Samantha J. Carlisle doesn't make sense ....man, now there's an understatement for you.
I guess about the only thing really relevant about Sam in this story is how much she likes basketball. She always did. But then again all women like jocks, right? In fact, she was always joking around that my being a Pro ballplayer was the only reason she continued to hang out with me! I guess being the babe of a Pro athlete could be considered kind've a status symbol. And Sam was, I mean is, extremely status-conscious. But all joking aside, I think Sam's had it pretty good. How many chicks get to hang out with a genuine sports star? Ungrateful piece of....I mean I just don't get it. And instead of giving me some warm womanly encouragement to find a new team, what does she do? She starts harping on me to "look into other career options", Christ. While I'm still in the friggin' hospital for godsake! I'm a ballplayer....Anyway, you can bet I put a stop to that kind of talk. Women. Talk about exasperating. I mean does she want me to play ball or does she not want me to play ball? I swear, if I had her new phone number I think I'd go ahead and call her up and
I can feel myself rambling, so I'm going to cut this short. After all, I promised not you to go on and on about stuff that doesn't mean anything. My aim was just to let you know what it is I do. So, no more Samantha J. Carlisle for now (and if my brilliant editor is as smart as he thinks he is, he'll cut this part out and we'll both be spared). This thing isn't about women. It's about basketball./////
................................threw it into fifth and just let 'er rip. Fortunately it was the middle of the day, and traffic was light. When I say M-4 and M-25, by the way, what I'm talking about are the freeways. I should probably explain. All the major roads in England are identified by letters and numbers. The freeways---Motorways, they call them---are the "M's". And all the M's are numbered, like M-1, M-4, M-11, M-25. They don't bother with cutesy-pie names like "Golden State Freeway" or "Ventura Freeway" or "San Gabriel River Freeway" or any of that typical plastic L.A. nonsense. The smaller roads get an "A" or a "B" rating, like A-429 or B-1025. It's all very efficient. And the M-25 is, arguably, the most important freeway, that is to say motorway, in the whole damn country. Why? Well, it's because the M-25 happens to be a gigantic circular thoroughfare that loops entirely around the outskirts of London in a big, always-crowded circle. No start, no finish. I think you can picture it. They call it the Orbital Expressway, or the M-25 Orbital, or just the Orbital. We shall call it the Orbital. Seemingly every major highway in England pinwheels off the Orbital, in sort've an "all roads lead to Rome" motif; so you see why it's so darned important. The M-1 runs due north toward Scotland, the M-23 due south to Gatwick Airport, the M-4 due west, past Heathrow to Newbury and Salisbury. Take the M-20 southeast and you eventually hit the White Cliffs of Dover. Take the M-3 southwest, and you're surely bound for the famous port of Southampton. An Oxford man knows to take the M-40 northwest from the Orbital; but if you're loyal to Cambridge it's northeast on the M-11. I found that having a circular freeway to circumvent the crush of the big city to be a very excellent, enlightened concept, similar to the "Beltway" surrounding Washington D.C. I never thought much of Washington either, and I remember whenever we were in town to play the Bullets how grateful I always was to the Beltway for allowing me to make it to the Cap Center without having to slog my way through D.C. It was so much easier to simply go south from D.C. National Airport, catch the Beltway east and then bend in a counterclockwise direction to get going north, cross the Potomac at the Wilson Bridge, into Maryland, and just veer off at the Cap Center exit without ever having to come to a stop. Or I should say without ever having to look at the armies of non-Washingtonians combing the city, gawking at the famous "historic landmarks" they've spent thousands of their dollars to come and see, or for that matter the parades of stupid natives just getting off work and heading to the arena to catch the action (Washington is about 80% black, by the way.). It made it so much easier to concentrate on the upcoming game, not having to stop and look at everybody. When I saw on the map that the M-25 is a circle that's the first thing I thought of, the Beltway, and I immediately made a commitment with myself---a promise to penetrate the invisible membrane of the Orbital as infrequently as possible.
