Ahhh old boys! That misnomer. And not a pretty sight, literally. Blank pates, bleached hair, bloated bellies, blurry eyes and beat-up teeth, we'd never be mistaken for make-believe male models. But we're real people and mortal mates, friends, fellows, buddies, boys and babes, who, by some twist of fate and fortune, share a common life-shaping experience of going to the same school. Our great and proud school.
Well, it's the annual Old Boys Weekends (OBW) on 16 - 17 July. Two days of communal reunion, it's time for sharing, reflecting, renewing, and paying back and forward. I'm not sure whether it's the 14th or 15th OBW, but I'm sure it's my first. Such a shame. I've been living quietly with this poetic pain and guilt of leaving the OBWs on the backburner. Four times is bad enough, but 14 times? It borders on criminal. Weekends and only once a year, even a triple heart bypass seems a poor excuse. After eight glorious years in the school, annual homecoming and a tip or two is the minimum payback. The occasional attacks of conscience just get louder whenever an old boy comes back with sad stories of toilets and tiles. Or tales of the more grateful sons who've launched noble projects to lift dear school, like giving free add maths tuition. (Admittedly the mere mention of add maths gave me another kind of attack). Azlan's constant loan-shark-level harassment paid off when I finally relented. Nothing new here. He's been hounding me and my laggard ways since he's made the head-boy in 1973. A head-boy is always a head-boy, with or without hair on the head.
Tiger Lane was damp and dark as we veered off Jalan Tambun at the Wak junction. It's dinner time when we (I was with Engku Aziz, a fellow old boy, not the more famous namesake) showed up at the iconic main gate. The old, oblong classrooms building was barely visible, but our poor eyesight couldn't miss the well-lit canopies, a make-shift stage and round tables all nicely set up on the field next to the former Green House. Not exactly a Hilton ballroom, but it's more spacious, and the all-round festive air was unmistakable. We saw Mat Amin Mahmud looking all lost without love, and he jumped with joy on seeing us. Familiar faces, finally. We're received by some of the best-looking current students who made us walk red carpet style to the dining area. On the way we'd to squeeze in between tables already packed with older old boys, most, like me, had physically evolved beyond recognition. Along the way we saw Azlan, Che Wan and Yuzer all comfortably caught in the company of 'strangers'. We found an empty table next to two groups of younger and loud old boys. The crowd was building up quite fast and soon we're surrounded by a sea of young old boys, old old boys and very old old boys, chattering away, cheering for no reason, or just exchanging glances. More than 500 old boys, according to the organisers, and a record turnout. We're about to settle down when Yahya Daud joined in. All three of us immediately mistook him for somebody else. Cikgu Ya was fit and fluttering, and he's apparently a bit of a celebrity here. You'd still see him regularly on the school track and field like the old days, training the school hurdlers into champions. A grandfather doing hurdles? Why not. Mat Amin was in his element, with trademark tirade and thoughts. Seriously it's hard to find anybody, old or new, half as literate and informed as him. Food was good, better than what Amri and the gang used to feed us 40 years ago. Time simply flew, and we're among the last to retreat. I called the hotel only to discover that they'd just cancelled my booking.
We're down at the school football field the next morning (Sunday) to watch the Under 14 football final between Blue House and Red House and the Under 16 final between Blue and Black. This was actually the culmination of the Striking Star project organized by Yuzer. My House in both finals? There's no better time to be back. With classmates Azlan, Yahya Daud, Rosli Mohd, Hamid, Che Wan, Engku Aziz prancing around, and Yuzer, of course, running the show, it's like PE time, only without the kindly Mr Lee Kum Choon to push and time us And there's Amran, a senior from Black House whom I'd not met for 40 years. 40 years and we still got each others' full names right. If I needed one more reason to be here, this had to be it. I found a chair right behind the touchline, next to Fadzil Man, a Blue House dorm mate, now a practising psychiatrist. We'd not met for 20 over years. One look at my skinhead and rundown image, he concluded that I was a Black Panther (the notorious Black militants of the Woodstock era). I'd been a dead ringer for dead kings and Hollywood has-beens, and now a Black firebrand. Dr Fadzil was completely casual: deep, Dutch orange pants and colourful, psychedelic belt (another Woodstock leftover). I didn't quite get his flashy fashion sense. I mean, he's the psychiatrist, not the patient. What had become of the boy with the beautiful mind? Male model? Only when he started talking golf with Hamid, the little mystery was unravelled. John Daly and all. Golfers get away with anything.
Now back to the finals. After a month of non-stop breathless World Cup football, you'd naturally be itching for EPL or La Liga, not under-age football. Blue versus Black Under-16 right after Spain versus Holland? Not a smooth transition surely. But the beautiful game is beautiful and sexy at any level. And, wait, this one was certainly different and even personal. Watching the Blue House boys running, passing and falling, I almost choked with deep deja vu. It's like watching a replay of my younger self playing on this very field ages ago. I used to play football for Blue House, running, passing and falling, just like these boys, only better! And how we beat the daylights out of Black boys. You ask Bain, Hamid or McGoing. Don't ask Basir. He, he. The Principal (an old boy and an old boy's brother) and Datuk Nasir, the new Old Boys President (an old boy, of course) were gracious enough to give away trophies and goodies. Grandpa Yahya Daud gladly received the trophy for Black House, prompting Che Wan to chuckle "Ini Under-16 ka Under -60?". Good one, Che Wan.
