What's in a name.

I love winning. Even more than I love winning, I HATE losing. You just never get used to that pang. And it never gets milder either. Every loss is like the first. So while I had a great time winning our first two games this weekend in our tournament, I barely remember it because we lost our last game and I am still recovering from the pang. We lost by 6 and generally, as a rule, I never blame a loss on one thing, but as with any rule, there are exceptions. I can say without any doubt that we lost because every other possession, almost literally, we gave the ball back to them. It was unreal. It started with me and as with so many things relating to me these days, it was contagious. We will face this team again in our Division come season, and that is the only thing providing some solace. All our team needs right now is consistency... despite winning most of our games so far, we have yet to put 40 solid minutes of basketball together. 

I don’t know when it happened, but I’m old. Ya, you heard me. I MUST be like, at least 35 the way my body aches. Bad joke, I know. I’m off my game. But, I am actually terrified by the thought of how I will feel when I am older if this is how my body feels now. Silver lining, silver lining, ah there it is: I’ll finally be able to ride those motorized carts desperate for use in Vons (or Safeway if you prefer). So I got that going for me.

Speaking of sweet rides, guess who got herself some wheels (free of course)?  She’s a real beaut, let me tell ya. My favorite shade of blue, she’s got nice rims and a comfy leather seat; more of a mid-size sedan than anything. I put a picture of Helen and me below (that is her name... ya know, classy older woman, still in good form; graceful, but tough). I’ll wait while you scroll down and look…….I know what you are thinking: we look good together, right? Annnnnnnnnd Helen is a bicycle, yes. There’s just no fooling you. Bygones. Laugh all you want, but not only does Helen corner like she’s on rails, she has the coolest little bell. And I am not sure if you can tell, but she came with a little tramp stamp on her back above the tire…yep, it’s the number 32. You say hussy, I say takes one to know one. Only the most sophisticated locals cruise around on one of these bad boys. Don’t be jealous.

So a while back we took team pictures. I believe I posted my fantastic head shot, or “waist up” shot if you like, on the ol’ blog. Welllllllll, unbeknownst to me, the club also makes these inconveniently and rather inappropriately oversized trading cards as well, which required that we take some solo “action” shots. It’s funny, basketball is all about action and movement, but when there is a photographer in front of you demanding you demonstrate said actions, you’d be surprised how quickly you lose all mental and physical capacity to, well, act. You want me to dribble between my legs while smiling at the camera? This suddenly becomes mission impossible and the more you mess up the more embarrassed you become—“yes, I’ve actually been dribbling a ball for more than a decade now, they say it’s like riding a bike, I’ll try to remember.” Then, embarrassment quickly turns to frustration when he suggests another action, since evidently dribbling is just too difficult.  Finally, frustration breeds rage, which is only further perpetuated by Gary, the arrogant photographer who thinks coaching his 8 year old makes him the next Phil Jackson and an authority on the mechanics of dribbling. Dribble with my fingers, ah yes I almost forgot, thanks Gare. I love photo shoots. Good times. Now, I’ll give you a moment to consider the “action” shot they selected for me. Let me preface this by saying they took numerous, nay, superfluous amounts of action shots, but this one, this was the winner they picked. Did ya get a good look? I’m sure you’ve got some thoughts bouncing around in your head, but here is my unsolicited insight. First, my name is spelled incorrectly, which might be kismet actually since I was considering changing my name to something less…well less Whitcomb-y. Withcomb (what the card says) has sorta this regal, European thing going on. I dig it. They really did me a favor here. But, it’s really all down hill from there. My only take away from the picture itself is that my poses, my action shots must have been sooooo appalling, sooooo incredibly unusable they were forced to use an arbitrary, unprompted picture of me where I’m not even looking at the camera. Perhaps the camera detected some of my embarrassment…or frustration…or rage. Pity. I always thought those looks agreed with me.

Two Sami's are better than one

So there is something I would like to clear up. One of you asked me if I would write about my teammates in this blog. Did I mislead you guys? Was I not clear—this blog is about ME.  Likewise, this isn’t MTV; you don’t get to call in requests.  BUT, since I happen to reallllly like the person making the request, and I am only half pretending to be this narcissistic, I will make an exception.

Our roster is full and final now. We picked up a new girl this past week. An American. Oh, you wanna know her name? I’ll give you one guess. Yup. Sami. For fun, wanna guess how she spells it? Uh-huh. The. Exact. Same. Way. This is my life now. Before I never knew what was being said, but I at least knew when I was being talked at. Who the hell knows now. She’s a real gem though. Seriously. She’s the PB to my J. There are 2 other Americans (one that also has German citizenship so she doesn't count), 5 Germans, 1 Serbian and 1 girl from Holland. Since our style is up-tempo (run, run, run) and our offense is primarily our fast break, we don’t really have your typical center, rather lots of tall, versatile 3-4’s who shoot well and a couple girls who don’t really shoot so we throw them inside. Wanna know more about them? Go read their blogs :)

Earlier this week, my eye was really bothering me, so I self-diagnosed myself with Conjunctivitis. What is that saying, ah yes: an apple a day keeps the doctor away. False. Who comes up with this crap? It’s bogus. Anyways, so I went to a doctor out here. Not gonna lie, I was freaking out. Here is the long version of what happened: I walked into her office, she was definitely playing the part--stethoscope around her neck, frightening human skeleton model lurching in the corner reminding us of our impending future. However, a stethoscope does not a doctor make, I learned. I sit, inform her of my eye problems and offer my astute diagnosis; meanwhile she pokes the eyeball in question, once. I’ll mention here she did this without a glove. I haven’t been a doctor long, but I think that wearing gloves is rule numero uno. Then, just like that, without any real examination or questions, she hands me a prescription for Conjunctivitis. Wondering what you missed? Me too. I’ve babysat kids who could’ve pretended to be a doctor better. This certainly gave credence to the adage “there’s more than one way to skin a cat.” I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say I don’t think that is one of the ways to be a doctor. The whole “customer’s always right” doesn’t really apply here, doc. I guess next time I should go bigger, maybe try for Progeria. Might be a little tougher, though maybe not. I would like to address the question I know most of you have been asking yourself since this story started—isn’t Conjunctivitis more commonly referred to by a more popular colloquial moniker? Nooooope. Not so long as I have it. I’ll ask that you only call it this less descriptive, less degrading name.  