Anyway, I hadn't been on the Orbital for fifteen minutes when my official Great Britain Touring Atlas informed me that I should take the A-3 turnoff if I wanted to go to Sussex, which I did. I had been told that Sussex is the most captivatingly beautiful countryside in all of England, and while that may or may not be true the point is that I knew I needed to establish somewhere as a base of operations. Didn't matter where. So I took the A-3 south-by- southwest, away from London, and plunged the red MG containing me and my carphone deep into the receptive Sussex valley.
I suppose it's sort've incumbent upon me, from time to time, being your loyal and considerate tour guide, to set the stage a little bit, not unlike the set director in a play, and even though it does elongate the story somewhat I suppose it's as necessary to a story as canvas is to paint and god knows I'm rusty. I do need the practice. So, accordingly, let me briefly describe the drive down to this bed & breakfast I wound up at. Actually, it's worth talking about. Sussex, as advertised, is quite spectacular.
But adjacent Surrey's spectacular beauty, by contrast, is really quite routine. Driving south from Heathrow on the Orbital and then southwest on the A-3 is very much like hopping on the Beltway out of D.C National and then taking the I-95 south from Washington into Northern Virginia. The same enormous concrete aorta with its endless flow of metal corpuscles, the close, high, endless, beginningless clumps of temporarily green trees lining the vessel, the organically perfect little green bushes spaced so perfectly along the shoulder so everything (in summer, at least) will look so goddam perfect, two irresistible car-crammed life-crammed expressways carving canyons out of living, deciduous green; each that curious, nauseatingly efficient sculpture that Mankind chooses to fashion and with it feed its Capital cities. Nature and concrete. Strange bedfellows. Explains a lot about our precious Human Race, or at least the governmental powers-that-be that define it. In this one parallel at least, the U.S. and U.K. race as twins---and finish in a friggin' dead heat.
(Parenthetically, it was actually sort've a good feeling being out of the country. As I said I'd resisted going, but once I was gone I was glad of it. Maybe it was things like having to listen to that blonde on the plane go on and on about that crook Oliver North, like he was some kind of goddam hero. God, it made me want to strangle her! You must understand, Mr. and Mrs. Future, 1987 was a nutty year; the whole country flipped over this guy North, who masterminded the selling of all those armaments to those crazy Iranians, ostensibly to help out a few scattered hostages, when all he and his rich military cronies wanted to do was get richer and funnel all the rest of the profits to those "patriots" in Central America somewhere. He broke about fifty laws, I guess, but for some reason the majority of my beloved countrymen turned him into some kind of demigod, who stood for truth, justice and the American way. I guess everybody thought he looked good in a uniform or something. I don't know. All I thought he looked like was that actor with the dopey name, Treat Williams. You know the guy I mean. I guess ol' Treat will probably get to play him in the movie, if there is one....But my point is simply that North is a jerk. All he did was wind up embarrassing the President. I had this guy pegged as a crook and a fake from day one. My old man was in the army, I know how those guys operate. Just to watch the guy on T.V. passing himself off as some kind of deliverer gave me the creeps.
And at the same time, of course, everybody back home has been giving a hard time to this new politico called Gary Hart, just because he was seen in company with this bitchin' babe a couple times. Big deal. Just the typical case of a bunch of lazy "news reporters" making up their own trivial stories. Just like sportswriters. No politician would be stupid enough to get caught in some sleazy affair just as he was about to become President. And even if he was fooling around, that's his own business is
n't it? And let's be real, do any of us think our leaders are especially saintly when it comes to women? 'Course not. But anyway, he said he didn't do it, so I believe him. I like Hart. Well, a little.
