Can I Keep My Jersey?

by Paul Shirley

  I’ve decided to stop taking drugs. One of the unfortunate side effects of sport is that it often involves fast-moving objects (bats, balls, human bodies) that exert forces on one another in strange ways, sometimes resulting in injuries—especially when the objects (human bodies, most notably) are not actually designed to absorb those forces. When an athlete is injured, he often begins introducing strange chemicals into his body to abet the healing process. For instance—let us examine the case of a basketball player; we’ll call him “me” (or “I”, as grammatical rules may dictate:

  When I first jammed my neck into another player about five weeks ago, I was immediately given an anti-inflammatory injection in the right ass cheek. After the medical staff with my team had decided on a course of treatment, they started throwing drugs my way. At first, I received daily anti-inflammatory injections, along with twice-daily injections of B vitamins—all in the gluteal region. (Around the same time, I began the Ass-Cheek Rotation Program, or ACRP, so as to minimize the discomfort felt by one side or the other.) I also took one anti-epilepsy medication, Neurontin, thrice daily, and another, Rivotril, once (at night, because of its impressive sleepiness-inducing effects). I chased these with a pill taken to help my stomach deal with the other foreign substances I was sending its way. I was like an AIDS patient—drugs for the symptoms, and drugs for the drugs. The trainers soon discontinued the anti-inflammatory shots, leaving me with only two injections a day; two or three weeks after the injury, though, they started me on an oral anti-inflammatory called Voltaren and instructed me to up the dosage on the Rivotril (the aforementioned knockout pill). Fast-forward to this week. The results of a second EMG showed the nerve to be normal, which is good news—assuming that I trust the analysis of a bunch of doctors who don’t really speak the same language that I do. Apparently the nerve is healed. All that remains is to strengthen the rubber bands that currently make up my shoulder, neck, and back muscles: which might take a while—right now I can’t even do a push-up.

  I am quite thankful for the cessation of the shots in the ass. The track marks made me appear to be a very confused heroin addict. The new, almost-clean me appeared to be a step in the right direction—until I tried to go to sleep at night. I realized then that while the Rivotril did make it hard to wake up in the morning, it also made it really easy to fall asleep at night. So I have spent the last few days in withdrawal from my drowsiness-causing anti-epilepsy pill, staring at the ceiling until five A.M., and then existing in a zombie-like state during the day.

  While contemplating these very strange-sounding medications over the last few weeks, I had an epiphany: why do drug names have to sound so evil? Names such as Voltaren and Neurontin really don’t bring to mind pleasant thoughts. Go ahead, say them out loud. They don’t exactly make one think of puppy dogs and apple pies. When are pharmaceutical companies going to get their collective acts together and think up slightly more benign names? I think it would be a good idea to veer in the direction of cologne names. Breeze, by Pfizer Pharmaceuticals. Whistle, by Parke-Davis. I can hear the conversations now: “Well, my doc’s got me on Breeze for the incontinence and Whistle for the gout.” They sound a little better than, say, Fecotrix and Goutarin, don’t they? I think I’m onto something here.

  March 30

  On an off day this week, the training staff coaxed me onto the court to try a few basketball activities. This somehow evolved into me catching the ball on the post and making moves to the basket while a stationary defender stood behind me. I gave the strength coach the eye—the one that says, I probably shouldn’t be doing this, eh?—but he missed it. I was not too excited about the level of activity; at this juncture, holding my right hand over my head for five seconds took real effort, but I played along. (All those drugs may have been affecting my reasoning abilities.) At one point, I turned to my right and started to dribble en route to the basket. The dribble was not completed because some part of my wasted upper body gave out. I lost control of the ball and then of my brain, yelling like an infant and going into my best impersonation of a pouting, spoiled athlete. I didn’t actually hurt myself—I was displeased only because I was not healthy, I was doing something I shouldn’t have been doing, and my musculature had performed badly. I transferred my aggression to the ball and booted it into the stands, which made my fellow off-day participants take note. No damage was done, but the incident scared me.

