When in Rome.

Firsts are always a little rocky and certainly a bit embarrassing—first steps, first driving lessons, first public speech, first guitar lesson, first kiss. Considering the mixture of inexperience and anxiety, imperfection is an understandable product. Our first game last week was, unfortunately, a fantastic illustration of why firsts can sometimes suck. While the game ultimately proved to be a useful teaching tool, highlighting our weaknesses and strengths, it was more than a little embarrassing. I am sincere when I say that game suggested we had only weaknesses. Defensively we missed rotations and struggled to pressure the ball, while offensively we shot with less accuracy than Shaq at the charity stripe—simply unconscionable. Still, it was our first game together, and firsts can be a little rocky. We played two days later and this time we demonstrated our strengths a bit better, individually and collectively. We won 115-81, so while it was pleasing to finally make some baskets, allowing 81 points a game won’t lead to many wins this season. Our team has a nice balance, though. Every position has multiple scoring threats and we have two really crafty, intelligent point guards. Morty has transitioned really well so far, executing the fast break and driving and dishing with ease. We played again tonight against the team we beat Friday and did a lot better. We held them to 40 this time and scored 80. Boom. 

Raise your hand if you’ve ever been to a spa. Maybe you’ve never been to one, but it’s reasonable to presume everyone is familiar with what they are. Just in case, a spa is defined by Webster’s online dictionary as, “a commercial establishment providing facilities devoted to encouraging health, fitness, weight loss, beauty, and relaxation.” This sounds like an accurate explanation, and it was certainly in agreement with my own perception. Well, it seems the Germans adhere to a looser interpretation of spa—that, or something somewhere was lost in translation. Friday, after our game, our coach treated us to a couple hours at a spa. If only it had been as simple as that, though. But no, like every other experience I have had out here, my episode at the spa proved to be hardly ordinary. Perhaps you know where this is going and maybe your imagination is enthusiastically engaged, producing a variety of uncomfortably weird scenarios based on your own twisted sense of humor. I promise you, whatever you are conjuring up in your head, it can’t touch my reality.

This place had all your basic essentials, all the misleading trappings of a typical spa: pools, Jacuzzis, saunas, and cold tubs—things encouraging health and relaxation. This place even had slides and a salt-water pool, cleverly manufactured distractions to lure in the innocent, naïve minded folks like myself; I won’t lie, it totally worked—Morty, Bri and I (the Americans) were pumped. And juuuuuust when they had us locked in did they mention, ever so casually, the one caveat: “oh, by the way, you have to be naked at the spa.” I beg your pardon? Naked? The naked where you don’t wear any clothes? Obviously there has been some sort of misunderstanding. First of all, let’s backtrack to your erroneous use of “by the way”, shall we? By the ways are generally followed by simple after thoughts, or reminders: by the way, the new Ryan Gosling movie is fantastic; by the way, we’re out of milk; by the way, there’s a stain on your carpet; by the way, your colonoscopy is tomorrow. Those are all acceptably casual, harmless statements following a “by the way”. I think any mention of the word naked automatically makes whatever you have to say unsuitable for any sort of coupling with a “by the way”. Just saying. But seriously, who forgets to mention the dress code when the code is your birthday suit! I was in a pickle I found myself at a cross roads, and yet I felt like the decision was so obvious, so straightforward that there really wasn’t even a choice: of course I wasn’t going to parade around naked in front of complete strangers for two hours—don’t be ridiculous. Thirty minutes later I found myself hugging a towel, staring at my feet as I nervously entered the spa. This was happening.

Involuntarily, I looked up as we walked in only to have all my fears confirmed: just naked people everywhere—and this was the bad kind of naked. I’ll spare you the details, just know I’m irrevocably scarred. Bri, Mort and I, under the heading “when in Rome”, made a pact that we would be open minded and give their nude colony version of a spa a try. Still, if we could avoid any awkwardness we were going to; and so we made our way to the one place we thought we would be alone—the cold tub. Sure enough, it was empty. All three of us let out the deepest sighs of relief. Like toddlers learning to swim, we slipped into the tub and clung to the railing, each of us in our own corner, discussing the pure insanity of the moment. Talk about a culture shock, we couldn’t believe the difference in social norms. And then it happened. An older man entered the room, comfortably open, and walked toward the tub. None of us moved—maybe if we are really still, he won’t see us and we can sneak out. Nope, he definitely saw us. As he entered the tub, butt first, I could no longer take it—I chuckled, and then without warning, a bellowing cackle erupted nearly splitting my sides. I had lost it; the sight of that man’s bare buttocks was the last straw. After the shock wore off, we ditched the tub and sprinted from the room, sincerely mortified. Eventually we reconvened with the girls for the finale: team sauna time. Our captain led us to the excessively hot room…filled with about 40 random, naked bodies. You’ve GOT to be kidding me. “When in Rome,” I thought, and I sat down determined to embrace the experience. But as the room reached extreme temperatures, it became increasingly unbearable. It had been about four minutes I’d guess when the steam got so thick I shrieked, “I’m blind!” I tried to remind myself—when in Rome, when in Rome—ah screw it, if this is what they do in Rome, I don’t want to be like the Romans! I grabbed my towel and bailed; sure, I stumbled out of that sauna with zero dignity or grace, but at least I wasn’t naked anymore. I know this was my first time and all, and I know what they say about firsts, but gimme a break. Some things can only be endured once. 

