I had reached the semi-finals. Competition had been fierce, some would say questionable, but I had prevailed! My coach was suggesting a legal challenge against the Belgium team, for ‘conduct unbecoming’, but I remained quite euphoric and disinterested. I was in the Round of Eight, and to be honest, any minor dispute about my competitors had just fallen off my radar!
Back at the digs we were about to open the second bottle of Dom. I was still up in the clouds, now possibly even a little drunk, but the mood in the suite was upbeat. Kenji still reckoned the Belgium’s made a move after ‘Time’ was called, but Yoko sided with me, arguing the effort to pursue the claim would redirect our energies away from the main prize. She won the discussion and the next bottle was providing a diversionary influence of its own! She and I fell into bed sometime after three.
oko’s phone was ringing incessantly. Kenji San was on the line demanding to know where we were. The bedside clock showed it was just past noon! We did a collective flurry and were in an Uber surging towards the pavilion within the hour.
But I still needed quiet time before the comp recommenced. We found the bathrooms and I went through my mental routines: eyes closed, mind open, visualization on peak activation. I did my finger dexterity routines as I moved mental capacities into top gear.
I was wearing my mossy green tartan leotards underneath camellia pink shorts, and a canary-yellow top. Experience had shown that dazzling the opposition with outrageous colour delivered tangible advantage.
I’d also applied a gloss to my bald pate – it was reflecting the overhead lighting exquisitely. I tested its’ distractive power on Yoko, and as her face was momentarily floodlit, she gave me the thumbs up.
I emerged into the auditorium focussed, mentally agile, and ready to tackle what I had been told was the Dutch behemoth. She had won three of the past four competitions, and was favoured again this year.
But I was ready. Competition tables had been reduced to just four central placements and I walked towards the horizontal tricolour of my Dutch-flagged competitor. She stood, hand outstretched, holding a small bunch of tulips. I was momentarily confused! What was she playing at? Was that a smile or a sneer? I accepted the posy and moved to take up my seat at the other end of our table.
“Three minutes” announced the PA. I wiped my sweaty palms on my leggings. Our boxes were sealed, but each of the four pairs of competitors faced 1000 pieces of what was going to be a right royal challenge – a huge milky, Turneresque sky above a mirror-flat ocean expanse, a tiny, distractive red, white and blue ship, vaguely evident just off centre!
‘Thirty Seconds … ten, nine, eight, seven – please open your boxes.’ The finals of the International Jigsaw Association’s tournament started. Eight competitors systematically considered their pieces.