Everyone should own a onesie.

New coach, new systems, same frustratingly predictable outcome. We went down fighting, though who knows for what anymore. There seems to be a growing laundry list of incompatible motives for playing these days: some play to honor our last coach, some play for the team and, still, others just play for themselves. What ever happened to simply playing because you love it? Yes, losing sucks and of course, coaching changes aren't always easy, but at the end of the day, we are still getting paid to play basketball--a fact that still amazes me. Admittedly, we aren't making what most professional athletes spend on alcohol in a year, but that gross discrepancy doesn't eradicate the fact that, somehow, we are also pros. Shouldn't we be relishing this experience and opportunity, not pouting over things outside our control. We think things aren't fair now, heaven help us when our nikes and sweats are no longer suitable work attire. Won't we be utterly distraught. 

Incidentally my new coach sounds shockingly like Massimo from the Wedding Planner, Jennifer Lopez's only watchable movie after Selena. No, not Matthew McConaughey, the one on the left... I wish my coach looked sounded like Matt. That's right--Matt. No grown man should be called Matthew. My coaches first language is Serbian, making English his third behind German. Perfect, so now I can not know what's going on in two languages. Aside from rocking the bald look like our former coach, everything else is different. Practices are more like a track meet, and I hated those when I ran track (and by ran NATURALLY I mean shot-put, the one event that had zero running). It is hard to speculate or criticize after just a week. So I won't, for now. Our next two games are not only games that we need to win, but games that we SHOULD win. Perhaps then I will have a better idea. 

I bit off the rest of my nails this week. 

Turns out, Thanksgiving is a lot less about the people you are with and almost entirely about the quality of food. I really thought I wouldn't enjoy myself this year so far from friends and family and American football. But one bite of my teammates homemade stuffing and I couldn't have told you my mom's name.  Joke. Seriously though, the food was delicious. We decided we would all make something and eat together at our apartment. This was the tricky part--we ALL had to bring something, and for whatever reason, the team was sorta set on it being homemade. AND it couldn't be a beverage. Drat. That meant I would have to do some sort of real cooking. They'd regret that. Fortunately, I remembered one of my favorite holiday treats that nearly eludes cooking: deviled eggs. Boiling eggs isn't easy, but it is doable for me at least. I am not one to brag, but my eggs were devilishly good! Get it? Of course you do, it's stupid. Most of the German girls had never had them before and asked for my recipe. That about had me on the floor laughing.

                                                                                 
It is nearly December (holy cow, I've been here for 4 months now). Christmas is 

favorably, if not excessively celebrated in Chemnitz. Our Christmas market is quite remarkable, actually. Rides, lights, food, warm wine and lots of gift-huts (huts selling gifts). And of course, music. Now, it is one month straight of mommy's kissing Santa Claus, reindeer's trampling grandma's and jingling bells. I'm no Grinch, I just think a month is a liiiiiiiiiiiittle long. Just sayin. 

I always find it interesting which American cultural traits or customs find favor in Germany. I still don't understand why the ice thing hasn't caught on, but I know I need to let that go. After playing in a handful of road games now though, I have discovered one thing transcends any language or societal barrier here: crude, woman-hating rap. I guess "bitches be crazy" worldwide. Seems to be an epidemic of sorts. The "wife-beating" doesn't seem to be as effective as originally thought. Who knew, right? Anyways, every road game the home team's warmup playlist is a splendid assortment of these racial slurs, veiled death threats and not so veiled sexual vulgarities passed off as music as only Americans can; our 1st amendment at it's finest. I love road games... I just drink in that  rich culture that I so have been missing. 

We have our next cup game (finally) this week, on the road again against a last place division 2 team. I am pretty sure this game, like our last road cup game, will not be online. If we win this game, we are in the final four I guess for the Pokal (the cup series). 

It is starting to get really cold here now. We have been fortunate so far in that snow has not fallen and sometimes the sun says hello. However, I think those days are gone. Fear not, for I am prepared. I have equipped myself with the proper tools to stay warm. Yup. That is a jailbird onesie for adults. Everyone should own a onesie. It is totally in this season though and that baby keeps me borderline uncomfortably warm. Concerns me that babies are probably this warm like year round in these things. Probably why they are crying like someone is burning them. This was the best 30 euros I've spent since I moved here. The best thing about it is it's versatility--I can wear this puppy anywhere. Slumber party? No problem. Fancy date? Suuure, throw on some boots, a belt and an elegant vest and I am money. I'm so money, baby.

