Mr D.Ping
Mr. D Ping (01-12)
Anyone who thought that after the 'doping regulations' would end with the young pigeon specialists, was therefore disappointed.
Names of 'destroyers' are still popular today.
They are accused, taunted, or otherwise harmed. But when someone told me to believe in a fifth column that uses the same drug (from America still) and keeps it carefully secret, I called it an irresponsibly naive simplification of unrealistic illusionists. Some learned words often help to get mouths shut.
Of course, if a few hold the crowd in a stranglehold, that's not good. Not even for those few, so the ‘destrolyers’.
For the Vae Victis (woe to the vanquished) often gives way to 'woe to the winners'. After visiting arguably the best player this side of the Great Wall of China, I now know for sure: Success doesn't shake you out of a bottle.
SUPER
Ping is his name. Douwe Ping. He had been on my wish list for a long time because I had heard a lot about him and not knowing him I experienced as a loss. Ping stands alone and knows it.
He does not look for enemies (and even less friends) but trying to beat him with pigeons is a losing battle in advance. His astonishing results sometimes arouse admiration and more often envy.
Even his name was abused and had to suffer.
One should know that the sport does him no financial harm and if you are called Ping, the link between your name and hobby is quickly laid.
When the fellow man has to be knocked down, some have a remarkable ingenuity. Because he no longer belongs to the youngest, he is also called 'The old Ping' instead of ‘Douwe’. Isn't it bland?
The fact that, as usual, he delivers the greatest spectacle with youngsters also gave rise to allusions to his name.
'With old man Ping, with old man you have to perform, then you have good ones.' It didn't do much for Douwe. "The toll of fame," he didn't smile without pitying the competition or what they thought they were.
In short, Ping is controversial. He is admired and reviled. But it is almost normal to see through colored glasses.
An 80-year-old man who completes the Marathon is called a 'scratchy elderly person'. If the same man taps a beautiful 18-year-old on the buttocks, he is an 'old pervert'. Nevertheless, it may be assumed that committing the act of love requires less physical effort than completing a marathon.
GOSSIP
Ping has highly activated the gossip circuit, as often happens when one rises too far above the rest. And since it is only given to the great to provoke envy and criticism, those gossips piqued my curiosity even more. I wanted to get to know him. Because smart as I think I am, I was guaranteed to find out if he really "had something" once I started talking to him. So one day I was on his doorstep. Even the nameplate had to pay for it, I concluded in amazement. An 'o' was made of the dot after the D. It said 'DoPING' then. I rang the bell with bated breath.
PING YOURSELF
Ping opened himself. The sight of the great star, the realization that I was standing face to face with Douwe Ping himself (the one and only) immediately made all self-confidence flow away from me. He looked friendly but that didn't deceive me. I know more friendly faces behind which hides a cunning malice.
'Hello… um Mr. Champion,' I stammered.
"Geez," Ping replied. 'Is it you?'
"Absolutely," I said. It was hard for me to say it wasn't me.
"How nice," Ping continued, "are you here for the paper?"
I nodded. "Recognition at last," he sighed. "If you don't give the press money, you won't be in the papers anytime soon, will you?" I didn't answer and looked around. Cups and trophies everywhere. I couldn't help whistling admiringly between my teeth. ' Beautiful isn't it?'
I nodded again. "You can see you're the best, Mr. Ping."
IMPRESSIVE
'Do you think?' he crowed. I immediately felt that we clicked.
That's exactly what I needed to make my visit a success, to get his secret out and it was now unstoppable. "It seems like all the cups from all over the world are gathered here, Mr. Ping." "How beautiful words," he pinged away a tear.
I studied him carefully. What immense wisdom must lie beneath his skull.
Would HE then help me out of the dream?
Would I find out now, on this day, how I too crush races?
I felt pearls of sweat on my forehead. In the living room the appearance was the same as in the hall. Cups and more cups.
Against one wall, however, stood a row of binders. I quickly read what it said: "Results." 'Pedigrees' 'Breeding Book' 'Agenda'.
But what was THERE? Those files in the corner? It almost took my breath away: 'Strictly secret' .
