Can I Keep My Jersey?
Page 12
We all shuffled into a local restaurant, and the coach ordered up some of their best shellfish-in-their-shells-floating-in-some-crappy-brine stew. While I wondered what possesses any human to willingly consume such a mess, we got down to business. The coach speaks only a little English, and while my Spanish has gotten better, I am certainly no Cervantes at this point. He asked me, “Cómo está tu hombro?” (How is your shoulder?) I thought about using the truth: “Well, each day is different. Some days I really feel like I am making progress; other days I want to retire from sports entirely and spend the remainder of my days on a fishing boat in the Barcelona harbor. Right now, the deltoid is gaining strength, but the pectoral muscle is almost nonexistent. And the bones are showing through my back where a trapezius muscle used to reside.”
Instead, I said, “Mi hombro está así así y comiendo esta comida es muy similar a comiendo mis zapatos.” (I think that means, “My shoulder is so-so and eating this food is like eating my own shoes.” I may have left out the last part.) The coach then told me that he really would like me to play at whatever speed or ability I could muster. He next said that he would prefer me in any capacity to my American replacement. (I promise that I am not making this up to make myself seem like a Spanish basketball god.) He said I could practice as much as I wanted, play as long as I could, and generally dictate the situation for myself. My there’s-something-fishy-going-on-here radar went off. Coaches don’t usually make such statements to their players. Then again, they don’t usually smoke at practice, either. The team doctor, in whom I have almost no faith, rang in with his belief that my lack of strength would probably increase my chances of a new injury by 5 percent or so. The trainer and strength coach (the only people here I trust) said that they thought I could start participating in more practice situations each day but that they did not know how quickly my recovery would progress. After more broken bilingual discussion, I agreed that I could probably start to do a little more but that I wouldn’t know until the end of the week. A decision was not needed until that Friday night, so my proposal seemed acceptable to all parties. We finished our meal and went on our ways.
About six hours later, the filth I consumed exacted its revenge upon my digestive system. I have now given up on Spanish food entirely. Apparently they need to wash it or something.
On the Friday in question, we left Barcelona for a game in Granada, Spain; we had decided that I would play in three-to-four-minute bursts. The team was ferried to Granada on the second-smallest plane in which I have ever ridden. (The smallest was a two-passenger Piper that a friend of mine flew.) We usually take a smallish prop plane to our away games. That plane—the Concorde, as we will now call it—is of a similar size to the one we used in college. The new plane (new, meaning different)—the Mosquito, as my teammates call it—was not much bigger than some seventies-era Cadillacs.
On the way to the airport, we were all assigned seats, which I thought was a little strange. I was pleased, though. It appeared that someone had accounted for legroom needs. When we were told to board the plane, the officials in charge made us fill the plane from front to back. Because of said legroom constraints, we larger humans sat down first and then everyone duck-walked past us to their seats. I thought that the method was a mite inefficient, and said so. I learned that behind this plan lay very solid reasoning. Our comfort had been no one’s motivation. As the biggest players on the team, we were being used as ballast. If we had been allowed to fill the plane at random large-body placement, starting in the rear, the craft would have tipped over backward. I’m not joking.
I started the game in Granada. Which makes sense—it had only been two months since I last played. I was a little surprised, but took the news as a vote of confidence. I began the game apprehensive about my assignment to play under control and to protect my shoulder, as caution on the court is impossible for me. I am like a lawn-mower blade; I am either whirring along at full speed, cutting grass, or I am just dead weight, along for the ride. (That was quite possibly the worst analogy I’ve ever used.) Surprisingly, the play-at-half-speed plan actually worked, if only because I was so rusty (not a lawn mower reference) that I had to plan my every move. We started the game badly but turned it around in the second half and came through with a much-needed road win. My performance could hardly be labeled transcendental, but all things considered, I played pretty well and finished with eleven points.
May 13
Tourism update:
There appears to be some sort of pollution situation affecting our beach. We’re not entirely sure what is going on; my brother Dan reports unidentified dead life-forms washing up on the beach, and we have heard rumblings of contamination through our admittedly inefficient grapevine. I think we will wait for a satisfactory all-clear before making any further forays into the sea. While searching for information about our problem here in the Badalona/Barcelona area, we did come upon some news about another pollution situation somewhere in Spain. In a nearby coastal town, some mechanism went awry and thousands of liters of human excrement were released into the sea. Call me crazy, but I don’t think it is outlandish to expect each seaport to be responsible for its human excrement disposal problem. In fact, it may be priority number one.
About a week ago (before the pollution talk), I finally had my first swim in the section of the Mediterranean Sea that serves as my backyard. It was pleasant enough, aside from the occasional mouthful of salt water. (It seems that one needs to be reminded by a swallow every fifteen minutes to keep one’s mouth shut—one forgets how awful sea-water tastes.) As some friends and I frolicked in the water like only kids from landlocked places can do, I noticed that my brother Dan had stopped and was holding his neck, where he thought one of us had slapped him. We left the water while reassuring him that we had not been abusing him for sport. As we did, an angry welt began to rise on his neck. He had been stung by a jellyfish. Fortunately, this story has a happy ending; we didn’t have to consult any Spanish physicians, nor was a golden shower necessary. The welt faded away after a day. Unfortunately, Dan will never again swim in the Mediterranean Sea. Considering its high fecal count, his might not be the worst idea.