Old Habits Die Hard...ly

So I've just turned into a walking cliche. I know traditionally the impulse for dramatic hair-style changes comes as a swift result to a devastating break-up of sorts for women (I am sooo not that cliche); but mine instead comes from the sad and misguided notion that my immaterial exterior revision, if you will, is somehow a profound manifestation of a mirrored internal change. I think a therapist would simply tell me I feel a lack of control over things in my life--new coach, losing record, frustratingly unpredictable neck "injuries" and a migraine. Maybe that is why I started biting my nails again... but just my thumbs. They aren't real fingers anyways. Old habits die hard. Stupid saying. My habit might be old as hell but it refuses to die, just look at my crooked bleeding thumbs. This isn't hard, it's just hardly gonna happen. Back to the hair, I know blondes have more fun or whatever, but I think that only applies to the natural ones. I think if you are a chemically altered blonde the only thing you have more of are visible roots. I was going for Kristen Stewart brown (at least two people will think that is funny).

I love my cousin. But more than love her, I am incredibly jealous of her. Yep, jealousy trumps love--every time. She is beautiful. She is smart. She is tough as crap, and it's charming as hell. And she is real, no drama, no BS. Best of all, she totally gets me so I always feel relief when I am around her. She was here this week with her boyfriend Mitch. Mitch and I actually graduated high school together... we didn't so much as hold hands while accepting our diplomas or anything, but same school same year sorta thing. I have never had so much fun being a third wheel. Juuuuuust kiddin. No one puts Sami in a corner. I managed to make their visit mostly about me. I envy them though, just packing a bag and taking off to Germany for two weeks. Has to be an incredible experience. They helped put some things in perspective for me though, like how lucky I am to be over here. That, and how amazingly large my bed really is--it comfortably held the three of us as we laughed ourselves into comas. Seriously, drunk babies don't sleep better.

I know you all laugh at me when I suggest that I am getting old, but seriously, it is sorta becoming ridiculous. I was at weights Wednesday night just working on my traps (hope that leaves you with an awkward image) when I pull something in my neck. To be honest, I literally do not know what I did, I just know I couldn't turn my head... at all. After a series of inexplicable, but rather suitably obnoxious groans, I decided my biceps could wait and I called my trainer. "Pulling muscles is common during heavy lifting", he assured me. What about during average lifting, I wondered? I'm no sissy, but I don't know if the amount I was lifting at that moment qualifies as heavy. Just sayin. Anyways, with some physical therapy I could sorta turn my head enough to practice the rest of the week. And then, just as quickly as Kim K divorced that random athlete she married, a migraine hit me like a ton of bricks. It had been over a year since I had my last and I can still remember how awful that one was, too. I am told they are stress induced. Good thing I nipped that in the bud by taking control and dying my hair.

Our new coach starts tomorrow night. He is 25 and was most recently the coach of a Division 2 team here in Germany. I literally have no idea what to expect. We still have more than half of season left to turn things around, and I am praying that he is the catalyst for our comeback.

Thanksgiving is this week, and while they don't celebrate it here (before asking why, think about it for a sec) we are still going to have a Thanksgiving dinner Wednesday night since we have it off. Should be fun and a nice way to reconnect as a team. Speaking of holidays, I just got my flight confirmation for my Christmas break. The club pays for our travel during Christmas, so I thought I would take advantage of that. As much as I would love to spend those two weeks in Ventura, I decided a free trip to Paris might be more fun, no offense. You can imagine how I must have struggled with that decision; a real doozey that one. Look, if you expect me to keep this blog entertaining and fresh, I gotta do cool crap.

Have a wonderful Thanksgiving this week. I am grateful for all my amazing friends and family (you people). Try to take some time in between 2nds and 3rds, and heaven forbid 4ths, to remind the people you love how important they are. You know my email ;)

The Need for Speed.

