Grosses Kino. Hut ab.
Das Tischtennis-Idol meiner Jugend, Jan-Ove Waldner, bestritt diese Woche im Alter von 50 Jahren (!) sein letztes Ligaspiel. Dabei gewann er eine Partie und verlor eine. Am Ende hielt er in gewohnt kurzer Form fest: “Ich habe okay gespielt. Es war ein schöner Abend.”
Waldner war 36 Jahre Profi und hat dabei 6 Weltmeister- und 10 Europameistertitel errungen. 1992 wurde er Olympiasieger.
Der Tagesspiegel hatte recht, als er titelte:
Damit geht auch im Tischtennis das 20. Jahrhundert zu Ende.
Bei medium.com diese Kurzgeschichte gelesen.
Fand ich derart stark, dass ich sie hier wiedergebe (für den unwahrscheinlichen Fall, dass dieser Blog medium.com überdauert oder der Blogpost verschwindet).
Here we go.
Death is always a surprise. No one expects it. Not even terminal patients think they are going to die in a day or two. In a week, maybe. But only when this particular week is the next week.
We are never ready. It is never the right time. By the time it comes, you will not have done all the things that we wanted to. The end always comes as a surprise, and it’s a tearful moment for widows and a bore for the children who don’t really understand what a funeral is (thank God).
It was no different with my father. In fact, his death was even more unexpected. He was gone at age 27. The same age that claimed the lives of several famous musicians. He was young. Way too young. My father was not a musician and neither a famous person. Cancer doesn’t pick its victims. He was gone when I was young, and I learned what a funeral was because of him. I was 8 and half, old enough to miss him for a lifetime. Had he died before, I wouldn’t have memories. I would feel no pain. But I wouldn’t have a father in my life. And I had a father.
I had a father who was both firm and fun. Someone who would tell a joke before grounding me. That way, I wouldn’t feel so bad. Someone who kissed me on the forehead before I went to sleep. A habit which I passed on to my children. Someone who forced me to support the same football team he supported, and who explained things better than my mother. Do you know what I mean? A father like that is someone to be missed.
He never told me he was going to die. Even when he was lying on a hospital bed with tubes all over him, he didn’t say a word. My father made plans for the next year even though he knew he wouldn’t be around in the next month. Next year, we would go fishing, we would travel, we would visit places we’ve never been. Next year would be an amazing year. We lived the same dream.
I believe — actually I’m sure — he thought this should bring luck. He was a superstitious man. Thinking about the future was the way he found to keep hope alive. The bastard made me laugh until the very end. He knew about it. He didn’t tell me. He didn’t see me crying.
And suddenly, the next year was over before it even started.
My mother picked me up at school and we went to the hospital. The doctor told the news with all the sensitivity that doctors lose over the years. My mother cried. She did have a tiny bit of hope. As I said before, everyone does. I felt the blow. What does it mean? Wasn’t it just a regular disease, the kind of disease doctors heal with a shot? I hated you, dad. I felt betrayed. I screamed with anger in the hospital, until I realized my father was not around to ground me. I cried.
Then, my father was once again a father to me. With a shoebox under her arm, a nurse came by to comfort me. The box was full of sealed envelopes, with sentences where the address should be. I couldn’t understand exactly what was going on. The nurse then handed me a letter. The only letter that was out of the box.
“Your dad asked me to give you this letter. He spent the whole week writing these, and he wants you read it. Be strong.” the nurse said, holding me.
The envelope read WHEN I’M GONE. I opened it.
If you’re reading this, I’m dead. I’m sorry. I knew I was going to die.
I didn’t want to tell you what was going to happen, I didn’t want to see you crying. Well, it looks like I’ve made it. I think that a man who’s about to die has the right to act a little bit selfish.
Well, as you can see, I still have a lot to teach you. After all, you don’t know crap about anything. So I wrote these letters for you. You must not open them before the right moment, OK? This is our deal.
I love you. Take care of your mom. You’re the man of the house now.
PS: I didn’t write letters to your mom. She’s got my car.
He made me stop crying with his bad handwriting. Printing was not easy back then. His ugly writing, which I barely understood, made me feel calm. It made me smile. That’s how my father did things. Like the joke before the grounding.
That box became the most important thing in the world for me. I told my mother not to open it. Those letters were mine and no one else could read them. I knew all the life moments written on the envelopes by heart. But it took a while for these moments to happen. And I forgot about it.
Seven years later, after we moved to a new place, I had no idea where I put the box. I couldn’t remember it. And when we don’t remember something, we usually don’t care about it. If something goes lost in your memory, It doesn’t mean you lost it. It simply doesn’t exist anymore. It’s like change in the pockets of your trousers.
And so it happened. My teenage years and my mother’s new boyfriend triggered what my father had anticipated a long time before. My mother had several boyfriends, and I always understood it. She never married again. I don’t know why, but I like to believe that my father had been the love of her life. This boyfriend, however, was worthless. I thought she was humiliating herself by dating him. He had no respect for her. She deserved something a lot better than a guy she met at a bar.
