This past year I had the good fortune to share housing with Francis Phuang from Singapore. Among the many cross cultural lessons we shared, I saw this music video/short film for the song "Ordinary" which was an official song of the 2015 Southeast Asian Games. Ordinary It's a long 12 minutes, but the video is inspiring. It tells the story of Fandi Ahmad, the best footballer in Singaporean history, which was also the inspiration for the song. The song starts "When I was just a little boy from a little town / I made a wish that someday I could turn this around / I made believe that I was right on top of the world." And even though it is a story of a person whose circumstances have very little in common with mine, I can very much relate to it. There is that primordial draw of sport, those dreams of a powerless child to become a powerful player that drive relentless training and so often are prerequisites of success. There are the pains of defeat and rejection which make the hard work and successes so rewarding. These raw emotions transcend generations and continents, so that a kid from suburban Massachusetts in the 1990s can identify with a kid in the early days of independent Singapore.
I've written in my blog about how I relate to Singapore and Malaysia in a way. Well when I visit, the differences in flora and fauna strike me, and I am hyperaware of the accents and ethnicities and cuisine. But the presence of such a large Chinese diaspora grounded me in the mere fate that placed me in America and someone else in Malaysia, and the vast implications that follow. Sure I could have been placed in a rural town in Uttar Pradesh, or among a tribe in the Amazon rainforest, but those experiences are so hard for me to imagine that it doesn't resonate with me to the same degree.
In addition, I've written in my blog about my experience with ultimate, and the joy I found in college after recreationally pursuing it in high school. I want to take this post to further elaborate. I'd love to wax poetically about how the disc has always floated with me, ever since my brother went to CTY summer camp and came back wanting to toss. I was 12 or 13. Minutes after he taught me the forehand grip, I could flick it. I can still remember the shock at seeing the disc leave my fingers after such an unnatural motion - I felt like Harry must have after he waved his phoenix core wand and sparks flew out.
I did not grow up to defeat the most evil ultimate player of all time, but I did throw a lot more flicks. My own summer camp introduced me to my first organized ultimate experience and I quickly became obsessed. Once summer was over though, I lost all access to ultimate. High school ultimate was very much in developmental stages, and my tiny high school will possibly never have an official team. Our school would organize a sport day in May (creatively called May Day) where we'd play games like Capture the Flag, Dodgeball and yes, ultimate. It's amazing how much I'd look forward to that day every year. I did eventually play organized ultimate in high school, and had some fond memories from that experience, but I also had a ton of frustrating moments trying to form a team, failing to transfer my passion for the sport to fellow students. Even after joining ultimate leagues around Boston, my ultimate experience consisted of playing with makeshift uniforms in random unkempt grassy fields. Spectators were a dream - my parents never even saw me play. Ultimate was a hobby that I would pursue passionately almost in secret. The effort I gave to it was almost embarrassing to me, with a massive imbalance between my personal regard for the sport and society's respect for it.
Flash forward to November 2015. Hong Kong is hosting the Asia Oceanic Ultimate Championships. An infrastructure has sprung up around ultimate. Professional leagues are selling tickets in the US and Canada, websites are formed to cover ultimate news, ESPN is showing layouts in their daily Top 10 Plays, and ultimate is officially recognized by the International Olympic Committee. And there I am on the field of Mong Kok Stadium, which only a few weeks before had been sold out hosting a World Cup Qualifying Match. Yes, that World Cup. I'm under the field lights wearing a finely made jersey that says Hong Kong - I'm representing Hong Kong. I'm shaking hands with some of the best players in Australia, Japan and the Philippines - some of the best players in the world - and they're thanking me. There are professional photographers capturing the moments. There's a banner with our neon design displaying boldly WFDF 2015 Asia Oceanic Ultimate Championships Hong Kong. There are TV cameras setup through the stadium livestreaming the event - and there is my voice on the telecast, commentating on the highest level game ever played in Hong Kong. Throngs of players wearing jerseys of every color are milling about exuding joy. They've come from places like New Zealand, India, United Arab Emirates, just to play this game chasing a circular piece of plastic. This game that I once played only on May Day. If my 17 year old self could see this scene, his mind would be insanely blown.