Every so often you have a moment/day/week that forces you to pause and take stock of things; acknowledge how undeservedly blessed we are despite whatever challenges we may also be assuming, and that each moment, bad or good, is an exceptional gift. My week was brimming with moments like this, reminders of how strikingly fleeting everything is. Heidi was my first indication.

Heidi is one of those rare and kind individuals that no one can speak ill of simply because they are wholly good. We hadn’t seen each other for at least a year, though I surmise it was probably closer to two. What a treat it was, catching up on the new and nostalgically musing over our old college days. This was when I had my moment, my brief pause—remembering our UW experience together, it seemed like just yesterday we were there, losing coaching staffs, losing games, losing our minds at times. And now… now we are playing professionally in Europe. How incredibly fortunate we are, I thought. Even more incredible was our trip to Berlin we had planned. But I had a game to play first, so hold your horses.

You know that saying, “you can’t make em all”? Well I hate it. Why can’t you? Is there some rule, some stupid rule that says this? “You can’t miss em all”, now that should be the saying. Far more encouraging, and when you think about it, how impressive would that be to miss every shot? That cannot be easy. At some point, you figure you would just accidentally make one. Anyways, I think you get where I am going with this—I could not buy a basket in my game Saturday against Osnabruck. And for some reason, everyone kept saying this to me—“oh don’t worry, you can’t make em all.” No, maybe not, but ONE? You think that is expecting too much? Don’t say free throws, cause those don’t count. They’re free, after all, if you can’t make those you should probs hang it up, pal. Despite me, the game was close and winnable up to the point we lost. Just like that, I was faced with my second “reminder” and our win streak was over. Fleeting. 

Admittedly, after the game, Berlin seemed like an awful idea. All I wanted to do was hide under my blankets with a two pound bag of candy and my Ipod, while easing into a sugar coma. Hard to imagine anything better, but after Sunday, I can assure you there is. Speed. It’s a shame how quickly you all assume the worst. Fine, I will clarify. The autobahn. Germany really got it right with this, I tell you what. No speed limit? I literally may never leave. I was able to use a team car to drive Heidi and I to Berlin, and fortunately, George, my beloved Isuzu back in Cali, is stick, so I knew what I was doing, so to speak. I know what you are thinking—there should always be a speed limit for women drivers, but I was made for this. If I were better at left turns, I’d be the next Danica Patrick, except successful. I topped out at 180 kph, which is like 112 mph. Don’t be too impressed though cause really, at that speed, the car is driving itself. Turned out to be very cathartic and by the time we reached Berlin I was rejuvenated.

Berlin is transcendent. It’s rather like a time machine. Every building, every memorial is a portal back to some year. It is difficult to not be moved by the history of the city, it’s resiliency. We walked around all day, literally, and surely didn’t even see half the city. We did see quite a bit though: Brandenburg tor, Reichstag, Berliner Dom, Checkpoint Charlie, the Wall, Holocaust memorial, Potsdamer Platz and Alexander Platz. Another one of my friends from home was auspiciously visiting Berlin that weekend as well, so we were able to meet, too. Daniel is of the Olivier family. Nuff said. That family pees genius. Needless to say, it was great getting to see him.

Speaking of pee, my coach was fired Monday. Sorry, there is no clever segue for that I’m afraid. I know I didn't talk about him much, but I really liked my coach, so I am pretty bummed about it. This makes me 4-4 now with coaches being fired after coaching me—two college coaches, two professional coaches (the Chicago Sky coach was fired the season I was cut; normally I wouldn’t count it since I was barely on the team, but it helps my argument). You’ve heard of the Midas touch, well, I got the opposite of that. It’s a good thing my High School coach was a legend before I got to him, cause any less and I bet I woulda taken him down, too. Our new coach is the guy that coached the U-17 team here…and did I mention he is dating one of my teammates? My life just turned into a soap opera, but one of the good ones like General Hospital. Not like that stupid one Passions that had ventriloquist dummies running around killing people. Gimme a break NBC daytime.

We play Saturday at Oberhausen, some 6 hours away. I am choosing to be optimistic about the situation. I have the benefit of previous experience with this, if you want to call it a benefit, so I know that while it seems like it can’t get any worse, it really can if we don’t get our minds right. Time to embrace change and get some perspective: least I still have my job.
Fleeting.

         

Put me in, Coach... just somewhere else.

