Can I Keep My Jersey?

by Paul Shirley

  December 19

  That I am in Kazan, sitting awake in this shithole of a hotel room, with the light above the door blinking on and off as if it cannot decide its role in our arrangement and my window open to the cold air in order to compensate for the overly hot radiators that I cannot control, makes what I am about to write all the more absurd.

  (Did I mention that when I checked in after our recent road trip, my refrigerator contained a half-empty bottle of water? Someone probably tested it for poison. Nice of him.)

  When we left for our last road trip, we were bid farewell at the Kazan airport by the president of the team. In his remarks, he mentioned that he was glad to see me with the team but was disappointed that he had not gotten a chance to see me play. He mentioned that I should remain ready, as my time might come at any moment. That statement, or translation thereof, turned out to be quite prophetic.

  I watched my team’s game in Istanbul in civilian clothes. We (they) lost against a team called Fenerbahçe. (I write the name only for the fun provided to the reader in attempting to decipher its pronunciation.) The next day, we departed Istanbul for Moscow and a game there. While in Moscow, we were actually given an afternoon to ourselves. I took advantage of the opportunity and set off for downtown to see the headquarters of what my textbooks always told me was the most evil place on earth. It proved to be quite an accomplishment, if only because I was able to successfully navigate Moscow’s subway. When I headed into the bowels of the city, it was with the knowledge that I had deciphered the metro systems of Barcelona, Athens, and Paris, all without an entirely firm grasp of any of those cities’ native languages. However, those mass transit experiences were aided by at least a little English posted somewhere. Not so in Moscow. All Russian. Not a letter in English. Russian is not an easy language to read. It’s like Greek, only harder. With Greek, most of the letters, while foreign, are at least unique to the Greek alphabet. In fact, I can think of only one exception—P, which is rho or R. In Russian, H means N. A backward N means I. B means V. (Actually, Greek has that one, too. I stand corrected, by myself.) There is a 3 that means Z. And my personal favorite, the W that means SH. Awesome. At any rate, trying to read the names of stations on the fly in this code is not easy. And as I had set off on my journey into the center of the city at almost exactly 5:00 P.M., the rush hour crowd of dark-clad, unsmiling faces was amused neither by my confusion nor by the fact that I was using 0.67 square feet of prime potential hustling and bustling real estate while I stood staring in total bewilderment at the metro maps. Thankfully, I had asked at the front desk of the hotel exactly what trains and switches I needed to make. After nearly throwing in the towel, I finally made the mental leap needed and got on a very rickety subway train and found my way to my destination—Red Square.

  My map was a poor one, so when I emerged from the subterranean maze, I was surprised to find myself in front of the Bolshoi Theatre. I looked around outside and moved on. (I admit that I was name-dropping. I’m a little disappointed in myself. I don’t care much what the outside of the Bolshoi Theatre looks like—I thought it would make me sound more cultured. I’m sorry.) I wandered around as I tried mightily to get my bearings using the free “cultural map” I had been given at the hotel.

  Eventually, I found the Kremlin, and was not disappointed. The Kremlin itself is simply a castle set on a small hill. It is quite big and impressive and would certainly inspire me to fall in line with the party way. I snapped a few pictures and then set off across Red Square itself. Lenin’s tomb was closed—it was nighttime. The building housing it is somewhat out of place in its location—austere and modern in an area filled with grand and showy monoliths. (It dawns on me as I write this that maybe that is the point. I guess the Bolshevik revolution was a bit of a reaction to the decadence of the czars and an attempt to simplify life. It only took me three days to put that together.) From Lenin’s tomb, I could begin to see St. Basil’s Cathedral, which is one of those monuments that, like the Eiffel Tower or the Parthenon, is actually more impressive than one could imagine based on photographs alone. The onion-topped spires really are as colorful as advertised; the place is put together well.

  After hitting the high points, I wandered through some shopping districts to get a feel for the locals and then made my way back to the hotel without much event, which I found to be very surprising.

  At breakfast the next day, Ira Clark, the American player whom I am in line to quasi-replace, walked into the room without greeting and said, “I need to go home.” He had just learned of a serious illness in his family. As I was sitting in the lobby before we left for practice, one of the assistant coaches found me. He said, in very broken English, that the head coach had decided that he wanted to activate me before the next game (in two days) but needed to confirm that I was intending to stay around for the next month, as activating me would cost the team a $50,000 payment to the Russian basketball federation. I would then be registered to play and the team would have officially changed Americans. I told him, flatly, no. He was surprised and asked me why. I related what I have been feeling all along: that I had been marginalized and treated as if I were trying out for the team. Not to mention the fact that the city of Kazan is not exactly a tourist destination and my living arrangements had not been ideal. I also noted I had come to Russia thinking I was going to play, not just practice. He led me to a phone so that we could call the head coach and I could tell him of my decision. The head coach attempted to convince me to change my mind. When he could not, he told me to postpone a final decision until he could speak with me in person at the evening practice. I accepted that plan and waited with anticipation for the inevitable awkwardness of the encounter.

