Le tennis, Federer, Nadal, Sampras, Agassi et les autres...

Dame Acro · 29/11/09/16/37/58

Juste un petit topic histoire d'énumérer les liens streaming. Ils seront probablement disponibles la saison prochaine.

Par les voies légales il y a évidemment www.bet365.com
Ca fonctionne toujours et la qualité est excellente. Seul défaut : l'écran ne peut pas être agrandi et si on a une connexion moyenne, ça rame souvent.
Y a aussi les sites comme Betclic, Bwin ou Betfair.

Pêle-mêle, les sites qui proposent des liens plus ou moins bons :
www.fromsport.com
www.free-tv.dk/live_sports_links.html
www.atdhe.net
www.channelsurfing.net
www7.livetv.ru/fr/

Si c'est la galère et que ces sites ne proposent rien, il faut faire un tour sur http://menstennisforums.com
Dans la section "general messages", il y a souvent des sujets "live streams" en tête de liste qui sont mis à jour quotidiennement.
_________________
"De mon temps, on ne râpait que les carottes, mais aujourd'hui ils rappent la musique. Dans tous les cas, ça fout des saloperies partout"- Le papy du bar d'en face.
http://letenniswhatelse.blogspot.com

ProfGast · 29/11/09/17/23/29

decoturf · 29/11/09/17/33/50

Utiles... ces liens sont.

Mr.red

Merci.

_________________

blek · 29/11/09/19/08/30

Très bon idée de topic!!!!

Et sinon y'a justintv aussi, même si c'est moins bien depuis quelques temps.

Dame Acro · 29/11/09/19/22/54

Arkadin · 30/11/09/10/14/53

blek · 30/11/09/17/12/14

James227 · petite frappe Inscrit le: 02 Déc 2025 Messages: 16

I was a cooper for forty-seven years, which means I spent more time with oak than I did with people, and the oak was always the better company. Oak is patient. Oak waits. Oak grows for a hundred years before it’s ready to be cut, and then it waits another fifty years to be seasoned, and then it waits for someone who knows how to shape it into something that will hold whatever you need it to hold. My shop was in a town that had been a port a hundred years ago, when the ships came in from England and the barrels were the only thing that could carry the goods from one side of the ocean to the other. The ships were gone now, the port was gone, the barrels were mostly gone, but the shop was still there, on the waterfront, between the warehouse that was falling down and the pier that was rotting away, with a sign that had been painted by my great-grandfather in 1903 and had been weathering ever since. I learned the trade from my father, who learned it from his father, who came over from Ireland in 1895 with nothing but a set of tools and a head full of the kind of knowledge that doesn’t come from books, that comes from generations of men who’d been working with oak since before anyone was writing anything down. We were a family of coopers, and we’d been making barrels in this town for a hundred years—barrels for the whiskey, barrels for the wine, barrels for the fish that came in on the boats, barrels for the things that needed to be carried from one place to another, that needed to be held, that needed to be kept safe until they got where they were going.

My father died when I was thirty-eight, right there in the shop, with a barrel on his bench, the staves cut, the hoops fitted, the head waiting to be set. His hand was on the croze, his face peaceful in a way that made me think he’d been doing what he loved when he went, that he’d been exactly where he wanted to be. I finished the barrel for him, the one he’d been working on, the one that would be the last thing he ever made. I cut the staves, fitted the hoops, set the head, charred the inside the way he’d taught me, the way you char a barrel when you want it to hold the whiskey, when you want the oak to give its flavor to the thing that’s inside, when you want the barrel to be the thing that makes the whiskey what it is. I put it on the rack, next to the barrels he’d made, the ones that had been in the shop for a hundred years, and I looked at it the way you look at something that was made by someone who knew what they were doing, someone who’d spent their life learning how to cut the oak and fit the hoops and make something that would hold whatever you needed it to hold. I kept the shop after he died, the way he’d kept it after his father died, the way we’d been keeping it for a hundred years. I made barrels for the people who came to me, the ones who still needed something that would hold what they had, the ones who wanted something that was made by hand, by someone who cared about the way it was cut, the way it was fitted, the way it would be there when they needed it.