OBW 2011. Just can't wait.
Well, it's the annual Old Boys Weekends (OBW) on 16 - 17 July. Two days of communal reunion, it's time for sharing, reflecting, renewing, and paying back and forward. I'm not sure whether it's the 14th or 15th OBW, but I'm sure it's my first. Such a shame. I've been living quietly with this poetic pain and guilt of leaving the OBWs on the backburner. Four times is bad enough, but 14 times? It borders on criminal. Weekends and only once a year, even a triple heart bypass seems a poor excuse. After eight glorious years in the school, annual homecoming and a tip or two is the minimum payback. The occasional attacks of conscience just get louder whenever an old boy comes back with sad stories of toilets and tiles. Or tales of the more grateful sons who've launched noble projects to lift dear school, like giving free add maths tuition. (Admittedly the mere mention of add maths gave me another kind of attack). Azlan's constant loan-shark-level harassment paid off when I finally relented. Nothing new here. He's been hounding me and my laggard ways since he's made the head-boy in 1973. A head-boy is always a head-boy, with or without hair on the head.
Tiger Lane was damp and dark as we veered off Jalan Tambun at the Wak junction. It's dinner time when we (I was with Engku Aziz, a fellow old boy, not the more famous namesake) showed up at the iconic main gate. The old, oblong classrooms building was barely visible, but our poor eyesight couldn't miss the well-lit canopies, a make-shift stage and round tables all nicely set up on the field next to the former Green House. Not exactly a Hilton ballroom, but it's more spacious, and the all-round festive air was unmistakable. We saw Mat Amin Mahmud looking all lost without love, and he jumped with joy on seeing us. Familiar faces, finally. We're received by some of the best-looking current students who made us walk red carpet style to the dining area. On the way we'd to squeeze in between tables already packed with older old boys, most, like me, had physically evolved beyond recognition. Along the way we saw Azlan, Che Wan and Yuzer all comfortably caught in the company of 'strangers'. We found an empty table next to two groups of younger and loud old boys. The crowd was building up quite fast and soon we're surrounded by a sea of young old boys, old old boys and very old old boys, chattering away, cheering for no reason, or just exchanging glances. More than 500 old boys, according to the organisers, and a record turnout. We're about to settle down when Yahya Daud joined in. All three of us immediately mistook him for somebody else. Cikgu Ya was fit and fluttering, and he's apparently a bit of a celebrity here. You'd still see him regularly on the school track and field like the old days, training the school hurdlers into champions. A grandfather doing hurdles? Why not. Mat Amin was in his element, with trademark tirade and thoughts. Seriously it's hard to find anybody, old or new, half as literate and informed as him. Food was good, better than what Amri and the gang used to feed us 40 years ago. Time simply flew, and we're among the last to retreat. I called the hotel only to discover that they'd just cancelled my booking.
We're down at the school football field the next morning (Sunday) to watch the Under 14 football final between Blue House and Red House and the Under 16 final between Blue and Black. This was actually the culmination of the Striking Star project organized by Yuzer. My House in both finals? There's no better time to be back. With classmates Azlan, Yahya Daud, Rosli Mohd, Hamid, Che Wan, Engku Aziz prancing around, and Yuzer, of course, running the show, it's like PE time, only without the kindly Mr Lee Kum Choon to push and time us And there's Amran, a senior from Black House whom I'd not met for 40 years. 40 years and we still got each others' full names right. If I needed one more reason to be here, this had to be it. I found a chair right behind the touchline, next to Fadzil Man, a Blue House dorm mate, now a practising psychiatrist. We'd not met for 20 over years. One look at my skinhead and rundown image, he concluded that I was a Black Panther (the notorious Black militants of the Woodstock era). I'd been a dead ringer for dead kings and Hollywood has-beens, and now a Black firebrand. Dr Fadzil was completely casual: deep, Dutch orange pants and colourful, psychedelic belt (another Woodstock leftover). I didn't quite get his flashy fashion sense. I mean, he's the psychiatrist, not the patient. What had become of the boy with the beautiful mind? Male model? Only when he started talking golf with Hamid, the little mystery was unravelled. John Daly and all. Golfers get away with anything.
Now back to the finals. After a month of non-stop breathless World Cup football, you'd naturally be itching for EPL or La Liga, not under-age football. Blue versus Black Under-16 right after Spain versus Holland? Not a smooth transition surely. But the beautiful game is beautiful and sexy at any level. And, wait, this one was certainly different and even personal. Watching the Blue House boys running, passing and falling, I almost choked with deep deja vu. It's like watching a replay of my younger self playing on this very field ages ago. I used to play football for Blue House, running, passing and falling, just like these boys, only better! And how we beat the daylights out of Black boys. You ask Bain, Hamid or McGoing. Don't ask Basir. He, he. The Principal (an old boy and an old boy's brother) and Datuk Nasir, the new Old Boys President (an old boy, of course) were gracious enough to give away trophies and goodies. Grandpa Yahya Daud gladly received the trophy for Black House, prompting Che Wan to chuckle "Ini Under-16 ka Under -60?". Good one, Che Wan.
OBW 2011. Just can't wait.
You should post the school song here.
ReplyDeleteDah lupa lirik lagu tu. Lagu Ahmad Jais boleh la.
ReplyDelete