by Paul Shirley
When everyone was finished expressing his inner Fred Astaire, we were eventually given some food. The entertainment fizzled out from there: our final troubadour recited poetry. In Russian, of course. After three hours of very little food and a whole bunch of strangeness, I was finally able to leave, and one of the strangest evenings of my life came to an end.
January 13
It’s official. I’m leaving Russia soon. Following my deal/swindle for an additional twenty days, the coaches asked me to remain until the end of the season. While their desperation was flattering, it did not overcome my need to leave. But before I could go, I had to deal with one final road trip.
We traveled to the Czech Republic to play a team in Nymburk, which is about an hour outside of Prague. The trip itself was a doozy. We left Monday night from Kazan to fly to Moscow, where we stayed in easily one of the grimiest hotels in which I have ever slept. It looked like it was built in the 1950s and seems to have been maintained in the style of the era—for a communist country. While there, I had my first exposure to a faucet shared by both the sink and the bathtub. The principle is a little militaristic, I suppose, but a long tap that swivels between the two is rather efficient. After a night’s sleep, we departed for Prague. Our arrival there was hailed by something I had not seen in ages—the sun. It was as if someone had taken the gray 3D glasses away from my eyes. So much color. Green grass. Red roofs. I don’t know how the Czechs stand it. I kept looking for the sludge-colored cars…houses…streets…dogs…people….
My team had lost to the Czechs the first time the two had played, so a win in Nymburk was a necessity. (Maybe a little too much gravitas there. Sometimes I get caught up in cliché fever.)
I did not have high expectations for much playing time in Nymburk. In the previous game, a home win against a team called Khimki, I had gotten the distinct impression that the process of phasing me out had begun. I didn’t start—the first time that had happened since I began playing for the Russians (with the exception, again, of the game when I was notified of my impending participation sixty minutes beforehand)—and had played only seven minutes, scoring a whopping two points.
I again did not start against the Czech team, but was one of the first off the bench when our coach was once more reminded that one of our two marquee players still has learned neither how to play defense nor how to pass the basketball to his teammates. I did not come out much after that, and had a really good time. The team we were playing was certainly not the ’87 Lakers, but they were a tenacious bunch and the win was a satisfying one. In my little niche in the world, there are few better feelings than grinding out a victory away from home. There is something about stealing the glory from the home team that gets me going.
The postgame mood was pretty somber, mainly because my team is filled with assholes like me who cannot enjoy a win if they feel they were in some way slighted by the coach regarding playing time, being yelled at, et cetera. The locker room activities were the same as usual: our coach never showed to make any postgame remarks, three players retired early to the showers to rush through a pre-cleansing cigarette—all the things that any functional basketball team does after a game. After I made my way out of the zone of positivity that was our locker room, I found myself waiting in the lobby of the complex with one of the other team’s Americans and the mother of another one. While we were engaged in conversation, she asked where I was from. When I said Kansas, she said, “Isn’t that in Nebraska?”—and was not kidding. There should be tests that a person has to pass to be allowed to continue living. The American player with whom I was waiting turned out to be a good guy, so we (“we” being my usual partner in crime, Chris Anstey, and me) got his number and promised to call him when we got back to the hotel.
We were greeted at the hotel by a meal that featured a large amount of moldy bread. I cannot say that I have ever been served moldy bread at a restaurant, so it is a good thing I went to the Czech Republic; I might otherwise have missed out on that experience. (That sentence came out a bit wrong. I in no way want to imply that all restaurants in the Czech Republic serve moldy bread. Just the hotel restaurant at the Bellevue in Nymburk.) After plowing our way through the chef’s demonstration of his apathy toward his job, we called our new friend and set out for the center of the city.
We met the American, Adam, and one of his teammates and began the age-old ritual of finding somewhere to go. As usual, this entailed our host asking dumb questions like “Where do you guys want to go?” To which the obvious response is “Well, since we don’t live here and couldn’t give a good goddamn anyway, why don’t you just pick a place?” In our case, that place was a pizzeria near downtown Nymburk.
The four of us sat around a table in the pizzeria until it closed, sharing stories about idiot coaches and brain-dead teammates. Chris and I supplemented the poor excuse for a meal provided by the hotel with some pizza, and the group consumed several beers until it was time to leave. (The total bill was about $10—cheap living in the Czech Rep.) Adam’s Czech teammate had developed some rapport with two of the waitresses, so we told him to convince them to meet us later at another bar. We also somehow picked up a Czech girl with whom the teammate had a passing acquaintance; she would prove to be nothing but a nuisance, mostly because she smelled awful.
We hiked a few blocks to a dive bar in the center of town. After a while, the two girls joined us. (Europeans, unlike many Americans, often actually do what they say they will do—if they say they will come to a bar in half an hour, that is probably what they intend to do, as opposed to the average American, who will say that with no intention of ever showing up.) For the next few hours, there was a lot of talking with minimal understanding, some dancing involving a stripper pole placed conveniently near the stage, the consumption of alcohol, the taking of several pictures, a lot of making fun of the stinky girl without her knowing it, and all in all, a memorable evening for all involved, or at least for me. Maybe the rest of the group does that on a regular basis, but I can without a doubt say that I will never have another night quite like it, not because of anything monumental that went on but because I will never be in Nymburk at my age under those circumstances ever again.