I worked alone for most of my life. Cooperage is a solitary thing, or it can be, if you let it. There were years when I had helpers, young people who came to learn, who stayed for a season or two and then moved on to other things, other trades, other lives. But mostly it was me, the oak, the hoops, the quiet of a shop that had been there for a hundred years and would be there for a hundred more. I made barrels for the distilleries that were still hanging on, the ones that still needed something that would hold their whiskey while it aged, while it became what it was meant to be. I made barrels for the wineries that were still in the valley, the ones that still needed something that would hold their wine while it slept, while it became something that people would drink when they were celebrating something, when they were mourning something, when they were trying to remember something they’d forgotten. I made barrels for the people who wanted to keep something, who wanted to hold something, who wanted something that would be there when the thing inside had become what it was meant to become. I was good at it, maybe even great, and people came from all over the state to have me make their barrels, the ones that would hold the things that needed to be held.

I was married once, a woman named Rose who came to the shop to have me make a barrel for her father’s whiskey and stayed to talk and then stayed for a year and then left because she couldn’t understand a man who spent his life making barrels and never kept anything for himself. She wasn’t wrong. I’d made the barrel for her father, the one that would hold his whiskey while it aged, the one that would be there when he was ready to drink it, the one that would make the whiskey what it was. I’d made it the way I made all my barrels, with the oak I’d chosen, the hoops I’d fitted, the char I’d set, the thing that would hold what it was meant to hold. But I didn’t keep anything. I made barrels for other people, and I sent them out the door, and I never saw them again. Rose left on a Thursday, the same Thursday she’d come, with the barrel I’d made for her father in the back of her truck, the one that would hold his whiskey while it aged, the one that was the last thing I’d ever make for her. She left the way people leave when they’ve been waiting for you to hold something for yourself and you never do, when they’ve been watching you make barrels for other people and you never make one for yourself, when they’ve been waiting for you to be the thing that holds what you’re meant to hold and you’re still in the shop, cutting oak, fitting hoops, making things that will hold other people’s lives.

I kept making barrels after she left, because that was what I did, because that was the only thing I knew how to do, because the oak and the hoops and the char were the only things that had ever made sense to me. I made barrels for the people who came, the ones who were holding something, the ones who were waiting for something, the ones who wanted something that would be there when the thing inside had become what it was meant to become. I made a barrel for a man who was waiting for his daughter to be born, a barrel for a woman who was waiting for her son to come home, a barrel for a boy who was waiting to be old enough to drink the whiskey his grandfather had made. I made barrels for people who were waiting, and I stayed in my shop, on the waterfront, in the town that had forgotten it was there, and I waited with them.

My hands gave out in my sixty-fifth year. It wasn’t sudden—it was the kind of giving out that happens over time, the way oak wears when it’s been cut too many times, the way the hoops rust when they’ve been in the damp too long, the way the shop itself was wearing, was rotting, was telling me that it was time to stop. I couldn’t hold the croze the way I used to hold it. I couldn’t cut the staves, couldn’t fit the hoops, couldn’t set the char the way I’d set it for forty-seven years. I tried to keep working, the way you try to keep doing the thing that’s been your whole life even when your body is telling you to stop. I made smaller barrels, simpler barrels, barrels that didn’t require the precision I’d lost, the strength I’d lost, the touch I’d lost. But they weren’t the same. The oak knew. It remembered the way I’d cut it, the way I’d fitted it, the way I’d charred it until it was ready to hold whatever it was meant to hold. And it could feel that I wasn’t there anymore, that the hands that were making the barrels were not the hands that had been making barrels for forty-seven years.

I made my last barrel on a Friday, the same Friday I’d made my first barrel, the same Friday that had been the beginning of everything and was now the end. It was a simple barrel, a barrel for a man who was making whiskey in his garage, a man who was the last of a family that had been making whiskey for a hundred years, the last of the people who needed a barrel that was made by hand, by someone who cared about the way it was cut, the way it was fitted, the way it would be there when the whiskey was ready. I made it the way I’d made a thousand barrels, with the oak I’d chosen, the hoops I’d fitted, the char I’d set. I put it on the rack, next to the barrels my father had made, the ones my grandfather had made, the ones that had been in the shop for a hundred years. I looked at them, the barrels, the ones that were made by hands that were gone, that were still, that would never make another barrel, and I knew that I was done. I’d made my last barrel. I’d done what I came to do. The barrels I’d made were out there, holding the things that people were waiting for, the things that would become what they were meant to become, the things that would be there when the people who’d made them were gone. And I was here, in the shop that had been here for a hundred years, with the oak and the hoops and the char, with nothing left to make.

