“This is it for me travelling outside of
Australia."
Julian Wilson’s protest against Gabriel Medina after
their round three heat yesterday was all a little
behind-the-scenes, the machinations of the appeal
opaque to all but journalists sequestered in Tokyo.
Live mics snatched mutterings of “faaarrrrrk…ripped
off…faaarrrrrk” etc suggesting Wilson and the Australian camp’s
displeasure at the result.
Australia’s beef was Medina caught a scoring wave outside of the
contest area and therefore the hammer of righteousness should play
on his skull.Wilson, also sad his buzzer-beat wasn’t, as
it turned out, a buzzer beater.
Wilson confirmed the Aussie camp had launched a protest
following his loss, adding the team had footage of one of Medina’s
scoring waves being surfed outside of the competition
bounds.
But the protest was quickly shot down by officials, who told
the Aussie camp the interpretation of the ruling was simply that
athletes risked not having their wave scored if they ventured
beyond the competition bounds, if judges could not properly see
it.
The ruling only added to Wilson’s frustration, who minutes
earlier said he felt his last wave of the heat – an aerial with 30
seconds to go – was worth more than the 6.83 scored by the
judges.
“It was a set wave, doubled up, a critical section – me
watching (Medina) and Italo (Ferreira) getting massive scores for
those all year, I thought it was significantly better than anything
else I did, but it only turned out marginally (better) so I don’t
know how that worked,” Wilson said.
Wilson thought he had it with the aerial at the end, fist
pumping and clapping as he rode the white water back to the beach –
only to be greeted with disappointment from the judges.
The 32-year-old, who prior to the Olympics confirmed he
would take an indefinite break from the WSL tour to focus on
family, said he wasn’t sure what was next for his surfing
future.
“This is it for me travelling outside of Australia for a
while. I need to prioritise myself and my family and just be there
for my wife,” Wilson said.
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Son of poor Brazilian fisherman Italo
Ferreira wins historic first Olympic surfing gold medal in wild
typhoon surf, “It was our moment of truth!”
Reigning world champ Italo Ferreira adds Olympic
Gold to collection…
The Brazilian Italo Ferreira pushed hard against the
expected narrative of a Japanese surfing gold medal with a
triumphant and invulnerable campaign at Chiba’s Tsurigasaki
Beach, forty miles east of Tokyo.
Against Japanese-born, American-raised Kanoa Igarashi, a
twenty-three year old so flashy you could imagine him walking the
streets with a tiger on a leash, the reigning world champion played
an intelligent game to easily win gold, despite breaking his board
on his first wave.
Of all the gold medal contenders, Italo, who is twenty-seven,
was the only one that carries the perpetual ecstasy of the
looter.
It’s an old and hackneyed story, but in Italo’s case it’s true:
the key to the pro surfing kingdom wasn’t presented to him on an
upholstered velvet cushion via a dad that surfed, a benevolent
sponsor and a training program where men stand on the beach under
an umbrella filming the children for later review of technique.
Italo grew up in a fishing town in north-east Brazil, population
eight thousand, called Baia Formosa; a joint where the only paved
roads are the ones that lead into the village.
Italo’s pops would wander the beach and buy the catch of local
fisherman and make his profit, a slender one but enough to feed his
family, selling fish to restaurants.
His skinny son wanted to surf so Pops gave him the foam lid from
the box he kept his fish in.
Eight-year-old Italo was so small it just worked on Baia’s
little righthander.
Then, and in short order, an older friend who saw the boy’s love
of surfing gifted him a fibreglass surfboard, he won the first
contest he entered, moved onto regional events and then national,
trying to win “cars, motorbikes and tickets to fly overseas.”
The rest, the elevation to stardom, the world title, came
quickly.
And, now, gold medallist. The first in history.
Finals day analysis following shortly.
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Andino goes to throat before camera pulls
away.
Kolohe Andino makes largely forbidden
“throat slashing gesture” in victory over countryman John John
Florence: “It was like cutting the snake off the head!”
I had a feeling about San Clemente’s Kolohe
Andino coming into these Tokyo Olympics and surfing’s
grand debut. Had a feeling that all those so many years of
competition, all that American pride, was going to bake into a
very-difficult-to-deny succotash and look where we are, look what
we have.
Andino into the quarterfinals where he will be surfing against
Kanoa Igarashi. The wild battle of personal brands becoming truly
personal.
