Let the games begin.

I missed basketball. And I never realized how much until I pulled my head through that jersey again; until I warmed up with my team. I never realized how much I missed it until I was stretching at half court, shooting penetrating glares at our opponent's bench (no one was at their bench, but that's neither here nor there). Until I heard my name announced over the speakers with the starters. Until the ref tossed the ball at center court, and for one brief second, my heart swelled and nothing else in the world mattered. It’s just me and that ball and 40 minutes of purpose…fulfillment. Sweaty, ferocious, determined fulfillment. How could I have forgotten? I can’t wait for my next reminder: Sunday we play Halle (pronounced Holla, which I looooove to say in my gangsta voice... every time). I really missed basketball.

I guess I should actually mention the two games we played last weekend. We traveled by bus about 3 hours for our first game—Gottingen, a division 2 team that we handled 91-65. My first game as PG, I was slightly on edge at the beginning. But basketball is basketball and I found myself doing the same things I used to do from the wing. The second game was against a team in division one, our division. Wolfenbuttel is a big team, and very solid. A girl that I played against at ASU is there now too. All the more reason to hate them since I CAN’T STAND HER. After the first game, my coach asked me to facilitate the ball more and worry less about scoring, at least to start. So I did. I had 8 assists. We beat ASU  Wolfenbuttel by 2 in an ugly, lopsided game. Home court advantage takes on a whole new meaning here. All part of basketball, and I missed basketball.

You know what I didn’t miss? Press conferences. Never was there a more precarious environment—an atmosphere designed for humiliation and catastrophe. It’s like a pop quiz on steroids. Now, toss in the added challenge of a foreign language and you’ve got yourself a situation. But before the reporters even get to us, the players, our coach and club president address the media. You thought sitting through English class was hard, while teachers waxed Thoreau and discussed dangling modifiers. I assure you, there are far greater challenges. Attempting to stay awake and feign interest at a press conference in a foreign language is all but impossible; and if not for my own strange and rather offensive imagination, I may have quite literally collapsed of boredom. Have you ever seen Mystery Science Theater 3000? Basically this man is trapped in a theater with these robots and forced to watch a series of dreary ‘B’ movies, and to keep themselves both sane and entertained, they maintain this running dialogue that overshadows the actual movie’s commentary.  My mind became this—my own little peanut gallery for my viewing pleasure. And just as I am patting myself on the back, when I thought I had survived, the media turns to us. Here is where I figure the language barrier will surely work to my advantage—no one will question the poor American, idiot savant amongst the Germans. And yet, somehow I get volunteered to address the media precisely because I am American, though probably not cause I'm an idiot. Par for the course, I suppose. “You must be joking,” I plead. Nope? Fine. I’ll talk. I’ll talk faster than anyone has ever spoken the English language, that’ll teach them. I was pleased.

Living in Chemnitz lately has felt like living with menopause: you just can never predict when a hot flash will strike. One minute it is cool and breezy out, borderline drizzling, you feel confident in your jeans and t-shirt. Then, out of nowhere, you are bathing in your own sweat, as the sun seems to engulf you. Suddenly, now as if you are on a movie set with a staged storm, you are hit just as randomly with rain and hail. No wonder menopausal women are so darn moody—it’s the pits.

It is my roommate’s birthday tomorrow, so tonight we are going out as a team. Going out. Somehow I feel like that carries a different, more elaborate meaning here. I don’t know what to expect. Maybe going out here on a Friday night means, “let’s rob a bank and then grab some ice cream.” Though I seriously doubt that…ice cream stores close at 6pm here. Maybe I’ll suggest ice cream first.

I get paid this weekend…for playing basketball. So it's finally official: I am cooler than you. And boom goes the dynamite. I’m kidding of course. Let's be real, I have been cooler than most of you for some time. On that note, while you guys are sure to be feeling especially affectionate toward me, I will provide my address below. Only family SHOULD feel obligated to send boxes, otherwise I love good ol' snail mail! 

Sami Whitcomb

Theaterstrasse 43

09111 Chemnitz, Germany

The end of an era.

Prague was divine. I really don’t know how else to describe it. The buildings were stunning; the colors seemed more vivid and much brighter. I still can’t believe I went. Doesn’t Prague just sound so…so cultured. So worldly. Does the fact that we ate at Hooters while we were there undermine the experience? Don’t judge me, I needed my ranch.

The ladies in the picture are my teammates, minus the one in white. We bussed 3 hours both ways, walked for 7 hours and it was absolutely worth it.

By now, I am thinking that every one has guessed I will be wearing #7 this year—if so, good for you, way to put two and two together with the whole picture of me in the #7 jersey.  I don’t think I need to say just how incredibly monumental this change is—it’s like the end of an era, if you don’t count those 2 awkward years in college when I had to wear #20… and I don’t since that interferes with my whole dramatic era ending platitude. It’s a pretty cool number though I think. I am sure it will grow on me.