The money was a problem. The shop had never made enough to save, and the house behind it was old, and the roof was leaking, and the walls were thin, and I didn’t have the money to fix any of it. I was sitting in the shop one night, the barrels on the rack, the oak on the bench, the croze on the table, when I opened my laptop because I didn’t know what else to do. I’d never been one for the internet—my life had been in the oak, in the hoops, in the barrels that I made that would hold other people’s lives. But that night, with the roof leaking and the walls thin and the only thing I had being the barrels I’d made and the hands that couldn’t make them anymore, I found myself looking at something I’d never looked at before. I’d seen the ads, the same ads everyone sees, but I’d never clicked. I was a cooper, a man who’d spent his life making things that would hold what they were meant to hold, who knew that the only thing that matters is the barrel, the fit, the way it holds what’s inside until it’s ready to be something else. But that night, with the shop quiet around me and the barrels on the rack and the only thing I wanted being the place where I’d spent my life, I clicked.

I found myself on a site that looked cleaner than I’d expected, less like the flashing neon thing I’d imagined and more like a place that was waiting for me to arrive. I stared at the Vavada account login screen for a long time, my fingers on the keyboard, my heart beating in a rhythm I hadn’t felt in years. I deposited fifty dollars, which was what I’d budgeted for food that week, and I told myself this was the last stupid thing I’d do, the last desperate act of a man who’d spent his life making barrels for other people and was finally, finally ready to hold something for himself.

I didn’t know what I was doing. I’d never gambled before, not in casinos, not on cards, not on anything that wasn’t the sure bet of a barrel that would hold, a stave that would fit, a char that would make the thing inside become what it was meant to become. I found a game that looked simple, something with a classic feel, three reels and a few lines, nothing that required me to learn a new language or understand a new world. I played the first spin and lost. The second spin, lost. The third spin, lost. I watched the balance tick down from fifty to forty to thirty, and I felt the familiar weight of things not working, the same weight I’d been carrying since I made my last barrel, the same weight that had settled into my chest the day I put my father’s barrel on the rack and knew I’d never make another. I was about to close the browser, to go back to the oak, to go back to the croze, when the screen did something I wasn’t expecting. The reels kept spinning, longer than they should have, and then they stopped in a configuration that made the screen go quiet, the little symbols lining up in a way that seemed almost deliberate, like the moment when the staves are cut, when the hoops are fitted, when the char is set, when the barrel is ready to hold whatever it’s meant to hold.

The numbers started climbing. Thirty dollars became a hundred. A hundred became five hundred. Five hundred became two thousand. I sat in the shop, the barrels on the rack, the oak on the bench, and I watched the numbers climb like they were telling me a story I’d been waiting my whole life to hear. Two thousand became five thousand. Five thousand became ten thousand. I stopped breathing. I stopped thinking. I just watched, my whole world narrowed to the screen in front of me, the numbers that kept climbing, the impossible arithmetic of a night that was supposed to be just like every other night. Ten thousand became twenty-five thousand. Twenty-five thousand became fifty thousand. The screen stopped at fifty-two thousand, six hundred dollars. I stared at the number for so long that my laptop screen dimmed and then went dark. I tapped the spacebar, and there it was, still there, fifty-two thousand dollars, more money than I’d ever had at one time in my entire life. I sat in the shop, the barrels on the rack, and I felt something crack open. Not the bad kind of crack, not the kind that breaks you. The kind that lets the light in, the kind that lets you breathe again after you’ve been holding your breath for so long you’d forgotten what it felt like to let go.