WHAT?
I looked at it and Ping looked at me. And... you felt it: In this room intellect reigned, outside disorder.
Ping looked around timidly, to make sure no one was paying attention to us, of course, bent over, put his hand to his mouth, lowered his voice to a whisper and said: 'Don't ask about that Schaerlaeckens, there are things I rather keep to me.' I was deeply moved. What a guy, there are not many like him. So sincere.
'I thought so,' I stammered, also wiping a tear, 'but my tragedy is that I immediately see through such things' and then cleared my throat and shouted:
'Actually, I came for that, Mr. Ping. There is talk and fanciers have a right to information. But not only do you seem smart, not only a great champion, you also seem like a fine person. You must help me. I promise not to talk to anyone about it if you reveal your secret to me.'
I urgently needed two things: A cigarette and another cigarette.
And now raising my voice: 'WHAT DO YOU GIVE TO YOUR PIGEONS? WHAT IS THE SECRET?'
Ping immediately responded: 'Young man, have a good loft, good pigeons and be a fancier! That's it and nothing else!'
But I'm not SO stupid. Because doing important and saying little? That way I know more! "Nothing else?"
DROP
Ping lit a cigar and happily blew smoke into a budgie cage. The poor little birds immediately started to wheeze like old men smoking a pack of heavy cigarettes a day. Ping smiled and continued.
'Nothing else? Schaerlaeckens, rascal that you are.
You have more brains than that head of yours suggests. What I just said was indeed a feint.' And now he whispered so softly that I could barely hear him: "You must drip them…" I jumped up in surprise.
"What about all those men who drip and still don't win a prize?" I asked. Ping shook his head dejectedly.
Tormented by despair at so much stupidity on my part?
"Tj, tj, tj," he clicked his tongue. "Son, you're not easy on me," he continued dejectedly. Apparently I was starting to bore him, he opened his mouth wide, yawned loudly, stretched his legs and closed his eyes.
I was speechless. Was I facing a genius, a fool or was he kidding me?
'WHEN AND WHAT SHOULD I DROP?' I almost screamed now. But Ping began to nod, even worse: He didn't hear me anymore.
Did I make that long drive for that? But I HAD to know, cast a wary glance at the sleeping Ping and crept to the bookshelf.
I grabbed the file that had been haunting my mind all the time, the one with "STRICT SECRET" written on it, and opened it.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. THE ORDNER WAS EMPTY!: EMPTY! I looked at Ping. He snored. But did I see that right? Did he have a grin on his face? Yes indeed, he had a grin on his face. I cursed and snuck out.
THE MORAL
I am often asked what one should do to become a better racer. 'Get better pigeons, keep them healthy and the rest is B S' is my answer then.
One guy didn't believe me. But the irony of fate is sometimes crushing: It was the same man who once was the terror of the region.
Moral? Don't believe in secrets that don't exist, dear readers. Miracle remedies? Stay off it, throw them out the window with a big bow. They are like a bubble that bursts immediately when you grab it. I know the average fancier.
He does everything he can to perform, but... All those remedies to play better work like shoe polish with which one tries to remove stains.
Some like to be secretive, I know.
What they do is give the people what they desire: THE SOUND OF HOLLOW VESSELS! The belief in secrets and remedies is as old as the sport itself. But is not man as such a source of misery for himself?
Advertise a wrinkle-removing ointment (with pictures of some breathtakingly feminine beauty) or a hair-growth agent that's "proven its effectiveness in America" and ensures success.
If you're a bit adept at setting up ads, you can even make your fellow man believe that his potency increases when he wears a checkered cap.
And who will benefit? The men who sell those miracle cures. But believe me, the buyers are all on their way to the same destination: THE DISILLUSION !!
EASILY EARNED
Money is nowhere easier to earn than in pigeon sport, I sometimes think. Manufacture some stuff and make up a good name for it. Terms like 'bio' 'speed' 'shock' and so on will work. And do not forget the word 'super'.
Hire someone who is good at advertising and most importantly...don't forget to mention some names of champions who have been giving your stuff for years and are now so kind as to give up their secret. Success assured.
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