I still remember the slap she gave me after I pronounced the word “bar”. I’ll admit that I deserved it. I learned that over the years. At the time, when my skin was still burning from the slap, I remembered the box and the letters. I remembered a specific letter, which read “WHEN YOU HAVE THE WORST FIGHT EVER WITH YOUR MOM”.
I ransacked my bedroom looking for it, which earned me another slap in the face. I found the box inside a suitcase lying on top of the wardrobe. The limbo. I looked through the letters, and realized that I had forgotten to open WHEN YOU HAVE YOUR FIRST KISS. I hated myself for doing that, and I decided that would be the next letter I’d open. WHEN YOU LOSE YOUR VIRGINITY came right next in the pack, a letter I was hoping to open really soon. Eventually I found what I was looking for.
Now apologize to her.
I don’t know why you’re fighting and I don’t know who’s right. But I know your mother. So a humble apology is the best way to get over this. I’m talking about a down-on-your-knees apology.
She’s your mother, kid. She loves you more than anything in this world. Do you know that she went through natural birth because someone told her that it would be the best for you? Have you ever seen a woman giving birth? Do you need a bigger proof of love than that?
Apologize. She’ll forgive you.
My father was not a great writer, he was just a bank clerk. But his words had a great impact on me. They were words that carried more wisdom than all of my 15 years of age at the time. (That wasn’t very hard to achieve, though).
I rushed to my mother’s room and opened the door. I was crying when she turned her head to look me in the eyes. She was also crying. I don’t remember what she yelled at me. Probably something like “What do you want?” What I do remember is that I walked towards her holding the letter my father wrote. I held her in my arms, while my hands crumpled the old paper. She hugged me, and we both stood in silence.
My father’s letter made her laugh a few minutes later. We made peace and talked a little about him. She told me about some of his most eccentric habits, such as eating salami with strawberries. Somehow, I felt he was sitting right next to us. Me, my mother and a piece of my father, a piece he left for us, on a piece of paper. It felt good.
It didn’t take long before I read WHEN YOU LOSE YOUR VIRGINITY
Don’t worry, it gets better with time. It always sucks the first time. Mine happened with an ugly woman…who was also a prostitute.
My biggest fear is that you’d ask your mother what virginity is after reading what’s on the letter. Or even worse, reading what I just wrote without knowing what jerking off is (you know what it is, right?). But that’s none of my business.
My father followed me through my entire life. He was with me, even though he was not near me. His words did what no one else could: they gave me strength to overcome countless challenging moments in my life. He would always find a way to put a smile on my face when things looked grim, or clear my mind during those angry moments.
WHEN YOU GET MARRIED made me feel very emotional. But not so much as WHEN YOU BECOME A FATHER.
Now you’ll understand what real love is, son. You’ll realize how much you love her, but real love is something you’ll feel for this little thing over there. I don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl. I’m just a corpse, I’m not a fortune teller.
Have fun. It’s a great thing. Time is gonna fly now, so make sure you’ll be around. Never miss a moment, they never come back. Change diapers, bathe the baby, be a role model to this child. I think you have what it takes to be an amazing father, just like me.
The most painful letter I read in my entire life was also the shortest letter my father wrote. While he wrote those four words, I believe he suffered just as much as I did living through that moment. It took a while, but eventually I had to open WHEN YOUR MOTHER IS GONE.
She is mine now.
A joke. A sad clown hiding his sadness with a smile on his makeup. It was the only letter that didn’t make me smile, but I could see the reason.
I always kept the deal I had made with my father. I never read letters before their time. With the exception of WHEN YOU REALIZE YOU’RE GAY. Since I never thought I’d have to open this one, I decided to read it. It was one of the funniest letters, by the way.
What can I say? I’m glad I’m dead.
Now, all joking aside, being half-dead made me realize that we care too much about things that don’t matter much. Do you think that changes anything, son?
Don’t be silly. Be happy.
I would always wait for the next moment, the next letter. The next lesson my father would teach me. It’s amazing what a 27 year old man can teach to an 85 year old senior like me.
Now that I am lying on a hospital bed, with tubes in my nose and my throat thanks to this damn cancer, I run my fingers on the faded paper of the only letter I didn’t open. The sentence WHEN YOUR TIME COMES is barely visible on the envelope.
I don’t want to open it. I’m scared. I don’t want to believe that my time is near. It’s a matter of hope, you know? No one believes they’re gonna die.
I take a deep breath, opening the envelope.
Hello, son. I hope you’re an old man now.
You know, this letter was the easiest to write, and the first I wrote. It was the letter that set me free from the pain of losing you. I think your mind becomes clearer when you’re this close to the end. It’s easier to talk about it.
In my last days here I thought about the life I had. I had a brief life, but a very happy one. I was your father and the husband of your mother. What else could I ask for? It gave me peace of mind. Now you do the same.
My advice for you: you don’t have to be afraid
PS: I miss you
Ich dachte, diesen Beitrag nie schreiben zu müssen, denn ich hielt Lemmy für unsterblich. Nun musste er doch gehen, der vielleicht grösste Rocker aller Zeiten.