One week from today we head to Prague for a tournament. We play Friday, Saturday and Sunday and then begin camp Sunday night. Camp is 5 days somewhere in Prague as well. That will be a long, exhausting week but it will also be incredibly instrumental in our development as a team, so I am really looking forward to it. The returning players from last year have already warned us of the hellish nature of camp. We had a team camp last season in Chemnitz that was rather horrible too, if you recall. Something tells me I’ll survive again; just wish they wouldn’t call it camp. 

The magic of George.

George was magic. You’d be hard pressed to meet a man as sweet and sincere as George Hickman. You also won’t find a better hugger. George made me better by simply knowing him. He made us all better by living the incredible life he lived. Yes, he was that special. And yes, he’s a man whose vacancy in the hearts of those he knew won’t be easily filled.

George passed away last weekend at 88 and instantly left a wake of stunned and saddened admirers. I am a card carrying George admirer and am heartbroken over his passing. For years, George guarded the tunnel that Husky athletes ran through into Hec-Ed; and I say guarded because that is exactly what he did, as any angel would. And every athlete and coach that passed through his tunnel was certainly blessed. He touched so many lives, and I don’t just mean metaphorically—this man hugged us with boundless warmth and high-fived us with contagious energy. Anyone who received either from him undoubtedly went back for more, perhaps because with George, it was never just a hug or a high five. 

He was always sure to grab your hand tight and keep you close when he slapped it, capitalizing on this moment as an opportunity to impart a little of his wisdom, and a ton of his support. “You are going to be great, I just know it!” he’d repeat. When he hugged you, he always squeezed especially tight, just so you knew he really meant it; and this was never done without a reminder of how darn proud he was and how much he believed in you. “You are so special and I am praying for you.” That one was always my favorite. There are thousands of us that eagerly anticipated our pre-game rituals with George over the years, a sacred tradition among Husky athletes. But no matter if it was pre-game or post-game, win or lose, you always walked away from George feeling unconquerable; you always walked away smiling. That is the magic of George Hickman: no matter the despair felt after a loss, or the anxiety brimming prior to a game, he could incite hope.

His legacy can be traced to the very core of Husky Nation—every athlete, every coach, heck even fans, cherish their “George moments” and consider themselves blessed for being apart of his life. And ya know what? They are all right. So, what is most sad about his passing is not the loss of those of us fortunate enough to know him, because knowing him was such a vast addition to our lives; but it’s the immeasurable loss of all the future Huskies who won’t meet him, or hug him or love him. Never knowing the magic of George—now that is the greatest loss of all.

His hugs healed, his smiles uplifted and his indelible spirit inspired a nation; Husky Nation surely wouldn’t be as great without the humble influence of this marvelous man. I will sincerely miss you, George. God bless you. RIP.

Unfamiliar territory.

We’ll laugh about this someday. I can’t count the number of times Morty and I asserted this on our drive back from Chemnitz last weekend; I can only say that we’ve yet to reach that “someday”. Getting to Chemnitz was so easy; too easy, perhaps. Mort and I were tricked—disillusioned by the simplicity of our route to Chemnitz, we mistakenly assumed returning back to the Wolf would be no less easy. It was this naïve conclusion that beget our first harrowing, near death experience in Germany. And as always, I speak without any exaggerations.

I am terrified of getting lost, always have been. It’s the worst; well, other than pickle juice in the eye. Pickle juice in the eye is brutal. The notion that I could keep turning, keep driving, keep guessing and never stop being lost is suffocating. Part of this fear originates from my very serious, very clinical allergy to being “wrong”.  I have this reaction to it every time it happens, resulting in hostility, nausea and irrational thinking. It’s my cross to bear. And so, each time I take a wrong turn or make a wrong decision perpetuating our lost state, my allergy flares, and my fear grows. Vicious, vicious cycle. Here is how we got to that point on our way home. 