  I think my little display of anger scared the coaches as well. Everyone was overly apologetic for the next few days. The strength coach and the trainer kept asking me if I thought they were doing a good job. The assistant coach even had this to say the next day: “The trainers called me and said you were a little sad yesterday about the injury situation. You should know that there’s no hurry, so just take your time. The only reason that everyone keeps asking how you are doing is that we all love you.” I would wager that no one attached to the Atlanta Hawks organization has or will ever say such a thing. I almost started crying.

  Said assistant coach was speaking English, not his primary language. As I’ve mentioned before, a secondary language can be both hilarious and endearing. The unfamiliar usage results in a child-like state, wherein everyone uses words like good and bad, love and hate, and no one has the ability to make witty or sarcastic remarks. While a little boring, it can be—even to me, the most cynical person I know—rather pleasant.

  It also serves as notice that I need to get my act together and learn Spanish so I can speak well enough that people won’t know quite what I’m saying.

  April 6

  I am always game for a public appearance. So when Joventut’s media director asked if I could go speak to some people, I enthusiastically agreed without actually inquiring about what I would be doing. I need to work on my gullibility. I showed up at the appointed time on a beautiful spring evening, and my three media relations escorts and I set off in someone’s car for what I thought was to be an appearance at a school. After spending half an hour settling on a parking spot in the local neighborhood, we ambled down to a barrio-quaint gathering place in the area. I noticed that we were decidedly not at a school and that most of the people milling about certainly looked too old to be students. I was handed several “No a la guerra” (No to the war) stickers and introduced to the organizer.

  I was the celebrity guest at a war protest.

  Someone handed me a piece of paper with lines written in Spanish. I rehearsed a little and tried to calculate accent placement. By my rudimentary translation, it was something with which I agreed, so I didn’t feel the need to make editorial changes. I was set for my first act of civil disobedience. Sometime between a Spanish version of “Imagine” by John Lennon and the simulation of war-like noises played at 120 decibels over the gigantic speakers set up for the event, I was pushed toward the microphone. The crowd of at least seventy-five waited in hushed silence. I delivered my manifesto and the masses erupted into polite applause. Before I knew it, I was whisked off the stage by my handlers, and my Bill Waltonesque experience was over before I had time to enjoy it properly. Next time, I’m requesting either looting or tear gas. A demonstration ought to involve some kind of disobedience, whether civil or otherwise.

  We recently took a trip to Slovenia for a game. I didn’t play, but accompanied the team because…the coach told me to. Generally, ours was an uneventful journey. I was glad I got to make the trip since I did get to fly across a large portion of Europe in a very small plane. I found the quarters to be cramped, but they were hell for our head coach, who has something of a nicotine addiction. (He smokes at practice occasionally.) At one point during the trip, I thought I could smell cigarette smoke, but when I remembered I was on a plane I said to myself, There’s no smoking on airplanes. Then I turned around and took stock of the situation in the seat behind me. There was our head coach, with a look on his face that portrayed a mixture of guilt, relief, and absolute glee, happily puffing away. At least one of us could be happy, I suppose.

  Slovenia is
a beautiful country. It reminded me a lot of Colorado—clean air and forested mountains, with houses scattered here and there. We (they) were in the country to play a game, of course. We (they) did that poorly and managed to be eliminated from the ULEB Cup semifinals. This leaves us with only one game a week—the Spanish league game.

  While I watched the game in Slovenia in street clothes, I noticed our opposition’s relatively docile supporters and had a flashback to Greece. I remembered the coins, rocks, and cell phones that would assault us on the court from time to time. After a game against one of the more well-financed teams in Athens, which we lost in heartbreaking fashion, a few of our fans ripped up a row of bleachers and threw them on the court. In another instance, we lost to Olympiacos, another of the big teams in the country. As I jogged off the court, I noticed a silver streak in the upper left quadrant of my vision. I ducked just in time to avoid being knocked flat by a rather large bottle of water. Ah, the good old days. True fans. The Slovenians have a long way to go.