So the whole ‘i before e except after c’ thing evidently doesn’t apply in German (really threw me for a loop). I mean, you grow up thinking one thing your whole life and then boom! Suddenly it’s wrong.  Everywhere I look its “Leipzig” this or ya know, some other appropriate example. What's next? Where will they draw the line?

I went to the bathroom the other day at this restaurant (this is going somewhere good, hold tight) when I noticed a vending machine of sorts next to the sinks. Amused, and hungry admittedly, I peeked into the machine while recalling how much change I had in my bag, when I saw what was being sold. Ahem—condoms. They can’t figure out the whole ice thing, but condoms in a bathroom, sure that’s practical.

I was asked out today…or at least I think that’s what happened. There I was, playing ping pong in front of my apartment, with what I thought was a trusted stranger, when bam! There was some mention of “night” “free” and “city” complexly if not confusingly mashed together amidst German and what I can only assume was his thinly veiled attempts at flirting. Alright alright, let’s address the elephant in the room: what about Dirk. I know, I know. I promised myself to Dirk so it wouldn’t really be fair to him. But with season coming up soon, I fear my busy schedule won’t be conducive to fostering a successful, long-distance relationship. Notwithstanding my commitment to Dirk, oddly enough I still felt compelled to decline the offer for a free night in the city. At least I think I said no. I can’t be positive.

I have only been here 19 days? Is that even possible? I’m no mathematician, but the amount of things I have done here multiplied by the amount of fun I’ve had must equal more time here surely. That has to be a theorem.

We have our first 2 preseason games this weekend. I’ll be playing point guard. I know what you are thinking—do I get the assist if I’m passing to myself? That was my first question, and while I don’t think the Coach much enjoyed it, I got a good chuckle, though no answer. Seriously though, quit laughing, I can hear the scoffs through my computer. I know I am not your typical PG, but I’m not really your typical anything so this should fit. I’ll keep you posted.  

Every profession needs its Mark Madsen

Let’s not call it camp next time. I know camp. This…this was not camp. Camp evokes glee and adventure—it elicits cherished visions. Visions of camp fires or face painting or  competitive games of dodgeball. Camp is spending hours making ugly, horrid paper maches our parents keep out of weird obligation. Camp is finally beating Susie across the monkey bars. Camp is grass stains and knee scuffs and, yes ok, perhaps an occasional bee sting (nothing is perfect). Those are the camps I know. This…this was not camp. I can, however, think of another—no, a better 4 letter word for what this was though, I’m glad you asked. Hell. A far more fitting and adequately representative name for what the last 4 days of my life actually resembled. When you hear hell you think running till you forget how to walk and then trying to play basketball for 2 hours after. And you think of doing this 3 times a day. Of course I wasn’t expecting we’d go away for 4 days to braid each others hair and play truth or dare. Least not the WHOLE time. Please, I'm a realist. But you wouldn’t call dialysis a hobby, right? Just sayin. (Don’t think too much about the metaphor). But for all my bluster, somewhere deep, deep, deep down I did like "camp". It tested my limits and challenged every part of me. I know, I know. What a cliché. We’ve all seen this movie. I’ll wear it. Let’s just not call it camp. 

                                     The hostel we stayed in during camp.

                            Where we practiced--just outside the hostel

I love food. Period. Anyone who knows me knows at least that. So, to be fair, "camp" did have one redeeming quality that I will surely miss: great food. Every meal was fantastic, and most importantly, cooked by someone other than me. What a treat. After minimal consideration, I decided I need to become a food critic when this whole basketball thing ends. Basically I'd be eating for a living. Yup, think I'm qualified. I would be awful at the actual "critic" thing, I agree, but we can't all be great at everything. If everyone hooped like MJ, there would be no MJ. I could be the Mark Madsen of the food critic world. You know what that is? That's a win-win. 

I am not sure when it happened, but it seems I have blended my fine english speaking with a pseudo-german accent and cultivated a brand new way of embarrassing myself here. I think I believe it makes me less conspicuous--helps me blend in somehow. Sid, my teammate, informed me how backwards that was. Live and learn. 

Did anyone know they don't have ice here? My mind was blown when I discovered this. They have water, they have freezers...am I missing something? No one likes warm drinks. It's inhuman. Maybe they lost all their ice cube trays in a freak fire accident. I'd buy that. If you could send me a couple--actually a couple dozen, that would be great. Those will sell like hot cakes. 

Today is my day off. Translation: laundry and errands day. Ha, that's rich. I have errands to run in Germany. Some life :)