochus for a few questions.   I leaned over the railing, putting my notebook and the attached microphone as close as comfortable to record his words.  Graciously, he answered.  He was a proud winner.  Although, he told me that he didn't like to win like this, but said honestly, it's tennis, and this is how we play.  The truth of life.    

In between morning and evening shifts, my morning colleagues and I walked over to archery and field hockey.  We didn't need tickets because our credentials  cover the Olympic Green.  Archery was dotted with Korean fans and the atmosphere seemed party like.  In a match in tennis, play doesn't go without the announcer reminding the crowed to remain silent.  Only the ooohhhs and ahhhs are allowed without criticism.  It is a closely monitored rule.  Need I say, chips.  

The Olympic length of archery is an absurd distance from bow to target.  In the gray sky, I lose sight of the arrow, until I see it's slight, and dare I say, beautiful arc near the red circle.  In junior high, at a family camp in Okoboji, I slung the bow and arrow once.  The naturalness that the Olympians exhibit is fooling.  My draw resulted in an arrow stabbing the green grass.  It was short of the target by a few feet.  

Field hockey carried a roaring crowd as well.  Not surprising for the packed crowd because the hosting country, China, was on the field.  The play was lively, but my friend Nick grumbled that hockey should only be played on ice.  We left soon, the volunteers (or minions as they are sometimes referred to) standing watch didn't want our presence as they kept telling us to back away from the fence.  

In the evening session, my match hopping including the court one match of Novak Djokovic.  He looked good, and from my utube watching, he clarified why he is a good sport with a humor.  Although he didn't entertain us with his Maria Sharapova and Rafael Nadal impressions.  Maybe after he wins the tournament, as seeded No. 3 player, he is a favorite.  

Nadal finished the night up in center court, playing against Nicole's favorite, my least liked, punk Australian Lleyton Hewitt.  I sat above the press tribunes, observing my fifth match of the day.  In the second set, Nadal looked good, but perhaps, tired.  But that was the last I saw of it after a red shirted official told us initially we could stay, but then switched attitudes without warning as she charged up the stairs to tell us we had to leave immediately.  Asking us to cross tennis courtesy, which suggests you should only leave after odd games or between sets.  We tried to explain this offense, but in miscommunication she took our seated butts as signs of resistance.  She called our supervisor and one game later, the game before we could officially leave without making a scene.  Elena stormed up the stairs to yell at us.  Embarrassing herself more than us, she said in her rage, she could send us back to Iowa and take away our credentials.  The red shirted, press manager, nodded annoyingly in agreement.  Not giving us the chance to explain, we bowed our heads in our exit.  Once in the office we grabbed our bags and left immediately.  The next day, Elena apologized multiple times.  The side effects of working in an international office, miscommunication happens often.  

Hungry from lack of a dinner, the ice cream I had at field hockey didn't satisfy my grumbling stomach.  We left for Houhai, after a stress relieving run.  Once some of the tourists filtered out, Olympians done with competition and spectators getting ready for the night rushed in.  A conversation sparked with a Midwesterner hailing from Wisconsin.  The Scottish friend informed us that he was a Sydney Olympics silver medalist in rowing.  After I told him I did novice at the University of Iowa my freshmen year, he divulged he was the men's novice coach at Wisconsin.  Even more so, he knew Iowa's varsity coach, Mandy.  His novice coach when he was a freshmen at Wisconsin.   I never thought I would be having this conversation in Beijing.  Conversation continued with Olympic swimmers from Algeria, judo players from Iran, spectators from Australia, Poland, Spain, France, and other corners of the world.