May 25
Prior to my team’s last two regular-season games, we were ranked somewhere between seventh and twelfth in the league. The first eight teams would make the playoffs. By someone’s calculations, even if we won our last two games, we would need some help from other teams if a DKV Joventut playoff appearance is to become a reality. That someone was not Stephen Hawking, but I believed him nonetheless.
My shoulder has held up relatively well through our playoff push. I’ve played in four games while in disabled status and have not yet been asked to quit and join the dance team. My defense and rebounding abilities are generally terrible—perhaps due to my severely impaired level of arm strength. (At time of writing I remain unable to do either a push-up or a pull-up.) I try to make up for my glaring weaknesses by taking many, many shots—which keeps me entertained.
While my shoulder has been improving, my general health has been…not great. I think someone in Spain wants me to die. A little melodramatic, perhaps, but I don’t think it is inaccurate to write that my body has spewed forth its proverbial last gasp. It needs this season to end.
I’m a little ashamed at my thoughts—my team is currently playing in a first-round playoff series here in Spain. But, seriously, it’s May 25. Basketball season is over. And my body tells me so.
My final descent began last weekend. We won the second-to-last game of the year and so entered the final regular-season game tied with something like forty-seven other teams for seventh place. (This on May 17, one month after the NBA’s last regular-season game—and the NBA season is hardly brief.) We needed a win on the road in our final game to have any hope of qualifying for the playoffs. I spent the night before the deciding game alternating between sweating through my sheets and searching in vain for extra clothes and bedcovers to combat the chills coursing through my body.
I managed about two hours of sleep. (Obviously, my body does not know how to deal with Spanish microbes. I haven’t had so many fevers…ever.) On game day I felt relatively bad but did not mention my discomfort to anyone. (I have a theory that I am allowed to complain about one malady at a time. “Deconstructed shoulder” is the injury of record, so I feel compelled not to draw attention to my other failings.) We won the sloppily played game. I did not play very well. Nor did I feel very well. After the game, we found out that we had received the prescribed help from the other particular teams and we were playoff bound. The team was excited. As we rode back to the hotel, the mood on the bus was positively giddy. I couldn’t muster much giddiness. I wanted nothing more than to return to my room and lie down.
I spent the next days moving slowly between the couch and the bathroom, as whatever organism was breeding inside me wreaked havoc on my GI tract. Good times. With the first game of our playoff series approaching on Thursday, I muddled my way through about five minutes of practice on Tuesday and then returned home for more work on my weight-loss program. On Wednesday morning, Dan and I ventured briefly out of the apartment. Upon return to the homestead, I stumbled to my bed, doubled over in pain, and didn’t move for an hour. I resolved, as I was lying there, that I would call a medical professional as soon as I regained the ability to walk. I did not see how I was going to play very effectively the next day. I finally gathered the strength needed to walk to the phone and called the team trainer, hoping for some help.
I have described my other Spanish medical issues in excruciating detail. I will not do that here. To summarize, I spent nearly six hours of my day wandering around Barcelona’s most ghetto medical facilities in order to confirm something that has been true all of my life—that I did not have appendicitis. In the interim, I didn’t make any progress toward actually feeling better. When I got home from a day of examinations, I evaluated the situation. Because the quest for my health had taken longer than expected, the team had left for Valencia without me, but I could tell from what the team doctor had said that the coaches wanted me to come to Valencia that night for the next day’s game.
When I finally tracked down the trainer at the hotel in Valencia he said that he thought it would be best for me to stay home and rest, with the hope that I could play in the following game. (I sometimes think he is the only one in the organization with a fully functional brain.) I asked him if Zendon Hamilton was in Valencia. (He has remained with the team, practicing in case he was needed.) Incredibly, he was. The solution seemed simple to me: call the league, change Americans, problem solved. I was flattered by their confidence in me. (Or their confidence in what remained of me.) But I was at half mast because of the shoulder fiasco. Meanwhile, my case of the plague and the accompanying lack of energy had me functioning at about 20 percent. I couldn’t imagine how I was going to help my team win a basketball game. The trainer put the coach on the line. He said that if I could play the way I had the week before, it would be plenty. (He spoke of the last regular-season game, in which I had played like an eight-year-old girl with spina bifida.)
I hung up and discussed the situation with my brother Dan, who had enjoyed a festive day of untranslated Catalan television in the hospital waiting room. After some back-and-forth, he convinced me that it would probably be a better PR move to make an effort to play. Nonplussed that my little brother was probably right, I called the trainer and told him that I would go to Valencia.
