The night time Hong Kong winterness begins with a charmless descent from the warm car. A faster rush of freezer air from over the Chinese border snaps flapping corner flags and loose jackets. Another pummel dominates the open, bleakly floodlit field and even the curls of long, tough pitch grass flutter and cower in its wake. Above, the normal pink clouds have been vacuumed into a featureless emptyness. All but Fei Lian* slumber: he empties out his bag of wind and nothing on earth can stop him.
No time for slow thoughts, training begins in run, skip, bend, throw, kick, tackle bags – movements that beat the heart and push the breath; all steam lost on the gale. One hour, then a rest, then another hour, minute-by-minute the frost-touched knife of the north cuts the skin, trimming all heat to the bone. They say there's snow in Guangzhou!
As static pinned victims of medusa, rigid New Territories parents watch on the sidelines, diligently waiting. "Come on!" the explosive encouragement, generating energy in the giver as well as receiver, and hurry on the slow marching end. How can there be this much searing chill in a few honest hours of a single night?
Now the debrief – fixtures, placings and awards, all moronically await the final, final, final... but then there's extra chit-chat about school and ideas for the next night out. In the mad rush home cold heads and cold hands instinctively find the vents, heater on full blast. Showered and pyjamad, good sleeps await.
*Fei Lian – the Chinese god of wind
Comments