  When we got back from Slovenia, my next-youngest brother arrived in Spain. He just finished a mind-numbing job at a hospital in Kansas and has some time before medical school starts in the fall, so will live with me for the rest of my time in Barcelona. One of my most impressive early Spanish-language accomplishments was ordering pizza over the phone, in Spanish. I thought I would impress my brother Dan with my pizza-ordering skills on one of his first nights in town. I ordered two identical pies to simplify matters. When the doorbell rang, I thought, I’ve done it again. Pizza’s here, proving that I am indeed quite the linguist. Then two things happened. The first changed my view of the world, the second of my Spanish skills. I handed the deliverer sixteen euros for a thirteen-euro bill. Pizzaboy said, “That’s too much, isn’t it?” I nearly fell down. He had just refused a tip—the exact opposite reaction to the glares I got in college, back when I had no money and thought that sixty cents was an acceptable tip. I assured him that it was okay and closed the door, and we turned to the pizza, delighted at the prospect of hot food. As we opened the boxes, I quickly realized by the smell assaulting my nose that my linguistic overconfidence was going to haunt us. The scent was familiar. In fact, it was the smell of the food that has become my palate’s nemesis in Spain. I had managed to procure for us two tuna pizzas. My faith in my intelligence was destroyed. More important, Dan and I had to eat pizza with tuna on it. It was as bad as it sounds.

  April 13

  Our dance team is a constant source of amusement for me. I gather that they are something of a big deal—they dominate the team’s Web site. The group does include some attractive girls, but they appear to only just be able to put a routine together, and once they do, they can barely perform it. In their defense, they dance in tight jeans and cowboy boots—part of an overall cowboy theme. Such an ensemble can’t be the best outfit for dancing.

  Interestingly, the dancing issue is not unique to our group; I have seen it wherever I have been in Europe. I thought at first that the population base must be to blame; perhaps there simply aren’t enough good-looking girls who can also dance in Europe. I quickly saw the flaws in that hypothesis: (1) the respective populations of the various countries in which I have played are hardly small, and (2) the girls in Europe are better-looking than the ones in the United States, if only because they are generally thinner. After further analysis made possible by my recent injury and the subsequent abundance of time on the bench, I have developed the theory that Europeans suffer from a life bereft of songs with good rhythm. While the citizenry of the United States is now raised on the unpredictable beats of rock, rap, and R&B, Europeans cut their musical teeth on the facile rhythms of the latest traditional folk songs with only a smattering of simple pop songs and techno ditties to keep life semi-lively. The result: dance team participants who look the part, but who dance as if they were transported from the 1950s.

  The lone male dancer in the Joventut group adds a special touch to each game. Unlike an American male dancer, who would be more of a prop, he does exactly the same dances as the girls. He even attempts the age-old, chest-out breast-shake that is nearly ubiquitous in dance routines. During our last game, he wore a midriff-baring shirt and some low-cut jeans, same as the girls. I nearly passed out due to laughter containment as I discreetly observed the action unfold during one of our time outs. Of course, I should note that our very gutsy hero is actually the best dancer on the floor. And he is at every game—notable because the girls seem to appear only when they want, making for a different number of participants each time, which can’t possibly be easy to coordinate. (Incidentally, the routines are exactly the same—and done to the same songs, in the same order—at each game.)

  Lending further credence to his claim of best-dancer honors is Julio’s constant enthusiasm. Of course, he really appears enthusiastic only by comparison. I have learned that the girls all work at the same bar at night. It shows during the day. Most of them spend a good portion of their time mustering the energy to leave the bleachers they occupy during game action, and they rarely appear pleased about venturing onto the court. Not Julio. (I don’t know his actual name. Julio seems appropriate, for some reason.) He lusts for the stage that is center court. And I say bravo Julio.