Monkey’s gone. What a relief, right? As charming as my bitter diatribes were (and I don’t need you all to tell me they were, I know), it will be nice to post a slightly more upbeat blog. Where to begin—hows about with our first win.  Try and keep up now.

Donau-Ries is a good team. We were down a starting post (my roommate who “mysteriously” got Mono) so we were  tinkering with a new line-up. Fortunately this included moving me to the wing. FINALLY. As fun as it was having that much control of the ball, the whole more turnovers than points fiasco sort of trounced the control. We weren’t perfect, but we were determined. And, I dare say, we finally gelled. We also damn near gave the game away at the end. Instead, we grasped tightly to a 3 point lead and celebrated our long awaited first victory. Our league has this victory tradition here where you do a series of bows as a team to thank the fans. Neat. I also did something that game that I had yet to do this season, and I know this will come as a monumental shock to a pair of coaches: I fouled out. Best believe I did it with all the flair and excitement any Whitcomb foul-outing brings (chasing opponents down after my missed shot or tackling girls to get my turnover back), except this time there was only 45 seconds remaining in the game and not 3 minutes left… in the 3^rd quarter. I’ve come a long way.

We had a short turn around after the Donau-Ries game—the following week we had two games starting Wednesday. This is where I tell you about my near fateful encounter with Dirk! Let me begin by saying that this week began “cup” games in Germany, which I will explain thoroughly later, but essentially it is just a mini play-off with every team (division 1-3) here…so not really mini at all. In fact, it is rather large and spans a few months. You understand though. Anyways, our first one was Wednesday in Wurzburg, Dirk’s hometown. Can you say fate? I can, but the only thing my teammates could pronounce was stalker. Tomato, tomahto.  Not only did we play in his hometown, but we practiced in the gym he uses when he is home!  I knoooooow. Things were looking reaaaaal promising (here comes the near part). Now, your appreciation and understanding of my “near encounter” experience is going to be based largely on your interpretation of the word near. If you prefer the more literal usage, like some educated bore, let me prepare you for disappointment now. However, if you are one of those people that confuses their, there and they’re and still can’t comprehend that special Effects Affect you, you will surely be satisfied with my hyperbolic misuse of near. Basically, that was as close as I got—poking around the gym he occasionally utilizes in the town he grew up in, a town he no doubt rarely visits since it’s dreadful. In this instance, I am using the very literal definition of dreadful. F. Y. I.

 

While I did not experience my first uncomfortable, clammy handshake (and inevitable phone number exchange, let’s be real) with Dirk in Wurzburg, it did give me a different first: a triple-double. Nope, I am not referring to the consumption of some obscenely gigantic burger. Child please, I accomplished that first YEARS ago. Wurzburg is an unfortunate division two team here, so 14 points, 14 rebounds and 10 assists become less impressive, all things considered. We won by 55 in a grossly inequitable game that perhaps we are the worse for participating in. But, if nothing else, it was an opportunity to practice our execution and prepare for our league game Friday at Saarlouis. I didn’t know this going in, but my coach had never beaten Saarlouis since he has been with the Chemcats the past five years; evidently, they have been dominant in our division. Incidentally, this year appears to be the end of said dominance, which worked out nicely for us. That being said, our win against them Friday was hardly easy. But we were resilient and battled. If you are counting like I am now, that makes us 3-0 with me NOT playing point guard. You know what that is? It’s proof positive that I should not be passing, but rather should be passed to. Hard to argue facts. Below is how I celebrate: I climb shit. Don't let my teammates boost mislead you, I got that high on my own, no thanks to my boots. They mighta been made for walking, but that is IT. Zero pole grip. 

My college teammate Heidi is visiting this week. She plays in Germany for a division two team now about 3 hours away and her teammate is engaged to one of the players on our men’s team in Chemnitz. Small world.  But, ya know, not really... cause it’s so big and all.

I hope everyone has a fantastic and safe Halloween. They don’t really celebrate it here like Americans do. Don’t get me wrong, girls still take advantage of the opportunity to transform an otherwise respectable profession into a slutty enterprise (nurse, doctor, fireman, house-keeper, cheerleader, teacher) but the whole trick or treating thing doesn’t really translate. I guess the idea of disguising their children, sending them out on the streets alone in the dark to knock on strangers’ doors demanding disgusting amounts of candy (sure to be contaminated by the seemingly harmless cat-lady that makes all her treats) doesn’t really appeal to people here. Weird. We did carve pumpkins though while watching Hocus Pocus. There are some things I will never be too old for. 