Viele nannten ihn einen Rüpel, und es stimmt, er war ein Unangepasster, ein Mann aus Stahl, der Nazi-Kram und Uniformen sammelte (“In der Geschichte waren es immer die Bösen, die am besten angezogen waren”), und sehe Meinung stets pointiert zum Ausdruck brachte; aber die meisten Leute erkannten in ihm nicht den belesenen Gentleman, der er auch war. Er soll mal gesagt haben
Ich habe viele weibliche Freunde. Sie rufen mich an, wir gehen aus. Frauen sind interessanter als Männer. Mit Männern muss man über Sportautos reden. Ich möchte aber nicht mein Leben lang über verdammte Sportautos reden! Ich möchte wissen, ob du etwas weisst!
Kein Macho, sondern ein guter Zuhörer, ein Mann mit Tiefgang (und einigen Ecken und Kanten natürlich). Wenn man sich ein wenig mit ihm auseinandersetzt (Filmtipp: Lemmy), dann erkennt man seine wahre Grösse (Autobiographie lesen: White Line Fever).
Wer noch nie von Motörhead gehört hat, der muss sich Ace of Spades anhören, um zu verstehen, worum es geht.
Und zum Abschluss noch mal Lemmy im O-Ton:
Der Tod ist unvermeidlich, nicht wahr? Das wird einem bewusster, wenn man in mein Alter kommt. Es macht mir keine Sorgen. Ich bin bereit. Wenn ich sterben muss, dann bei dem, was ich am besten kann. Wenn ich morgen sterben würde, könnte ich mich nicht beklagen. Es war gut.
Helmut Schmidt hat heute die Bühne verlassen. Die letzten Tage meist ohne Bewusstsein, das Ende nahte. Gestern soll er sich nochmals (kurz) an den Schreibtisch gesetzt haben. Heute friedlich eingeschlafen.
Die Welt verliert einen klugen Mann.
Tschüss, Herr Schmidt.
p.s. Hier noch ein Zitat, das ihm fälschlicherweise (von derstandard.at) zugesprochen wurde, stammt aber von Bertrand Russell:
Das ist der ganze Jammer: die Dummen sind so sicher und die Gescheiten so voller Zweifel.
Ich bedaure, dass sie geht, aber auch dieser Entscheid ist konsequent und klar, wie alles, was sie tut.
Jürg Halter bringt es auf den Punkt (Quelle: Twitter):
Weshalb verachten alle SVP-Männer (inkl. Philipp Müller) Eveline Widmer-Schlumpf? – Weil sie ihnen fachlich und moralisch überlegen ist.
Häb der Sorg, Eveline.
Nicht nur habe ich das letzte Buch des Revoluzzers vom Genfersee gelesen (Ändere die Welt!), auch einen Dokumentarfilm habe ich gesehen. In beiden Zeitdokumenten sieht man diesen rastlosen Mann, der mit aller Kraft gegen die Ungerechtigkeit in der Welt vorzugehen versucht. Nicht immer zielführend, aber der Wille ist stets erkennbar. Am Ende des Dokumentarfilms spricht er einen Satz aus, der haften blieb:
Unruhe möchte ich bringen.
Das müsste unser aller Ziel sein. Vor allem den Mächtigen müssen wir Unruhe bringen, damit sie zusammenzucken auf ihren Thronen in ihren Palästen.
Letzte Woche war im Magazin ein Interview mit dem mir bisher unbekannten Autoren William Skidelsky abgedruckt, der ein Buch über Roger Federer geschrieben hat. Eine Hymne, natürlich. Auf die Frage, warum Federers Spiel derart mühelos aussieht, antwortete er:
Es ist ungeheuer schwer zu sagen, wodurch dieser aristokratische Eindruck des mühelosen Gelingens entsteht. Federer ist kräftig, aber nicht muskulös. Seine Bewegungen sind flüssig, nie gehetzt. Und dann ist da seine Körperspannung – er überspielt keinen Schwung, verliert nie die Balance, stolpert nie. Und mehr als andere dreht er den Kopf zum Ball. Auf Fotos erkennt man, dass er den Ball fast zärtlich betrachtet; er spielt erhobenen Hauptes, wie ein König.
Wie ein König.
Vielleicht gelingt dem König dieses Wochenende nochmals ein Grand Slam Triumph. Das wäre eine schöne Sache.
Zur Vorbereitung hier ein GOAT Video.
Daniel Norris, angehender Baseball-Star, Minimalist, Nonkonformist, lebt trotz 2 Mio. Dollar Vertrag in einem 1978 Volkswagen Westfalia von 800$ pro Monat.
In an interview with ESPN he was asked why he chooses to continue to live so conservatively. He asked back, “Who am I to deserve that? What have I really done?” He has also said, “I’m actually more comfortable being kind of poor,” as it helps him maintain a minimalist lifestyle and resist conformity.
Hier das ganz Berichtli. Lesenswert.