In tennis it was hot as if they had put Seville to boil, the sun fell flat on my bald head and for a moment I saw the melanomas having a little party up there
I sneaked into tennis yesterday. Before the custodians of moral straightness crucify me, you should know the curious ticket distribution system that the Tokyo 2020 organization manages. In addition to having the accreditation, you must previously reserve a place online. Only when it is approved can you access the corresponding headquarters. But that only works for the sports that God does not want to go to, such as dressage or hockey, because for fetén (athletics, swimming, gymnastics and tennis) you have to request a special ticket that maybe they will give it to you or the best not.
They didn’t give us a tennis ticket yesterday, but a lot of Spaniards played and we had to try to sneak in. In these cases, one must put on a face of security and determination, as if one were a general about to invade Poland. The porters smell fear right away, even before the dogs, and as soon as they see someone hesitate, they start asking for papers and certificates. I entered with a firm step and a disciplining gesture: I showed the accreditation, put the backpack in the scanner, said ‘arigato’ to a Japanese in military dress and we even bowed each other. With this bow you have to be careful because the Japanese never know when to stop, they go into a loop and in a western neck that can cause severe cervical sprains.
Once inside, I realized that they had almost better arrested me and taken me to the barracks. It was hot as if they had put Seville to boil. The sun fell flat on my bald head and for a moment I saw the melanomas having a little party up there, reproducing themselves happily, while I regretted not having gone to Turkey to get my hair. I started to follow the game that Carreño and a certain Koepfer were playing, a German, so dripping that he seemed to be liquefying. I found the half shadow of a railing and there I levered myself. I held on until the break and came out behind the German, who apparently had a grip and was looking for the toilet, which was fifty meters away, looking anguished. The buddy stuck all the way spitting: to the track, to the ground, to the fences …, and it struck me as the strange habit that some professional athletes have of dispelling their fluids without regard. Your mothers would have to tell you something, Mrs. Koepfer, if you’re reading me.