As mentioned previously, we had a tournament in the Czech this weekend (two games Saturday, one game today.) We went 2-1. I learned more in that one loss than in all our wins combined, specifically relating to being a good PG. Like, for instance, did you know you are only supposed to pass to the people on your team? Pistol Pete should’ve prepared me for that. Incidentally, I had some DIMES to the refs. Just sayin. The other PG was solid. She controlled the tempo and her team, while seemingly making every right decision. I wonder if she’s been doing this for more than a month. I’ll be watching that film for a while. Least until this weekend when we host our own tournament.

To add insult to injury, in our loss, I got 2 intentional fouls. I don't think I've ever got an intentional foul even when I was intentionally fouling. Leave it to refs to miss the point. I literally can’t tell you what I did to deserve them. I fouled a girl when she went up for a break away lay-up, but we were even and I was trying to block her. Wasn’t hard or super aggressive, pretty standard, got the ball but also some of her nose. If you'd seen her nose, you'd know it was unavoidable. Whistle. Intentional foul. Then, a girl crossed over in front of me and I tried to pick her pocket but got a little more than I bargained for, intentional foul. Again, not a hard foul, she didn’t fall or anything. It was the strangest thing. And of course I couldn't ask the ref to take his whistle out of his butt to explain the call to me. I was the epitome of dumbfounded. 

College football started this week. Suddenly I am paralyzed with homesickness. I don’t know what I am gonna do when college basketball starts. Huskies are 1-0, woop woop. Even better than that, Oregon lost. You know what that is, dontcha? That's right, a win-win. 

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 :)

There's always a McDonald's.

And just like that, it was time to say good-bye. All at once I wondered what I would miss the most. Instead, I became occupied with the list of things I thought I might not miss. Surely that would be more fun to explore. There are a couple of obvious ones, of course. I won’t miss being the palest person in a 50-mile radius. I won’t miss paying for gas. I won’t miss that somewhere along the way, as an American, I lost my control over flushing. I have regained that here. It feels good. And then there are the things I will miss… being able to eavesdrop on conversations—or really just being able to understand people generally. That was nice. I will miss home cooking. Not necessarily even at my home, but other people’s homes and their cooking too. I already miss Americans tacit recognition that you can only stare until you are caught. Then as a courtesy, you pretend that you weren’t really staring at all. Not here. Here it’s all ‘let’s stare until I'm caught and then continue to stare at uncomfortable and painful lengths beyond this'. What a joy this will be.

My assistant coach picked me up from the airport. Fortunately he speaks English—well, I am not sure you can quite call it that, but we made it work. Just when I thought the reality of being 5000 miles away from everything I know would start to encroach on me, I saw them.  The golden arches seemed to hug me. What could be more American? I instantly felt welcomed with this emblematic homage paid to America: McDonalds. Suddenly, I was in the Love and Basketball scene I must have seen 500 times, where the American player overseas is assured “there’s always a McDonalds". Touché lady, touché. 

It is pouring here. This really shouldn't even surprise me at this point. Wherever I go these days, the rain inevitably follows.

My room is actually big. That was a nice surprise. The rest of the apartment however, is, well...tiny. But cute. Never in my life have I seen a washing machine so small. My fridge is reminiscent of a dorm fridge. And even in my dorm room it seemed small. But my room...my room is big :)

Practice starts Tuesday and camp starts Thursday. Sidney is the other American here right now. We worked out this morning. She is kinda my person for everything right now. She speaks decent German (she lived here last year too) so maybe there is hope for me yet. 

I love it here so far. Can't wait for Tuesday. 

And they say you can't go home again...

Well I did. So sue me. And I have loved every minute of it. I haven't been home for this long since I left for college, I almost feel out of place at times. And yet there are moments when it feels like I've never left at all. As much as I am loving my time at home, I can't wait till July 28th.

It has been about 25 days now since I have been home and working out. Boy am I glad I got another month. Thankfully, I feel better than I felt 25 days ago, but unfortunately, that is saying very little since 25 days ago my Nana coulda beat me 1 on 1. Seriously. Nana's got game.

I got my new camera for my upcoming travel adventures. I have already taken an obscene amount of pictures, much to the chagrin of my friends. They will thank me later. It is a pretty nifty camera and until I've got Germany to photograph, these people will have to do. :)

                            At a wedding with Jen! We decided everyone
                                       looks better in black n white.
      

                                                        Dodger game!

My German is really coming along. I still don't know any, but I don't know quite as little as I didn't know before. That made sense in my head. I am sure once I am immersed in it, I will really start to pick things up. That, or I will just never talk.

There's no way I am never talking.

I've got 28 days until I take off... just enough time to turn 23, work Perry/Vaughan basketball camp, see the midnight showing of the final Harry Potter and eat inordinate amounts of In n Out. I'll hate to say good-bye, but somehow I think I'll find the good.