Monkey on my back.

I have learned a lot of important lessons since I have been in Germany: Seattle, as it turns out, doesn’t have the worst drivers; there are 2 kinds of cold and the difference between them is staggering; the “bird” is in fact a universal affront; beer is not magically better in a foreign country—it’s just gross everywhere; sportswriters are just as abhorrently ignorant and adverse here as in the states; time “flies” at the same rate whether or not I am having fun, it’s science, so zip it; and love… well, it’s a battlefield. I don’t know where I got that last one, just came to me. While those are all gems, little nuggets of wisdom I will store for the rare, and rather unlikely moments in my future when an applicable instant will arise affording me the opportunity to share said lessons, there is one more that has become more and more relevant in my life: you can be good at something you do not enjoy. Mind bottling, right? (Right). Andre Agassi taught me this the first month I was here. Okay fine, his book did as well as the ghostwriter that undoubtedly wrote it for him—autobiography my ass. You hit 2,000 tennis balls a day since you were 13 at some tennis prodigy “academy”, that thought letting you sleep through your classes so you had enough energy for practice was somehow in your best interest as a human, so let’s cut the crap Andre. Not that this book was Pulitzer worthy or anything; largely anecdotal, it was still above the capacity of a middle school education. Baby steps, Andre. Sure, maybe you came up with that clever, one word title. Maybe. Anyways. He taught me this lesson. His entire book is about how he HATED tennis, but still managed to be pretty good at it. This is the story of my life recently. How so? I’m glad you asked. Here’s how: I hate losing, as do my teammates, but man, we sure are really good at it lately. I mean, we are making a living out of it, which is sort of ironic if you think about it, since our jobs kind of entail winning. Not every time, no no, of course not, but surely once, that seems reasonable.

There is a poem I once read in a John Wooden book that I’ll never forget: For when the One Great Scorer comes to mark against your name, He writes—not that you won or lost—but how you played the game. I love this. Lately, this is what helps alleviate the pain and frustration of the losses, trusting that I did my best and gave the most I could give my team. And for a moment, I am settled by this thought that I did all I could. But then I remember I am not in 5^th grade anymore, this is not rec-league and I said good-bye to juice boxes and orange slices at half time years ago. (That last point is rather troublesome though, those oranges were always so fresh and juicy, seems like professional athletes would still benefit from a little vitamin C, no?) Likewise, this also means I said good-bye to those pandering participation trophies and last place medals. The only thing last place gets you now is burned by Jim Rome and a significant drop in season ticket holders. Now it’s win or go home, literally. No one cares how hard you tried. I experienced this in college too, not to the same degree of course, though I would argue that is only because of NCAA regulations safeguarding athletes from overbearing, win-starved sports administrations and coaching staffs who seem to lack an affinity for adhering to rules. “If you aren’t cheating, you aren’t trying”. Ah yes, what every mother hopes their daughter will learn the hard way in college. How did I get on this topic? Ugh, I digress. Let me see if I can string my ramblings together—losing blows. There, that was simple. I am so eloquent, mom aren’t you proud? It’s rhetorical, so don’t answer.

Since we still haven’t gotten that elusive first win (if up till now you didn’t get that we lost last weekend and are now 0-4, please never read my blog again) everyone is on edge, panicked. Now everything is about that. It has become the proverbial monkey on our backs. Speaking of monkeys on backs, what the hell does that even mean? Elephant in the room, that I get. Monkey on my back, I assume, is meant to mean a burden. Hello, has anyone seen Friends? Ross’s monkey Marcel… you are telling me you wouldn’t want that adorable monkey on your back? That’s a bold faced lie.

Alright, if you are still with me, we play this weekend at home, 8 am your time if you would like to catch it online. Donau-Ries is another tough team, but a team that is definitely beatable, and at this point, a must-win.

That is all.

OktoBEERfest, get it?