In order to reach the quarters, Andino had to undo countryman
John John Florence. Longtom, recounting the thrilling
exchange here, left out was that Andino made a largely
forbidden “neck slash gesture” after stomping his first air.
Running his hand along his throat as if to decapitate, spilling
much blood, etc.
Performing the move garners a $25,000 penalty in the National
Basketball Association, is banned by the National Football
Association and not appreciated by Major League Baseball
purists.
Andino, riding the moment, did not care for the puritanical
though, and told USA Today, “It was like cutting the snake off the
head in the first 10 seconds. I was just overwhelmed with emotions
and that’s what I ended up doing.”
Countryman Florence did not see the throat slash nor did he take
it to heart, telling the outlet, “I just heard the score and I was
like, “Oh my gosh, what did he do?'”
Andino v. Igarashi in mere hours.
Who you got?
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Surfing goes to the Olympics, day two
analysis: “The muddy mess and incomprehensible scoring will not
provide succour to ELO’s fevered dream of an Olympic-led surfing
boom”
Not what the Duke had in mind when he envisioned
the Sport of Kings as an Olympic sport.
I could have sworn, after Day One, that today was going
to be a no-name bloodbath, and it did in the end up being
that way.
But not at first as Steph Gilmore, then Johanna Defay, were
bundled out of the Olympics in very shitty
three-to-four-foot-gurgled-out beachbreak by Bianca Buitendag and
Yolanda Hopkins respectively. Potential super-star Ella Williams
went early, Tati got knocked and from there it was close to a
complete shut-out of the off-tour underdogs.
The two-point plus spread that we identified yesterday as the
key metric held true for the most part. The Peruvian men provided
the sternest resistance of the roughies, with Miguel Tudela just
getting pipped by local Hiroto Ohhara (fellow Pipe stud, I think?)
and Lucca Mesinas grafting a slim win against Leo Fioravanti.
It was a sloppy, muddy mess of a lineup, I feel quite sure not
what the Duke had in mind when he envisioned the Sport of Kings as
an Olympic sport.
Nonetheless, a bit of a revelation for the men’s commentary
having the non-surfing Englishman in the booth with Barton. He
quickly indentified the key ingredients of surfing as sport:
character, match-ups, skill and reality.
Just such a refreshing relief after the drinking from a firehose
rainbows and unicorns positivity of Turpel and crew. Seems when you
take pro surfing out of the hands of the WSL and play it like a
true sport with an independent commentary it comes out OK.
Maybe lessons learned for the next billionaire who hates space
travel and wants an expensive toy to play with.
The muddy mess and incomprehensible scoring will not provide
succour to ELO’s fevered dream of an Olympic led surfing boom.
It’s already happened, for one.
For two, VALS don’t give a fuck about competition.
Even the architect of Olympic surfing ISA Prez Fernando Aguerre
is savvy enough to realise that, claiming in a media interview this
week that, “We (surfers) exist outside of competitions. You can’t
be a boxer or a fencer if you don’t box or do fencing against
somebody. But everyone can be a surfer without competing. This is a
sport you do on your own.”
And to drop a final unflushable turd into the Olympic Wavepool
dream, he then took an aggressive, egalitarian, pro-ocean stance:
“The ocean is free. It doesn’t belong to anyone. No one can buy it.
Nobody can sell it. Nobody can charge you. You can be Bill Gates’
son or the janitor’s son, black or white, gay or straight, male or
female, young or old, fat or skinny. Nobody cares. The ocean
doesn’t care.”
It does care a little bit. But who’s counting.
The rest of the mainstream press coverage involved the typical
pro surfer whining about how negative stereotypes were holding the
sport back. Which is a complete load of cock and bull.
Obama, Zuck, Thor and his bro that was married to Miley Cyrus,
that cunt from Google who keeps a superyacht moored in the
Mamanucas near Cloudbreak etc etc. The biggest outdated stereotype
about surfing is that outdated stereotypes still exist. The mass
market has had fifty years of exposure to pro surfing and knocked
it back everytime.
It just don’t appeal.
Despite crap surf, the match-ups today did appeal to the
hard-core. And no offence to the women, but there was no real heat
in the exchanges until Andino and JJF hit the water for the second
heat of round three men’s.
JJF on the maroon Dark Arts, which stands accused of having
unreliable handling and a low make rate on airs and completions.