I left Barcelona after ten that night. I was in fantastic shape when game time arrived the next day. I played minimally—most of my time on the court was spent wondering where I was. We lost badly. (At least, I think we lost. It all seems like some sort of horrible dream.) Our playoff run was off to a poor start.
While riding around in hazes caused by various maladies, I’ve been analyzing my thoughts on this playoff series and this season. Conclusion: I don’t care anymore. I’m not sure what that says about me; probably nothing good. In my defense, I am anxious about the job of rehabilitating my shoulder. The addition of the events of the last week to an already taxing season has not been helpful to my attitude. My body is used up for the year, and it is time to move on. Ideally, I need to be ready to play by early July in order to begin the process of finding a job for next season.
It is a sad state of affairs that I am forced to look ahead so much, but that is the nature of my life. I suppose if I had a six-year, $14 million contract, I could afford a season that lasts until Independence Day. But I don’t, so I am obligated to think in selfish terms.
The good news: while I can actively hope for my team to lose between game days, I cannot change my habits on the court. We played yesterday in the second game of the best-of-five against Valencia. I was still not in great shape. I didn’t feel all that bad, but I was weak from the starvation of the last week. (I’ve probably lost about fifteen pounds since I arrived in Spain.) I did not play well, but I did play hard. Which, along with a quarter, might buy me a minute of international long distance. We were obliterated on our home court, losing by nearly twenty points, which left our advancement hopes in dire straits. So while injury, a really long year, and constant rejection at the hands of Spanish girls has eroded my desire for the season to continue, I know that while I am hoping for a loss this coming Thursday, I won’t play like it when the day comes.
June 7
Extend-o-season is finally over. We lost in the third game of the series with Valencia. Overall, it was a rather poor playoff showing. Obviously. After the game, we boarded a plane bound for Barcelona. I was somewhat distraught. The end of each season always brings with it a panicked feeling. Even in college, I rarely dealt well with the prospect of starting over. My European counterparts were surprised by my gloom. To their way of thinking, we had made a good effort. Making the playoffs had been something of a heroic accomplishment considering our placement in the standings a few weeks earlier. In their minds, there was nothing about which we should be ashamed.
My contract with Joventut stated that I was bound to the team for three days past our final game. While we boarded the plane that would take us home to Barcelona, I heard—through my funk—talk of a postseason banquet a week from that day. I was in no mood to discuss a dinner, but knew that there was almost no way I would remain in Spain for another week. NBA summer leagues were looming; more important, I needed to go home for a few weeks of stability after the most chaotic year of my life.
When we got back to the arena where our cars waited, I asked the coach if there was any way to reschedule the banquet within the next few days so that I could attend and then leave the country. He said he would ask.
My team had something of a love affair with me since I arrived in Spain. I have never fully understood it. (Note to self: improve self-esteem so that affection does not come as a shock.) I do think I was a pleasant surprise. I played hard and was a better basketball player than they expected to find on short notice. Additionally, I embraced the Spanish culture, which is very important to these Mediterranean types. I didn’t bristle at coaching and melded well with the team already in place. I gather that the player I replaced had been quite talented but had also been difficult to deal with. Because my stay went so well, there was talk of a contract extension for me. Barcelona is hardly the worst place in the world for a person to live, so I would have seriously considered another year with Joventut.
Unfortunately, I don’t think that said talk will lead to any further employment by DKV Joventut. I became entirely too stubborn when the team informed me that there was no way that the date of the banquet could be moved. I took a stand and told them that I was going to leave the prescribed three days following our last game. It was not among my shining moments. Even when asked by the team president, who told me just how much such events mean to the Spanish people, I didn’t back down. I felt panicked about wasting any more time in Spain. (As if sitting by the beach with no responsibilities is a waste.) I told him that I had to get back to the United States.
Now it is time to prepare for the next stage. The doctors I’ve seen since I’ve been back in the United States tell me that the nerve injury I sustained could have been worse…but that it certainly is not going to magically heal in three weeks. It will be a long summer of rehab. Hopefully I can rest my brain while I rest my body. I have to get ready for next year, which I’m sure will be smooth, worry-free, and filled with thoughts of bunny rabbits and butterflies. Whatever happens, I’m confident that I won’t complain about it at all.
YEAR 2
October 5
I recently caught one of my teammates as he opened some mail at the arena. Along with his fan mail and other assorted posts, he had received a blank journal. Another player noticed his prize and asked him if he (gasp) actually kept a journal. The mail opener scoffed at the idea and said that he did not, as if that would be completely beneath him. When pressed with “Come on, man, I won’t tell the guys,” he said, “No, I really don’t…but I do keep a prayer journal from time to time.” Amazingly, the inquisitor assented that a prayer journal is cool, and went on his way. I wanted to jump up and say, “No, man, that isn’t cool. I would say that it falls decidedly not under the category of ‘cool,’ and more under the category of ‘boring,’ ‘extreme,’ or, at the very least, ‘really odd.’ But, guys, as I am a habitual journal keeper myself, don’t bother worrying about my opinion.”