Basketball is basketball; I have always been a believer in this. Sure some people suck at it more than others, but the principles at any level are relatively the same. I found this to be true overseas as well. Disregarding a couple minute amendments to the rules, the game here is the same. So here is my question: it’s still bad for a team to score only 4 points in one quarter in America, right? Cause when we did that here this weekend it felt pretty awwwwwwful, and I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t missing something. Like, I dunno, is that what all the cool kids are doing back home? We spotted a team, a good team, 20 points…IN THE FIRST QUARTER. I know what you are thinking—nope, I’m not kidding, as funny as that would be, and it actually was not the game plan. I probably don’t need to tell you this, but in case you are one of those “it ain’t over till the fat lady sings” kind of fan, we lost. Her fat butt started singing from the jump.

This may be hard to believe, but I have been embarrassed a lot in my lifetime. But that game ranks up there. We missed nearly every shot, I air balled twice… a blind person would have fit in well with our team Saturday. Seriously, maybe their other heightened senses could’ve helped locate the rim, hell I would have settled for the backboard. Our miserable performance Saturday prompted an inordinate amount of meetings the following days. Alls I gots to say is, if after watching even 5 minutes of that game you need to ask why we lost, mayyyyybe you shouldn’t be involved in basketball…or sports…or anything that involves thinking or basic deduction. Just sayin.

So what do you do when you have a game that appalling, that humiliating? Why you go to Oktoberfest and get drunk. Kiiiiidddddding, c’mon Mom, you know my favorite tacky credo is “hugs not drugs”, or alcohol—it’s all the same. However, while I did not get drunk, I did mosey on over to the fest that is Oktober. Sorta what you’d expect: lots of mature, exceedingly classy adults congregating mutually to rejoice in the centuries old tradition in Munich over conversation and an alcoholic beverage. Hogwash. Like I’d drive 3 hours for that baloney? Not in this lifetime. There were bloody noses, puking novices and the longest bathroom lines you will ever see. It was glorious. Let’s not jump ahead though.

The key to any successful road trip is two fold: snacks and tunes. Both must be equally versatile. You can’t just have junk food and soda, no, no, that’s all wrong. Aside from the sugar high and subsequent inevitable crash, junk food will just as quickly lead to gassy, upset stomachs. I keeps it real people, and you know I’m right. So to avoid what could only be an awkward and uncomfortable car ride, I recommend some healthy alternatives too. Perhaps sandwiches, trail mix or some fruit. Some. Likewise, the tunes need to incorporate a diverse assortment. It can’t all be Britney Spears. Trust me, we are the better for it. I drove to Munich with two teammates, so we each made a distinct playlist and put them to CDs. And we each brought different foods. This genius idea of mine worked out beautifully. Take note. 

By the time we arrived in Munich Sunday, it was a little after noon. Fully clad in our traditional Dirndls, we couldn’t have been more ready. First order of business for me: food. I wanted some legit Bavarian food. I could barely pronounce what it was that I ate, so I won’t pretend to know how to spell it,

but it was delicious. There was meat and there was bread and there was a sauce of sorts. Novel combination. Next, we needed to find a “Biergarten” so we could sit and have a drink. The first tent was unbelievably crowded. I felt like I was in the middle of a college student section that just stormed the field after a win, except I missed the game and I wasn’t a fan, so I was just confused and overwhelmed. We left. Our second try turned out to be lucky. We found a table where 6 people were sitting comfortably, which believe me stands out like a sore thumb here, so we asked if they’d mind squeezing in awkwardly for 4 strangers (Sid's uncle came with us). Here in lies the beauty of alcohol—they were inexplicably happy to do so. Boom. I couldn’t understand how they could possibly be as intoxicated as they clearly were, it was only noon after all. Before I could finish introducing myself though, a waitress placed a glass of beer in front of me. Oh. Now I get it. This was no ordinary glass of beer. This was more like a jug, or a barrel really. While estimating how many hours it might take me to finish mine (2, maybe 3 if the bathroom lines are especially long), everyone in the tent stands on their tables and begins to cheer. Well, my mama didn't raise no fool, if everyone is doing something I learned a long time ago to follow. I think they call that character. Anyways, suddenly through the swarm of merriment I saw a 20-something girl take center stage, thrusting a full barrel of beer in the air. 