  April 27

  Good news: it appears that the members of the female population of Spain show even less inhibition regarding bikini removal at the beach than did the women in Greece. On a recent sunny day, my brother Dan and I made our nearly daily walk to the beach. As usual, we maintained a diligent watch for rampant toplessness. Our weekday trips are not always replete with quantity, but they do seem to inspire quality. Often, we will be two of only twenty or so people on a quarter-mile stretch of sand. Fortunately, a large proportion of that number is often of the lithe female contingent. At any rate, on the day in question, we were greeted by the sight of a very attractive woman of about twenty-five wading out of the water, hair wet and skin glistening,wearing only her swimsuit bottom. She walked from the sea to the showers used generally for sand removal—still topless, of course—and proceeded to rinse off in a manner reminiscent of the most scandalous shampoo commercial ever seen. It was a fine start to our day at the beach.

  Sadly, I can’t work the topless-girl angle. Spanish women have been unimpressed by my attempts at discourse; they seem impatient that I can’t speak their language. This has been a mite confusing. In Greece, the girls thought it was cute when I tried to speak Greek. Of course, since Greek is a useless language in the rest of the world, they all spoke at least a modicum of English; I could always fall back on their knowledge. The Spaniards are more resistant to Westernization. Thus, I make little headway. I definitely cannot hold up under the pressure caused by the approach to a topless Spanish girl on the beach at one-thirty in the afternoon on a Tuesday. My chances of success are so low as to be nonexistent.

  I did have a promising romantic encounter recently—but not with a Spanish girl. She was German.

  A friend of mine visited during the spring break of his study-abroad university in Italy. Dan and I met him in one of the central train stations in Barcelona in order to escort him to my apartment, where he was going to stay for a few days. On the way home, I sat down on the train next to a gorgeous blond girl. Desperate for an icebreaker, I used an argument we had been having regarding the translation of some word to Spanish. I asked for her help. She was of no real assistance but seemed slightly amused. We talked for the remainder of the train ride—her English was quite impressive. Germans are smart. As we got farther from the city of Barcelona proper, the train became more and more empty, but my new friend stayed on. I began to get my hopes up; I thought maybe she lived near me, which would definitely make the relationship I was already planning more convenient.

  She didn’t just live near me. She lived about fifty paces from my front door, in an apartment above the grocery store at which we shopped on a daily basis. When we said our farewells, she gave me her number and I promised to take her to dinner someti
me soon. She agreed that a date was a good idea. I was pleased with the prospect.

  I waited a few days and called. She had given me a work number, which was curious, I thought. When I told her who I was, she brightened and then told me she would call back later.

  She didn’t call. I chalked it up to one of life’s little disappointments. We left on a two-day road trip and I tried to forget about my new favorite German girl. Sometime after we returned home, I made a solo trip into the center of the city to buy some music. Then, lo and behold, as I boarded the same train for the trip back to the suburbs, there she was again. I asked her what had happened; she said that she had lost my number. We had a great train ride home. (I thought it was great anyway. Then again, she was gorgeous. It would have seemed great if she would have stabbed me in the leg.) She promised to call the next day.

  She didn’t call. Obviously, we were not headed to a grand future together. With that in mind, I took it upon myself to march over to her apartment one evening, if only to cause an awkward encounter, which I think is always warranted. When the door opened, there was a guy I had never seen standing on the other side of the threshold. My once-future girlfriend quickly appeared at his side and then introduced me to her live-in boyfriend. Not one to be daunted by an uncomfortable situation, I allowed myself to be ushered in. I sat down and had a fine conversation with said boyfriend, who seemed to be a fine fellow. After twenty minutes, I took my leave without anyone ever explaining exactly who I was. I haven’t seen either of them since. I’d like to; I want to ask the girl why she was giving out her phone number to random guys if she was already living with one.

  Unfortunately, I don’t get paid to chase girls. With that in mind, I resumed my basketball career. Our head coach approached me after a weekend game and said that he had set up a lunch meeting for the next day. He, the trainer, the strength coach, the doctor, and I were going to discuss my return to the court. With little choice in the matter, I agreed to make an appearance. Before we set off, I had a feeling it would be an interesting meeting; the trainer and strength coach had warned me that the coach was going to try to convince me to agree to play again right away. They were a little apprehensive—my right arm remained only as strong as the average eight-year-old girl’s.