We all left the bar at 3:30 A.M. Our wake-up call for the bus to the airport was at 5:30 A.M. I was disappointed that we had to leave the Czech Republic—I had taken a liking to one of the pizzeria girls. However, I couldn’t figure out how that was going to help anyone, since I had two in-country hours remaining. My new friends came to the rescue, sort of. As I moaned about the problem, Adam called his teammate, who was in the midst of taking the two girls home. (Chivalrous of him.) I was put on the phone with the girl with whom there had been some spark. She said that she would meet me in front of our hotel at 4:15. Chris went to bed and told me to make him proud.
As I stood on a darkened plaza in Nymburk waiting for a girl to appear and for us to do God-knows-what before my team left in an hour and a quarter, I considered the absurdity of the situation. I rated it somewhere between high and very high. I was officially out of my element. It was great. There is something freeing about being so far from home. In such situations, life becomes surreal. I’ve had a fair number of such occurrences, and each time I think, This is not the sort of thing you do, Paul. But they keep happening, so apparently they are the sort of thing I do.
Marketa appeared from the dark just as I was ready to pack it in and try for forty-five minutes of sleep. I asked her if she wanted to go inside. She said no, that we should go to a bar nearby. It was probably for the best. We chatted for a while and then I walked her to her home, which was around the corner from the hotel. I kissed her and walked back to my room in time to pack up my bag and get on the bus.
I’m sure I’ll never see her again.
January 17
The hits just keep on coming here in Russia. I can’t get out of this country fast enough.
I am currently embroiled in a long process that I hope will eventually result in the return
of some of my clothes. I generally make an absolute mess out of the hotel rooms in which I stay, and find that the floor is a great place to store dirty clothes until it is time to check out. One of the maids here disagreed with my methodology and took it upon herself to take some of my soiled whites to the laundry. Unfortunately, they have not reappeared. Today I made a trip down to the front desk to see if I could learn something about my clothes’ whereabouts; the woman there told me to go back to my room and wait while she called the chambermaid to straighten things out. (At least that was what I thought she was doing.) After twenty minutes, a knock came at my door. I found a maid outside speaking rapidly in Russian. Luckily, one of the front desk workers was down the hall; she translated that the maid was asking if I wanted my room cleaned. I sent her on her way and explained the situation to the woman who had accompanied the maid. She said, “Wait two minutes.” About half an hour later, a different maid, this one bearing a striking resemblance to Olive Oyl, only without the quality dental work I would expect from a run-of-the-mill cartoon character, made an appearance. She was decidedly not holding my clean clothes and began making hand motions that were intended to simulate washing clothes, implying that she had come for the clothes that I needed washing. I shook my head and tried to smile, closed my door, found the Uzi that I keep in my bag for just such an occasion, and went on a killing rampage in the hotel. Actually, I chickened out and once again called the woman at the front desk. She assured me that everything would be taken care of. Doubtful.
The coach once again tried to persuade me to stay before the team left for Kazan, but it was to no avail. He told me that I still had time to change my mind, but he did not say anything to make that likely. So my exodus from Russia has begun, albeit slowly. I did offer the team a final proposal, one that would have nearly doubled my monthly salary, but they didn’t go for it. I think they gave it some serious consideration, but the numbers were so outlandish, it would have been difficult for them. In the interest of full disclosure, I will say that they did up their offer to a cool $55,000 a month, net of taxes, for the rest of the season (four months), but that was not quite enough to make me want to continue to deal with Russia. Of course, the above number is a ridiculous amount of money, and I have been going over and over in my head why I cannot seem to bring myself to simply endure another 120 days for the sake of my bankbook. I think I realize that I acted young and dumb to turn down such money; I just don’t care. The beauty of my current lot in life is that I can afford to be so wanton. It is possible that I will regret these poverty-making decisions at some point, but I don’t think it is likely. My current life-theme is less about planning for the future and more about enjoying what I am doing while I can. (It’s true, I do have emotions.)
With regard to basketball, I think the decision to leave was undoubtedly a good one. I’m quite sure that I am a worse player than I was when I left the United States. Since my goal (alert: potential soul-searching ahead) with regard to my basketball career is really only to see how good I can get at it before I quit, a few more months on the downslide was not going to help.
My contract came to an end a few days ago. At the request (begging) of the coaching staff, I stayed to play in one last game since I was going to be in Moscow awaiting a flight home anyway. We lost the game, thereby destroying my hope for a triumphant exit from Russia. I did not play particularly well or particularly badly. In fact, I had little impact on the game, other than some comic relief provided when I blew a wide-open layup in the first half. Our opponent was just behind us in the standings, so our loss was devastating.