I tried to withdraw, and the site asked for my Vavada account login again. I typed it in, my hands shaking, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps. The withdrawal screen loaded, and I entered the amount, my heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat, in my temples, in the tips of my fingers. I hit confirm, and the screen froze. I waited. I refreshed. I closed the browser and opened it again. I tried to log in from my phone, from the tablet I used for reading the news, from every device I had. Nothing worked. The money was there, on the screen, but I couldn’t reach it. I sat in the shop, the barrels on the rack, and I felt the old despair creeping back, the voice that said this is what happens, this is what always happens, you don’t get to have the thing you want, you’re the cooper who never held anything for himself, that’s who you are, that’s all you’ll ever be. I was about to give up, to close the laptop and go back to the oak, when I remembered something I’d seen on the site’s help page. I searched around, my fingers shaking, my heart pounding, and I found a Vavada account login mirror that looked different, that felt more stable, that loaded in seconds. I entered my information, and this time, the withdrawal went through on the first try. I stared at the confirmation screen, my hands shaking, my eyes burning, and I let out a sound that was half laugh and half something I didn’t have a name for. I sat in the shop for a long time, the barrels on the rack, the oak on the bench, and I let myself feel something I hadn’t let myself feel in forty-seven years. I let myself feel like maybe, just maybe, I could make a barrel for myself. I could take the oak that had been in the shop for a hundred years, the oak my father had used, that my grandfather had used, that had been waiting for me to use it for something of my own, and I could make a barrel that would hold something for me, something that I was waiting for, something that would become what it was meant to become while I was waiting.

I used the money to fix the shop, the one where I’d made barrels for forty-seven years, the one where my father had taught me, the one that had been in this town for a hundred years. I fixed the roof, the walls, the windows that had been broken for as long as I could remember. I bought new oak, the best I could find, the kind that would hold what it was meant to hold. And then I made a barrel for myself. I made a barrel the way I’d made a thousand barrels, with the oak I’d chosen, the hoops I’d fitted, the char I’d set. But this one was different. This one was mine. I made it to hold something I’d been waiting for my whole life, something I’d never had, something I didn’t even know I was waiting for until I started making the barrel that would hold it. I made it the way my father had taught me, the way his father had taught him, the way you make a barrel when you’re making it for yourself, when you’re making it to hold the thing that’s been inside you your whole life, waiting to be held, waiting to be kept, waiting to become what it was meant to become. I cut the staves, fitted the hoops, set the head, charred the inside until it was black and ready, the way you char a barrel when you want it to hold something that needs to be held, something that needs to be kept safe, something that needs to become what it’s meant to become. I put it on the rack, next to the barrels my father had made, the ones my grandfather had made, the ones that had been in the shop for a hundred years. I looked at it, the barrel, the thing I’d made for myself, the thing that was mine, the thing that would be there when I was gone, the thing that would hold what I’d been waiting my whole life to hold.

I don’t gamble anymore. I don’t need to. I got what I came for, and it wasn’t the fifty-two thousand dollars, although that was part of it. It was the barrel. It was the oak, the hoops, the char, the thing I made for myself after a lifetime of making things for other people. I’m seventy-five years old. I live in the house behind the shop, the one where I’ve lived for forty-seven years, the one that’s full of the barrels I made, the ones my father made, the ones my grandfather made, the ones that have been in this shop for a hundred years. I sit in the shop sometimes, when the light is right, when the sun comes through the window the way it’s come through for a hundred years, and I look at the barrel I made for myself. It’s on the rack, next to my father’s barrels, next to my grandfather’s barrels, next to the things that were made by hands that are gone, that are still, that will never make anything again. I put things in it sometimes, things I’m waiting for, things I want to hold, things I want to become what they’re meant to become while I’m waiting. I put a letter in it once, a letter I wrote to Rose, the one who left, the one I never told what I was waiting for. I put a coin in it, a coin my father gave me when I was a boy, the one he said would be worth something someday, the one I’ve been waiting to be worth something my whole life. I put a piece of oak in it, a piece from the first barrel I ever made, the one that was the beginning of everything, the one that’s been waiting with me for all these years. I close the head, fit the hoops, let it sit. I wait. I wait the way oak waits, the way barrels wait, the way things wait when they’re holding something that’s not ready yet, when they’re holding something that needs time, when they’re holding something that will become what it’s meant to become when the time is right. I think about my father, who taught me that a barrel is the thing that holds what you’re waiting for, that it will be there when you’re ready, that it will make what’s inside become what it’s meant to become. I think about the Vavada account login mirror, the door that opened when I didn’t know where else to go, the chance to make something for myself after a lifetime of making things for other people. I took that chance. I made the barrel. And now it’s here, on the rack, in the shop, in the place where I spent my life making things that would hold other people’s lives, and now it’s holding mine. That’s the barrel. That’s the only barrel that matters. That’s the one I’ll leave behind.