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High Life

Taki

Wednesday, 2nd July 2008

Going for gold

After the weigh-in, which I made with five kilos to spare, comes the training. This is another bad part. One’s out of breath from the word go, mostly due to nerves. There are Japanese throwing themselves around with abandon, and Simian Ukrainians grunting like wild boars, not to mention flamboyant Frenchmen executing incredible throws of one another — none of which, incidentally, they will attempt during the real thing.After 20 minutes, my coach, Teimoc Ono-Johnston, half Japanese, half English and 150 per cent Samurai, calls it a day and we head back to a soulless hotel not far from the Muslim section of Brussels.

A few words about Brussels. It is Beirut without the good weather. Once upon a time the place was cosy, with great food and the most promiscuous women in Europe. No longer. It is as if the Islamists have put a damper on all things fun. Sullen young men hang about, and their women, their heads covered, shuffle the kids around, and, boy, do these people have kids. Brussels is the home of endemic corruption, lack of transparency and accountability. It is the place bent politicians send those they owe favours to for crimes past. If Brussels is what the rest of European cities will become, Patagonia or Wyoming here I come. But back to judo.

The night before the contest one sleeps very badly. It gets worse at breakfast because one’s not at all hungry. The butterflies really start to zing once inside the arena waiting to be called. And wait one does, for hours. Teimoc quickly won a gold medal in his age group, pinning a humongous German after having thrown a giant Russian in the semis, and having choked out three Frenchmen in the early rounds. He then came around trying to steady my nerves. ‘Only ashi barai and leg grab,’ he kept repeating. Then my name was called and suddenly the butterflies simmered down. As soon as one bows and hears ‘Hajime’ fury sets in. One circles and grabs, feet sweeping, hands darting, always using the head as a ram. Never has courtesy (all matches begin with a bow to one’s opponent and a bow to the ref.) disappeared so quickly. I luck through the early rounds and in the final, after a brutal semi that went into overtime, I manage to throw my Canadian opponent with force enough for his head to bounce off the tatami and the gold was mine. The rest was a blur until I stood on the podium and heard the words ‘Champion du monde’.

PS. On Tuesday, 8 July, there is a memorial service for the great George MacDonald Fraser in St John’s Smith Square. There will be bands and speakers, and all good Brits should try to make it. I, a Greek, will certainly be there.