The trip back started smoothly enough. We hit the road at 10:30pm Sunday, figuring to be home by 12:45am. We hit our first speed bump about an hour in when we missed our turnoff. Now this wrong no-turn was hardly my fault, but more a product of poor, unclear sign labeling. We realized quickly that we indeed should have taken the exit and so, after twenty minutes of correcting, we were back on track. No big deal. But as we approached the final 50kms of the trip, things got real. Again, somehow, we’d gotten ourselves lost, by no fault of my own and while guessing where we went wrong, I became distracted by a flashing on the dash—the gas light. How predictably unoriginal. I think I mentioned that our car is new, so it does this neat trick where it tells you, fairly precisely, how many kms you can travel till you are SOL. Ordinarily, this would be a nifty convenience, but in the moments to follow, it was nothing more than a paralyzing countdown to my imminent psychological meltdown. We were lost in a tiny, remote city in Germany and we were likely to run out of gas—both my allergy and fears were really starting to boil. Ten kilometers, nine kilometers, eight kilometers, seven kilometers—Polizeistation—“STOP!” Morty shrieked, "we are going in." It was the 11^th hour and we were desperate. So, at 12:50am, we rang the doorbell, as if selling girl scout cookies, and spoke to a very polite policeman who seemed to appreciate the gravity of our situation. After repeating directions to the nearest open gas station, he also gave us directions home; at this point we were only 30kms away. We carefully navigated the longest 2kms of our lives to the gas station and celebrated, unabashedly. With our tank full of gas and our hearts full of hope, we took to the road again. Our eyes peeled as we winded the autobahn when suddenly—FLASH! What the f… we were literally in a blind rage from this red burst of light when it hit us: we had been warned about such a flash; a flash from a very large camera designed to disrupt and photograph unlawful speeders. I had just gotten a ticket. I was living in some twisted manifestation of Murphy’s Law and I couldn’t escape. Mort and I rode in disbelief, as well as in accordance with the posted speed limits, the rest of the way home. It was 1:45am when we got to our apartment. We’ll laugh about this someday.

Honestly, Morty and I have laughed a lot about that trip, even that same night. And I’ll tell you something else: getting lost like that doesn’t build character, it reveals it and Mort and I got that crap by the truckload. Not only did we get lost, but we got lost in a different country and we did it without killing each other or melting down, externally. Don't act like you're not impressed.

Our whole team is finally here and so I no longer just live with Morty. Brianne, the third and final American, played PG at Penn State in college and played for Osnabruck last season (a team in our league). She was a Chemcat the season before I was, so we sort of know each other. Bri, along with all the other girls, are splendid. I find myself in unfamiliar territory here: I legitimately like every girl on the team. We are having so much fun already that I get jolly every time I think ahead to the season. On that note, preseason games begin next week with road games Wednesday and Friday. Here we go.

One of my super cool teammates gave me a brand new pair of Kobe’s (as seen above). She is a German national player and they were one of the free pairs of team shoes she was given, but she didn’t like them, so she bequeathed them to me! Things were going really well with Kobe and I until the blisters started developing. I say blisters but really these are more like open wounds, regrettably located on the arches of my feet. I still practice, but after that I can barely walk. Suffice it to say, Kobe and I are on a break. 

The Wolf, as I am calling our quaint little city, is actually pretty cool. Featuring a lot of beautiful churches, museums and even a castle, we have our own Laguna Beach here! This man-made beach area abuts our gym and is my own little piece of home. There is also a theater here that plays movies in English every third Monday. We are 12kms from Braunschweig, a larger city that offers a greater variety of shopping, nightlife and other activities.

With preseason games and camp right around the corner, practices have shifted gears a little as offenses and defensive sets and strategies are being introduced. I am still a big fan of Vlasti’s (my coach) old school style and wacky personality. I also think that this team could be pretty good once we figure each other out and that excites me. They lost 3 key players from their championship squad last season, but we have brought in some good ones too, so I am optimistic. Now I just need my blisters to heal…and a GPS. Oh how I need a GPS.

Coming full circle.

Three months, two states and one hell of a summer later and I’m back in Germany. I get to start hooping and traveling again and you get to read my blogs about it—sounds like a win-win. The dichotomy of leaving was particularly striking this time around, perhaps because I have a greater understanding and mirrored excitement for what awaits me over here; or perhaps because after being away for a season already I gained a greater appreciation of everything/one I leave behind. No matter the cause, my emotional imbalance upon boarding my flight was, admittedly, delicate. And I gotta say, saying bye two times (once in Ventura and then again in Seattle) didn’t really help the situation. Just leave already, right? Next time I may just forego the whole “bye” component and leave unexpectedly. Tempting.