As punishment, our coach banned us from leaving the hotel after the game. I was, of course, no longer under contract to the team, nor under any obligation to follow any rules set forth, so I felt no remorse when four of us set off for Moscow proper. (The hotel was not close to the city.) I’m not sure what the enforcement plan was; Chris Anstey actually walked past the coach on his way out of the hotel. When asked where he was going, Chris said, “We’re meeting people in Moscow,” which I guess was not deemed direct disobeyance of the order to “not leave the hotel.”
We rode into the city in two cabs, Chris and I in one, Shammond Williams and Ira Clark in the other. Those who had told us we were far from Moscow had not lied; it took about fifty minutes to get there. Once in the city, we ate at a terrible American restaurant that under normal circumstances would have offended my sense of taste, but because the others in the group did not have a trip to the United States in their immediate future, I could not fault their need for a bit of Americana. After the meal we meandered down to a club that the rest of the group knew. Since it was Sunday night, the place was nearly deserted. Two of the few patrons were retrieving their coats as we entered; had they left, the place would have been completely empty. But when they saw us slide up to the bar, the two girls from the coatroom decided their exit could wait, and sidled over to us. Their English was limited, and their look was a little on the whorish side, so we were somewhat suspicious of their intentions. One, whose name was something Russian that I have forgotten, claimed to be a tailor, of all things. Her friend, who was better-looking if one could overlook the zombie-like stare and pallor of her skin, did not speak English, but we learned that her cover story was that she was a student.
As the halting conversation progressed between the two of them and Shammond and me (we happened to be nearest them), my internal whore-o-meter went from 65 percent sure they were hookers to 90 percent in a matter of minutes. The Russian girls should have realized that we were going to be poor marks when they saw that we were drinking tea; had they fully understood most of the things we were saying, they definitely would have realized that we were not actually interested in their wares. We were more interested in making each other laugh. At one point, when the conversation had died down again, Shammond blurted out, “Do you have sex for money?” The ringleader of the group of two acted embarrassed, and then whispered in my ear, “Maybe two girls at same time?” which I relayed to Shammond. He asked, “How much?” They replied that it would cost $600. Having pushed the envelope as far as it needed to go, we turned away from them and went back to talking among ourselves. When we got up to leave for the night, the girls followed us as we made a final circuit of the building to see what we had been missing while we had been talking to hookers. The English-speaker made a last-ditch effort with me, saying (this is a direct quote), “Maybe now we go back to your hotel, relax, little sex, what you call—ménage à trois?” I gave her a smile and a no, and they finally left, which actually surprised me. Aren’t whores supposed to negotiate?
The story does not end there. (Well, as far as the prostitutes go, it does. My moral code is not all that stringent, I suppose, but paying for sex is unacceptable. Unless she’s a Maori. Then it has to be done in the interest of a good story.) When we left the club at about 1:30, we needed a ride home. The sister of one of our Russian teammates worked at the bar; she offered to find us a ride. We had originally planned on calling the same taxi we had taken into the city—we knew the driver knew the way home—but realized that it would probably take twenty minutes for him to find us. Our friend the worker bee assured us that the club’s doorman could find a ride for us immediately.
The two cars that arrived at the club were definitely not taxis. But that makes sense—there are very few actual taxis in Russia. Most of the taxiing that goes on is done by private citizens in their own cars. I don’t know why; it probably has something to do with an impotent government and its lack of regulations regarding such things. I do know that it takes a good deal of trust, at least for me, to get into a total stranger’s car. I realize that I do not know most taxi drivers personally, but it is reassuring to see the cabdriver’s registration hanging from his rearview mirror.
The two drivers seemed amiable enough and recognized the name of our hotel straightaway, so I thought we were in relatively good hands. In retrospect, however, we should have waited. About forty minutes later, when our
driver was hunched over the steering wheel with a baffled look on his face, Chris and I realized that our trust had been misplaced. Shammond and Ira’s car was following us; eventually their driver flashed his lights and our driver willingly pulled over for a powwow. We had a card with the hotel’s phone number and suggested that either driver call the hotel for some directions. One did; he spoke to someone for ten minutes. During these ten minutes, Chris and I came to the sobering realization that we were in a total stranger’s car in a very rural area somewhere outside of Moscow, and that this was about all the information we had about the situation. Not a great feeling, really.
After the talk, our driver came back with a purposeful look in his eye. We drove on…for about a mile. When we stopped again, both drivers got out and lit cigarettes, and Chris and I wondered what the hell was going on. We finally ascertained that they had told the hotel to send someone out for us and were waiting at the predetermined intersection for the hotel shuttle. In the meantime, I tried to call the hotel. I explained the situation as best as I could to the receptionist. After claiming that she did speak English, she listened for about twenty-five seconds and then hung up. Fantastic. We waited for a few more minutes before the other driver decided he would figure out our route home. He set out so confidently that I regained some hope.