The mob ate this up. 3-2-1 the girl begins to chug the drink. I considered shouting, “don’t be a hero”, but instead I just watched, genuinely impressed. The glass was easily half her size but she drank every last drop. Grinning ever so proudly, the camel plunged the empty jug into the air and the tent erupted. No standing ovation was ever less deserved. So you drank it all in less than 15 seconds. Oh big whoop. Want something to cheer for? It only took me an hour to finish mine AND that was without a bathroom break. Crazy. 

Anyways, the people that let us join them turned out to be very enjoyable. We spent a couple hours there with them and then shoved our way through the crowds outside again. We had practice the next morning so we couldn’t stay as long as we hoped, but it was still an amazing experience.

There’s a new addition to my family out here, which up till now was only myself. His name is Doobie, like the band not the thing you smoke (again, hugs not drugs) and he is my new hamster. Some of you will remember the 08' debacle with the ferret, but I assure you this time things are different. We get along swimmingly and he is great company. He is also especially photogenic. I think he is just really vain, because every time I bring the camera out suddenly he busts out with his poses. He is very human-like in that way.

  This is his stank face. We are made for each other. 

Eight.

Eight. Ocho. Acht. The number generates a variety of images and associations. An 8 ball. Spiders. Eight days of Hanukkah. Eight maids a milking. Eight is Enough. 8 Mile. Kobe. Jon and Kate plus 8. V8 juice. 8 tracks (bless you if you are old enough to remember these). The atomic number for Oxygen. Maybe your lucky number is 8. Your anniversary could be the 8^th. Perhaps you run an 8 minute mile—good for you. You might have 8 tattoos. Maybe you’ve broken 8 bones, in which case, you should chill out. Or maybe, you had 8 turnovers in your season opener last weekend. Anyone? No? Just me, huh. I used to really like 8. Now that number just pisses me the hell off. 8 turnovers. 8 times I gave the ball to the other team. 8 times I basically scored for them. After 8 weeks of preseason practices and games, I was 8 times worse than anyone else. I’ve totally moved on though.  

Some losses hurt more than others. Buzzer beaters, blow-outs, losing to teams that shouldn’t even be able to put their shoes on in the same gym as you. And then there is the worst kind: the kind that's your fault; the kind that you let get away. Our first game of the season started out ideally. We jumped out to a 12-4 lead, forced a time out by their coach and were executing pretty well. They quickly subbed and suddenly we forget how to dribble, how to pass. Down 7 at half, we had easily accumulated 20 turnovers already. Our starting PG (that’d be me) probably had 4. Just when we started to make our run, I got casual with the ball—stripped at half court, stolen pass to my post. I played 35 minutes, but my team may have been better served if I had only played the first 8.  We didn’t quit though. After being down by as much as 14, we ended up losing by 8. Eight.

 

Fortunately Ryan was here for season opener. Poor guy had to not only see my awful game, but he also sat and watched about 3-4 other games. I was literally napping at the gym I was there for so long. When we weren’t in the gym we were eating lots of food at lots of restaurants, walking around Chemnitz or playing my guitar. It was such a treat having someone from back home to talk to, sorta got home sick when he left. Can’t thank him enough for taking the time to visit me.

Season opening, despite the 8 point loss and 8 turnovers, was a unique experience. The basketball community, particularly in our division, is very close. A lot of the girls have played together at one point during their careers in Europe, so off the court the teams are very friendly, which is odd. In college I never liked my opponents. I mean even when I was nice to them at the banquets it was fake. But the girls here take pictures together and hug and hang out during the other games. They even go out and celebrate together after. It’s bizarre. I can pretend with the best of them, but to genuinely like these girls when all I want to do is beat them, well, I am just not equipped for that nonsense.

All jokes aside, 8 turnovers is ridiculous. But I didn’t come all this way to suck. Just as easily could've done that in Ventura. And I didn’t come all this way to sulk, so this pity party is over, but thanks for coming. We play again Saturday. Alls I know is I won’t be writing about no 8 next week.

 You can view my games online live at http://www.dbbl.de/cms/, you just have to click the link of the home team. We play Wolfenbuttel this weekend so you would click their home link. You can watch it live or go back and download the game after since I realize 8 is a little early for some people on a Saturday. See, no one likes 8.