I woke up at 5:30 in the morning with only an hour sleep. No, it's not that I'm too excited for my first day of class, but it was because my sleeping habit went topsy-turvy. My brother often teased with this and said I could pass as a Call Center Agent and immediately demoted me to a night-shift lady guard. He also said we no longer needed our three dogs for I could do the job without the need to buy Pedigree. One morning, (although it was already quarter past twelve) he greeted me good morning (which he rarely did!). I thought he finally realized his meanness and decided to be nice as his Ney Year's resolution. He was watching "Underworld" then, back to back with "The Queen of the Damned" on dvd. He told me he would no longer call me the "lady guard of the house" ever again. I felt like giving him a hug and offered feeding his African love birds. I was happy that he realized the tag didn't suit me just because I stayed so late until the next morning. However, in the middle of watching movie, he said he finally knew what title really suit my lifestyle: The Vamp, he said. I smiled at him and thought he was only flattering me, with Kate Beckinsale who was seductive in the Underworld and Alliyah, hot in the Queen of the Damned all pictured in my head. Finally, I thought my brother was making sense. I was already planning to feed the birds for the entire week. But not until he said that "Vamp" was short for "Vampire". I must really needed some sleep to ever think that my brother learn how to be nice.
It was still 5:30 in the morning anyway, all quiet and cold (nights are colder). Unfortunately, we didn't have a hot and cold shower (common abodes I've known never had one, so maybe it's not that all unfortunate), so I had to boil water in the kettle for my morning bath. Before the sun stretched out its sun rays, I was already set and prepared to attend my morning class at 8 o'clock. It was already 6:30 in my watch. Living in Cavite required me to allot one hour and a half to two hours going to La Salle. The people around the house sleep in during weekends so it was still all quiet when I left. I closed the gate behind me and strode off. The street was still empty of young kids who found the long stretch of Onyx Street as playground for their childhood games of throwballs, hopscotch and skipping rope. A young boy on a bicycle, peddling his hot pandesal, passed me by as he squeezed a horn he was holding near the break. It only took seven minutes, by feet, to reach the subdivision gate, and the main road, another three. A guardhouse was built in the middle of the road before the bright yellow painted gate, framing wires of fence like a honeycomb. I bumped into my former tennis coach the moment I turned right in the corner. I learned tennis many years ago. I once wished of becoming the Sharapova of the Philippines or break records like the legendary Williams sisters. But because the hours I should spend training must be the hours spent earning, I left te tennis court before I even made it to the nearest Barangay Open.
We stood in the street for a little while. We exchanged how are yous and post holiday greetings. He was stil wearing that same genial smile (when off the court) that formed lines in the corner of his eyes. Although his hair had turned all white, his good posture and fit body were undeniably the product of all those single back hand and volley. He used to lend me his spare tennis racquet when I was learning the basics; how to hit the ball, at least, at the center of the racquet. A week after continuous practice, I bought a 'Head', similar to Agassis's by half the price. And like cell phones, new models came out, and they came out fast, making mine outdated if not obsolete, nonetheless, served the purpose.
With all the things he taught me, from foot work to proper swing, one thing that stuck in me was to keep my eyes on the ball. One training day would not be complete without him telling me this six words - keep your eye on the ball- in a manner where you can see veins sticking out his neck.
Now, I'm no longer bothered by the aching sore of tennis elbow and my muscle memory had forgotten the right swing, but I still kept one lesson when I left the tennis court because I chose to pursue a different match.
It is also a challenging pursuit, takes practice without a net and requires the same discipline of an athlethe. My opponent is myself and my fear of a blank page. My racquet is my pen, lighter in the hand, yet as powerful as winning aces of Williams and Sharapova combined.
It was still 5:30 in the morning anyway, all quiet and cold (nights are colder). Unfortunately, we didn't have a hot and cold shower (common abodes I've known never had one, so maybe it's not that all unfortunate), so I had to boil water in the kettle for my morning bath. Before the sun stretched out its sun rays, I was already set and prepared to attend my morning class at 8 o'clock. It was already 6:30 in my watch. Living in Cavite required me to allot one hour and a half to two hours going to La Salle. The people around the house sleep in during weekends so it was still all quiet when I left. I closed the gate behind me and strode off. The street was still empty of young kids who found the long stretch of Onyx Street as playground for their childhood games of throwballs, hopscotch and skipping rope. A young boy on a bicycle, peddling his hot pandesal, passed me by as he squeezed a horn he was holding near the break. It only took seven minutes, by feet, to reach the subdivision gate, and the main road, another three. A guardhouse was built in the middle of the road before the bright yellow painted gate, framing wires of fence like a honeycomb. I bumped into my former tennis coach the moment I turned right in the corner. I learned tennis many years ago. I once wished of becoming the Sharapova of the Philippines or break records like the legendary Williams sisters. But because the hours I should spend training must be the hours spent earning, I left te tennis court before I even made it to the nearest Barangay Open.
We stood in the street for a little while. We exchanged how are yous and post holiday greetings. He was stil wearing that same genial smile (when off the court) that formed lines in the corner of his eyes. Although his hair had turned all white, his good posture and fit body were undeniably the product of all those single back hand and volley. He used to lend me his spare tennis racquet when I was learning the basics; how to hit the ball, at least, at the center of the racquet. A week after continuous practice, I bought a 'Head', similar to Agassis's by half the price. And like cell phones, new models came out, and they came out fast, making mine outdated if not obsolete, nonetheless, served the purpose.
With all the things he taught me, from foot work to proper swing, one thing that stuck in me was to keep my eyes on the ball. One training day would not be complete without him telling me this six words - keep your eye on the ball- in a manner where you can see veins sticking out his neck.
Now, I'm no longer bothered by the aching sore of tennis elbow and my muscle memory had forgotten the right swing, but I still kept one lesson when I left the tennis court because I chose to pursue a different match.
It is also a challenging pursuit, takes practice without a net and requires the same discipline of an athlethe. My opponent is myself and my fear of a blank page. My racquet is my pen, lighter in the hand, yet as powerful as winning aces of Williams and Sharapova combined.
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