They brought down the curtains on the National Stadium on Saturday.
And like the many folks whose stories have been run in the press, I too have my own attachment to the place. There were the NDPs attended, the many Malaysia Cup matches watched and witnessed. But most of all, it is to the track that my memories are tied.
Back when it took more than a dash across the road to make me start to huff and puff, the Track & Field Nationals held at the National Stadium was the highlight of our calendar. Those 3 weeks tearing up the track. It was what we trained for the year round.
Too many memories have been locked up in that place: The early treks up to the stands in the crisp morning air as we prepared for the heats. The many bananas we consumed. The cold walk past the air conditioned offices at the ground level as we walked to the starting line. The familiar crunch of spikes on the stone-washed floor as we hobbled around on our heels keeping warm, stretching. The gunshot, the jostling, the pounding of feet. The blessed clang of the bell which signalled the last lap. The sweet relief of crossing the line.
And more than these, the moments spent with friends: Clattering down the wooden benches to the railing to yell ourselves hoarse, urging, willing one another to go faster, further, higher. Running around the bleaches to the different sections so that we would be heard. Warming up just inside the entrance gates, near the stairs, outside the toilets. Hanging around to provide support as we stretched and silently got ready, and lent a helping hand with the stretching when needed. Scrutinising the scoreboards in twos and threes each day, trying to work out how many points stood between us and the championship. And also, crossing the road for a hearty meal followed by Daytona at the arcade.
So many memories. Like how a group of my mates created a different chant/cheer each time I came round on the tedious 7.5 round run (I was running 3,000m), and how that lifted my spirits. And the time when a girl behind me tripped, and even though I don’t remember having tripped her, I turned around, in the middle of the race, to call out an apologetic “sorry” before continuing. The moment on the podium — how sweet that felt. And how on the last day of the championships, with most of the school body in attendance, I got on a friend’s back and she piggy-backed me on the stadium field as I reached to wave our flag higher than the rest.
That place, where it all happened, will be gone soon, wiped away. Yet another one of the spots of my youth, where I would have liked to have brought our kids (when we eventually have any) to tell them about how Mummy was fit once, point out the spots where we used to sit, run and play, to show them how much had changed and also stayed the same, gone.
I’m too sentimental for my own good, and for this land. There’s just no space or time for nostalgia in this place. Nope. We march in this land only to the beat of progress.
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