  That night after practice, the head coach sat me down and attempted to talk me into staying for another month. At one point, he was nearly begging. I found all of the kowtowing to be very strange. I had not played in a single game, nor had I been setting the world on fire in practice. In fact, I have shown less aptitude for shooting the ball during my time here than during any other span in my life. But, judging by the newfound affection, I’ve done something right. (Or more likely, the coach realized how difficult it would be to bring in and train another American at this point in the season.) I told him again that if I had to give him a final answer right then, it would be no. I also noted that if I were to consider staying, I should not do the considering while in Moscow, a place of relative civilization. I needed to return to Kazan and its awfulness before making a decision. He agreed to my plan, although I don’t think he agreed that Kazan is awful.

  He asked me again the next day—game day. We were to play CSKA Moscow (pronounced chess-kuh) (oh, and moss-cow, in case of retardation), the biggest and best team in Russia, so he was anxious for any advantage he could get. Ira Clark was still in the city, as he would not leave for the United States until the next day, so I found it curious that the coach continued to press me. I told him that nothing had changed. He said that he would ask me again before the game, and that I should be ready to play. Even though it seemed absurd—as I mentioned, the team would have to pay $50,000 to put me on the roster—I had a hunch that I might make my first uniformed appearance.

  We arrived at the arena behind schedule due to the murderous Moscow traffic. After helping the team get settled in the locker room, I wandered into the lobby of the arena to await the start of the game. The coach found me and asked me yet again if I would stay around for the next month. I told him that my mind had not changed. He said, rather brusquely, “Okay,” and walked off. Ten minutes later I saw him huddled with the assistant coaches, and my something-weird-is about-to-happen meter fell all the way to the right. He called me over and asked me if I was ready to play that night. I said, “Sure.” He told me that the president had shelled out the $50,000 and that I should find a uniform. I would be playing instead of Chris Anstey. The coach had told me earlier that he did not think Anstey was quite ready to play, as he was still recovering from his appendectom
y. I had an hour to prepare for my first game in a month and a half. (Or, if I don’t count preseason games—and I probably shouldn’t—my first real game in about nine months.) And against the best team in Russia, one of the best in Europe. Awesome.

  I played terribly. Everything was out of sync. I was passive, could not catch the ball, could not finish around the basket, and was generally a disaster. We lost by five or seven. I scored two points.

  I hoped that my poor play would simplify the situation. Maybe due to the constant nagging, maybe out of greed, I was starting to consider the idea of staying in Russia for a little while longer. While I still did not like much about Kazan, I was starting to tolerate the entire situation, mainly because I had found someone—Chris Anstey—whom I could stand for more than fifteen minutes at a time. He and his wife have tolerated my frequent presence at their apartment and have even cooked the occasional meal for me. They may be saving me some money that otherwise would have been earmarked for a therapist later in life.

  December 30

  I’m a liar. I went to the team and proposed a deal. The team went for my swindle. Consequently, I am still in Russia.

  The terms were a little ridiculous. I told them that I would stay for twenty days if they would pay me a month’s salary for that time period. I did some math; that wage scale is the same that I would receive if I were in the NBA—hence the proposition. I thought I could survive twenty days if I could justify in my mind that I could do no better—financially, at least—in the United States. And the team virtually fell over themselves to agree. I don’t know what is wrong with them; it’s not like I’m giving out free postgame hand jobs.

  My first real game with the team was a roaring success. (I’m not going to count the game for which I was told to dress only one hour beforehand.) We played a team from Israel that had beaten my team handily in their first encounter. I started the game, which came as a surprise, and we roared out of the gate—pardon the sportswriter-speak. I scored the first four points of the game, which was nice since it was my first appearance and the crowd didn’t know quite what to make of the longhaired American. We piled up a lead of more than twenty points by halftime but weren’t finished. I gathered that the Jews (it was mostly Jewish guys—that was not a slur) had embarrassed my team the first time around, and our coach was not going to let them forget it. We ended up winning by fifty, scoring 109 in the process—not an easy task in a forty-minute game. I really played well, finishing with fourteen points and nine rebounds, which in itself is not all that impressive. But I had a good game—it was the most fun I’ve had on a basketball court in a long, long time.

  After the game, I was invited/required to attend a Christmas-themed dinner party thrown by the owner of the team. It was quite a spectacle. Fortunately, I spent most of the night with Chris Anstey and his wife, so I had an outlet for the remarks that were brewing in my head as the night wore on. We arrived in time for the first of the evening’s many toasts, given by the owner, who heads a large chain of banks and is the vision of the stereotypical rich old Russian man. Contributing to his general ugliness was the strong impression that he’d downed at least a fifth of vodka the previous night. He speaks no English, is probably sixty but looks eighty, and constantly has a woman half his age on his arm. While I listened to his speech—or, rather, his speech washed over my ears, as it was in Russian—I wondered if a person like him takes note of the halfhearted nature of the laughs and handshakes or if he just ignores it.