Andino on a stock PU/PE Mayhem driver. Neither men making
concessions to injury with visible strapping.
Brother opened the heat in emphatic fashion with a whipped and
lofted slob reverse, full rotation. Seven and a half.
He waved his arms frantically to hear the score again. Not for
information but as as psychological ploy to rattle JJF.
And, John did look rattled. The completions failed to
materialise. The rail game looked solid but the final turns would
not stick, adding fuel to the flame that carbon construction has
too much of a rigid flex modulus, making it unforgiving for bumpy
surf.
Brother was pumped by the judges on a very handy back-up ride
that should have beem a mid-five. Judged not to have completed the
final air and given a 2.7. He did not crack.
Twelve to go, JJF failed to stick an air. Nine to go, he failed
again.
Four-and-a-half minutes to go, Brother nails a slick slash and air
combo for a 6.33. 14.33 plays 8.93 with three on the clock.
The tension causes an intense physical reaction in me. My
fingers are twitching and spiders are crawling all over the back of
my neck. I want Brother to win so bad. John launches a tail-high
air with a weird, fluffy landing.
It needs an 8.07. I think it’s a six. Will judges crack? They
highball it a 6.77.
Ninety seconds takes an eternity. Brother catches a wave, gives
JJF the dancefloor with twenty seconds remaining. He does not catch
a wave. JJF exits without a medal. He will be thirty-two at the
next Olympics, in his prime as a Teahupoo surfer, assuming no
injury.
Medina starts his heat the exact same way. With a clean landed
air for a mid seven. Jules responds with a two-turn combo. Slick,
non-threatening, house building.
Medina falls and falls and falls, then falls again. He’s miles
up the beach from Wilson, close to the next jetty.
Who has the highest completion rate in the air? Has to be
Medina.
Failure seems not to bother a hair on his head.
Wilson stomps a single air. Takes a narrow lead with twenty to
go.
It’s tight with a third of the heat down. Wilson 11.84, Medina
10.10.
Fifteen to go, tension once more rises.
Each man seems to revert back to previous, more primal stages of
their surfing existence. Wilson as a kid surfing onshore slop at
Coolum and Medina running thousands of hours in the closeouts of
Maresias. Each in their own little world now, deciphering the
confused patterns of mixed windswell in the Olympic Games.
Medina catches a wave. Snaps hard and runs a heavy roof-top
float in the barrage of the shoredump. It’s a high six. Team Wilson
will call it an egregious over-score.
The Private Idaho ends. With the lead Medina smothers Wilson,
living all over him with ten to go. Too early to play total
defence, I think. A risky, finely calibrated strategy that offers
the maximum potential for a Medina interference call as he pushes
the limit of heavy D.
Ninety seconds, “he’s living all over me” thought the Aussie
crowd, inhabiting the psyche of Julian Wilson’s last moments as a
professional competitive surfer.
Forty seconds. Wilson sells Medina on a block, the first wave he
has caught in ten minutes.
Twenty seconds, Wilson gets his wave, hits it, launches a clean
spin, greased landing.
God, he could have that, I thought. Ice veined judges lowballed
a 6.83.
Wilson looked relieved. His team on the beach, ropeable.
Ripped off?
The spread flatters Medina, but the result: correct.
Who can beat him at an air-wind beachie?
Two guys. Italo, still going and the other: the best guy in the
world in beachbreak surf, Filipe Toledo, did not make the cut.
For convicts, Our Sally and O-Dog remain in medal
contention.
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InStyle magazine boldly declares that the
world is on the cusp of a “Billabong renaissance” after surfing’s
grand Olympic debut!
I woke up this morning in a happy haze. Last
night, sitting on an outdoor patio whilst the rain gently fell, I
watched Jagger Eaton take Olympic bronze in men’s street
skateboarding. Eaton is family and watching him rise to his moment,
on a world-sized stage, was electric and it was fun.
So fun, in fact, that I missed surfing’s grand Olympic debut. At
some point, during the skate preliminaries, a cell phone was handed
my way streaming the show. I watched for a moment, it looked like
surfing, then went back to the big screen and the nollie half-cab
backside smiths.
The piece describes how surf-saturated society was in the late
1990s with Blue Crush and The OC and Maui Fever etc. etc. but then
how it all faded but now, thanks to the Olympics, its all coming
back.
Boxy Vans tees and Roxy surf shorts and sun-streaks in hair and
things.