I made that scene above very personal, but I only had a small role in the event. Many long hours were spent by my friends coordinating with the government, designing memorabilia, and setting up endless logistics. I felt guilty somewhat experiencing so much joy on the backs of their hard work. But I did put in my effort as well - and never have I felt so much reward from my hard work. From coordinating nearly 100 volunteers, to running sprint workouts after months of rehabbing from ankle tendinitis, I took AOUC very seriously. And when I walked onto the field after it was done, I felt like Fandi Ahmad, like I was right on top of the world.
I've written in my blog about how I relate to Singapore and Malaysia in a way. Well when I visit, the differences in flora and fauna strike me, and I am hyperaware of the accents and ethnicities and cuisine. But the presence of such a large Chinese diaspora grounded me in the mere fate that placed me in America and someone else in Malaysia, and the vast implications that follow. Sure I could have been placed in a rural town in Uttar Pradesh, or among a tribe in the Amazon rainforest, but those experiences are so hard for me to imagine that it doesn't resonate with me to the same degree.
In addition, I've written in my blog about my experience with ultimate, and the joy I found in college after recreationally pursuing it in high school. I want to take this post to further elaborate. I'd love to wax poetically about how the disc has always floated with me, ever since my brother went to CTY summer camp and came back wanting to toss. I was 12 or 13. Minutes after he taught me the forehand grip, I could flick it. I can still remember the shock at seeing the disc leave my fingers after such an unnatural motion - I felt like Harry must have after he waved his phoenix core wand and sparks flew out.
I did not grow up to defeat the most evil ultimate player of all time, but I did throw a lot more flicks. My own summer camp introduced me to my first organized ultimate experience and I quickly became obsessed. Once summer was over though, I lost all access to ultimate. High school ultimate was very much in developmental stages, and my tiny high school will possibly never have an official team. Our school would organize a sport day in May (creatively called May Day) where we'd play games like Capture the Flag, Dodgeball and yes, ultimate. It's amazing how much I'd look forward to that day every year. I did eventually play organized ultimate in high school, and had some fond memories from that experience, but I also had a ton of frustrating moments trying to form a team, failing to transfer my passion for the sport to fellow students. Even after joining ultimate leagues around Boston, my ultimate experience consisted of playing with makeshift uniforms in random unkempt grassy fields. Spectators were a dream - my parents never even saw me play. Ultimate was a hobby that I would pursue passionately almost in secret. The effort I gave to it was almost embarrassing to me, with a massive imbalance between my personal regard for the sport and society's respect for it.
Flash forward to November 2015. Hong Kong is hosting the Asia Oceanic Ultimate Championships. An infrastructure has sprung up around ultimate. Professional leagues are selling tickets in the US and Canada, websites are formed to cover ultimate news, ESPN is showing layouts in their daily Top 10 Plays, and ultimate is officially recognized by the International Olympic Committee. And there I am on the field of Mong Kok Stadium, which only a few weeks before had been sold out hosting a World Cup Qualifying Match. Yes, that World Cup. I'm under the field lights wearing a finely made jersey that says Hong Kong - I'm representing Hong Kong. I'm shaking hands with some of the best players in Australia, Japan and the Philippines - some of the best players in the world - and they're thanking me. There are professional photographers capturing the moments. There's a banner with our neon design displaying boldly WFDF 2015 Asia Oceanic Ultimate Championships Hong Kong. There are TV cameras setup through the stadium livestreaming the event - and there is my voice on the telecast, commentating on the highest level game ever played in Hong Kong. Throngs of players wearing jerseys of every color are milling about exuding joy. They've come from places like New Zealand, India, United Arab Emirates, just to play this game chasing a circular piece of plastic. This game that I once played only on May Day. If my 17 year old self could see this scene, his mind would be insanely blown.
I made that scene above very personal, but I only had a small role in the event. Many long hours were spent by my friends coordinating with the government, designing memorabilia, and setting up endless logistics. I felt guilty somewhat experiencing so much joy on the backs of their hard work. But I did put in my effort as well - and never have I felt so much reward from my hard work. From coordinating nearly 100 volunteers, to running sprint workouts after months of rehabbing from ankle tendinitis, I took AOUC very seriously. And when I walked onto the field after it was done, I felt like Fandi Ahmad, like I was right on top of the world.
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