  When he was finished with what was, I’m sure, a truly inspirational piece of public speaking, it was time to get down to the business of picking at some appetizer platters. While we waited for further nourishment, we were entertained by/subjected to a very bad saxophonist accompanying piped-in Kenny G. After he left to sporadic applause, I began looking around for some real food. Instead, I was treated to another toast in Russian, this time by our head coach. Fortunately, his was not as lengthy, so we were not made to wait long for a repeat of the musical stylings of our saxophone-playing friend. This cycle repeated itself—boring toast, odd entertainment, me looking around for foodstuffs—and I fell into a daze, until the girl wearing the nurse’s uniform came out. Prior to the dinner, one of my teammates, Kaspars Kambala, had translated for us a brief synopsis of the evening’s entertainment agenda. He had mentioned that there was supposed to be some “erotic dancing,” but I’d assumed he had said that only to get his wife’s blood boiling. When the girl came out, I realized that he had not been kidding.

  I should back up and do a better job of setting the stage, as it were. Those invited—players, coaches, the team doctor and trainer, a few team officials—had been encouraged to bring along their families. Most players brought only their wives, leaving their children at home. One player brought his one-year-old daughter, but his wife had taken her home after she managed to crawl under the length of the forty-foot table in just under two minutes. The fact that there were no children in attendance upon the arrival of the “nurse” was unfortunate only because their absence allowed the comedic value of the very awkward situation to wallow about three percentage points lower than its potential.

  Before the girl could even be off with her outer layer, Kambala’s wife ushered him out of the room in protest. I am not a proponent of wife beating, but come on, loosen up. After that, the girl got down to business. She only managed to bare the upper half of her body, which seemed half-assed (excuse the choice of words). She took a lap around the table and then, without fanfare, retired to the next room.

  After another toast, I was called to the front of the room to lead the singing of a Christmas carol of my choosing. I was not thrilled. But I’ve learned over the years that protests only make matters worse. It is best to seize the request before it becomes any more demeaning. Since I didn’t want to take off my shirt, I rushed to the front of the room before the situation became even more bizarre. I wish I could write that I came up with an interesting carol, but that would be untrue. I went with “Jingle Bells.” I don’t mind speaking in front of a group; singing, however, is not listed under the “Skills and Unique Abilities” section of my resume. I even failed to begin the song correctly, in two ways. First, I left out the “Dashing through the snow” beginning. To make matters worse, I started off singing “Jingle Bell Rock” and had to change gears quickly when I realized my mistake. Fortunately, there were only about four people in the audience who realized I had made a grievous melodic error. Even if the Russians knew the song, most of them were too drunk to care.

  I returned to my seat with hope that my caroling would be rewarded with some actual food. Not so. We had only been served the aforementioned appetizer platters and some broth that took more calories to consume than it provided, so I was beginning to get a little cranky.

  After another toast, the ante was upped, and more strippers came out. Male strippers. Plural. The Kambalas made another swift exit, as did two of my more insecure teammates. (Leaving the scene under such a circumstance does not actually make a person appear more heterosexual. It only seems to raise the question “What is he really afraid of here?” On to another tangent: it seems that a popular question these days is “What if you found out you had a gay teammate? Would it bother you that he was showering with you and seeing you naked?” This baffles me. It is not like being around a gay dude is going to turn me into a homosexual. Plus, he might be able to give me hair-care tips.) The male burlesque show was truly hilarious, as the poor guys were dancing around like, well, a couple of fairies (and I mean that in the most Tinkerbell, ballet-like way I can) while most of the audience either laughed or made remarks under their breath. They took off their shirts and then finally slunk off stage right. I’m not sure what the organizers of the event could have been thinking. Having the female stripper was pushing it, undoubtedly. But two male strippers? Seriously, who could have decided, “Yeah, that will go well with the semi-formal dinner and the Santa Claus entrance”? (I neglected to mention that Santa Claus, or the Russi
an equivalent thereof, had made a white-beard-stained-with-red-wine appearance earlier in the evening. It was an uninspired performance.) Which reminds me, none of the strippers used a Santa Claus theme. It seems like that would have been a no-brainer.

  Next we took a twenty-minute break for dancing. Still no food, of course. Most of the party moved to the next room and its dance floor, which gave me the opportunity to witness the team president and the entire coaching staff attempting to dance to current pop songs. The dancing—or, more appropriately, unnecessary arrhythmic stress on some aged hips—was not a pretty sight. The most awkward aspect was that no one was really dancing with anyone. In fact, the group had a three-to-one male-to-female ratio and the dancing was taking place in one big circle, as if everyone was waiting for someone to take the lead and begin a break-dancing contest in the middle. I was glad to be able to watch from the other room—the awkwardness on the dance floor was straining the gauge. My viewing was interrupted by a lady who appeared to be the wife of one of the coaches. She told Chris and me that the president wanted everyone to dance. Wrong thing to say to me. If I had been considering going out there to break it on down, the dancing orders relieved me of that sentiment. My dancing policy is pretty simple: I try to avoid it, for the most part. There are exceptions, weddings being an obvious example. But even in that case, my dancing is generally limited to the type that involves a partner and some sort of preset routine (such as slow dancing) unless one of two conditions holds: (1) I am in a really, really good mood or (2) I am under the impression that dancing with a particular person could somehow later lead to sex with that person. At any rate, neither of my stated requirements was fulfilled in this situation, so I stayed in the dining area.