                                                                               

Speaking of Seattle, I am so glad I went back during the summer rather than…well rather than any other time of the year when rain is virtually guaranteed if you stay for more than a day. Still, going back for 11 days was a frustrating tease, but rather necessary since I had camps to work, a wedding to attend and people to see. The people seeing was by far my favorite part; I’m a sucker for a good old sappy reunion, don’t judge me. The wedding was also a real treat. One of the guys from our practice squad at UW was getting married and I was fortunate enough to still have his email so I could ask him for an invite (and fortunate enough that he obliged). It was a gorgeous, intimate outdoor ceremony in Snohomish. It was such a privilege to witness their disgustingly endearing exchange of vows and genuine adoration for one another. Good times.

Summer seems like a blur. I’m not even sure what I did; I just know it was pretty magnificent. In fact, it’s hard to recall a better summer—hard to recall a busier one, too. Amidst the blur of events however, there was at least one that I will remember for the rest of my life: my baptism. This was a considerably significant and personal moment for me, thus, having my family and loved ones present was crucial. My generous uncle, the pastor at Malibu Presbyterian, engineered the entire thing on the final Sunday of my stay in Ventura at his church and then at Zuma beach. It really was lovely and such a special experience. I truly am blessed with amazing family and friends and I can’t thank them enough for supporting me that day.

I hate flying; matter fact, I hate all travel related things when it comes to flying—security and luggage and crowded, smelly airplanes. Flying is always a terrible nuisance and that is when nothing goes wrong. And it seems I don’t know how to do anything without irritating, problematic “wrongs”. Morty and I flew first from Sea-Tac into Amsterdam, but not without a 45-minute delay. Subsequently, this would affect our  connecting flight to Hanover. As we forced our way off the plane, we swerved in and around all the frustratingly oblivious, casual airport walkers and frantically flailed to our terminal. Winded from our 300-yard dash, which I totally won, I was engulfed in relief (and sweat, ick) when I noticed our plane hadn’t left our gate. Boom shaka laka. Evidently though, the plane’s promising status had no merit in our boarding of it. “We have officially closed the plane’s doors and aren’t allowing anyone else to board,” the lady informed us, apologetically. Wait, wait, wait; hold the phone; back the truck up—you are telling me that even though the plane is still here, we cannot board? Even though the plane probably won’t leave for another 20 minutes due to some lame excuse about paperwork, we cannot board? Even though we are here now AND so is the plane, you can’t let us on because the doors are “officially” closed? Ummm…that’s quite possibly the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Oddly enough, my diatribe didn’t sway the attendant’s verdict, and so, we were swiftly rebooked on the later flight. 

Our day was becoming intolerably long and overwhelming when Mort and I stumbled across our silver lining: gigantic glasses lady. Just look at the picture—pretty sure I don’t need to elaborate. I don’t know if it was our particular mixture of delirium and anxiety, but this woman and her unreasonably oversized glasses had Morty and I laughing till we cried for about 15 straight minutes. She was pure entertainment. Eventually we did make it to Germany. Our prize?  We got to practice nearly an hour after reaching our apartment. Nailed it.

Okay so let’s get down to business—Mort and I have been here for a week now practicing and living the dream and I assume you are all dying to hear the details, BUT first, I must address something of far greater significance. This is exceptionally important so if you are standing while reading this, first of all stop that, it’s weird; and now go ahead and find a chair…or a stool…or a bench…or a recliner and cop a squat. All set? Good. Folks, #32 is coming out of retirement! Yup, no more #7 or some other awful number. I miiiiiight have cried tears of joy when I learned this, so don’t be ashamed if you are, too. Alright, moving on. One week of practice under our belts and my sophomore season has already proven to be optimistically unlike last year.

The city is significantly smaller, about 50,000 people to the 200,000 in Chemnitz. Morty and I got our car the other day—brand new Ford C-Max with our names on it. Yup, our names are on the back bumper of the car. Really couldn’t tell ya why, but I sorta like it. Our apartment is pretty standard: spacious rooms with smaller common areas. When we arrived our apartment was still being built…literally. Our kitchen didn’t have a stove or sink etc and our rooms were in shambles. Our flat is set-up now, but we still don’t have Internet; probably the one thing we actually wanted. Forget our beds or the running water, but not the internet! Not okay. The best part about our situation here is the team and the coach though. The players are really cool and the coach is just a delightful character. He is this 60-year old Czech man with a wicked sense of humor coupled with legitimate coaching chops. My mind is blown. Practices have been tough, but great and I am loving playing with Morty again. Life is good. 

Morty and I road tripped to Chemnitz this weekend to inaugurate our new car. Talk about coming full circle—visiting the city I was so desperate to leave, but that started this whole overseas adventure for me. Amazing how things can change in a year or a few months really. I’m not mad.

 

Whew. That was a lot. It all needed to be said…I feel better now, don’t you? Doesn’t really matter if you do. Hope you all have a splendid weekend; we will talk to you soon! Ciao J