But you can see how I didn't have much use for America the day I left. On any level. Try this one: If I wanted to get in that blonde girl's pants, I would've had to've agreed with her that this guy Hart was some sort of immoral philanderer, and then I would've been "allowed" to do the same thing to her that Hart, she would argue, would do to her if given half a chance....and you can bet the rent money that if some rich, famous, Porsche driving, smooth operating, wavy haired guy like Hart, even though he's gotta be fifty if he's a day, were to tell her what a gallant, princely defender of the people Ollie North was---not that he would, but let's have a little fun and assume---she'd be in ol' Gary's bed quicker than you could say Iran-Contra. Doesn't that kind of female logic drive you crazy? But that's the kind've world we lived in, folks. Way back now. End parentheses.)
Back to our drive. Gratefully, Surrey quickly dissolves into Sussex and the government ceases to take an aggressive interest, and all things living and otherwise gradually grow less contrived and more delightfully quaint and real and digestible. And slower. You must understand; on the Orbital and the M-4, and even on the lesser A-3, I was consistently doing 90 and even a hundred mph in my willing little MG. No kidding. It turns out there are no speed laws in England. No rules. No such thing as a maximum speed limit sign. And tailgating isn't illegal, it's an art form. That's how I came upon this great discovery; after enough guys run up your tail, and you don't see a cop for hours at a time, you tend to get the idea after awhile and lean on the throttle! So I was forced to go an extra ten or twenty mph faster than I wanted to, just to keep from having some crazy Brit s.o.b. run right friggin' up my Maestro's blood-red rectum.
I took the A-3100 south-by-southwest from Guildford, and the terrain seemed to change as dramatically and capriciously as the sudden shifting bends in the road. First there would be dark, peopleless forests, the trees hanging over the road as if to block out the sun, then handfuls of houses, suburbs without cities, trees still packed close together like someone had planted too many but finally standing straight up to allow some actual light to shower down, and in these infrequent sunlit clearings where actual houses stood there would invariably be the unmistakable hum of human life. White-legged children of both sexes, all in baggy shorts, would occasionally dart across the road, timing their daring sorties so as to just miss being run over, the countryless, no-accent shrieks of laughter clearly audible above the various dins of engine, tire, open window. It was terrific. And the little houses were neat old things, with conspicuous brick chimneys and wood frames and real picket fences. I suppose such a description would've sufficed for each house, and each house could have existed in any decade of the prevailing century.
And then, just that quickly, the trees and houses would be gone, Texas-like pasture, but in lieu of cows the tenants would invariably be sheep (more on sheep later). And then the pasture would abruptly grow into four-foot-high fields of green grain. I wish I knew more about crops and agriculture and things like that but I don't, I play basketball, so these green fields of what looked like wheat shall remain, for purposes of this story, just that. Green wheat.
The A-3100 vanished in the village of Milford, where, purely by chance, I chose the A-283, keeping to a southern course, and for several miles we were back to the dark peopleless forests. The car was handling the turns just great. The tires grabbed the gravelly road like the suction cups on the soles of my Converses grabbing smooth hardwood. And driving on the left side and shifting left-handed was no problem for a guy like me. You guessed it, I'm ambidextruss (sp). Hell, when I was ten years old I could dribble behind my back and between my legs with either hand. And in case you've missed it, it was damn cold that day. Felt like an L.A. January, or an Illinois October. And the open window and rolled-back sunroof made it at least twice that cold. Some summer vacation! I hadn't packed any January clothes for a July arrival, so outside've my scarf I guess I was a pretty typical naive L.A. tourist when it came to wardrobe. At least I had the floor heater to keep my legs warm, keep my knee from tightening up on me. But you know what? I loved it! Really. Cold weather; that's the tonic for too many years in L.A. I'm a Midwesterner born-and-bred, bub. If it weren't for my scholarship, and the "unparalleled tradition" of great roundball at UCLA, no way I ever mortgage four years of my life to that dry, synthetic, smog pit of a town. Even now, I'm embarrassed to say I still get my mail there.
And all you transplanted Angelinos, don't talk to me about L.A. weather. You "free-thinking adults" out there, who for no good reason have at one time or another abandoned regions of our country where the climate has character, just because it's easier to live where the weather doesn't get in the way, are the worst kind of traitors. L.A. weather is simply the most obnoxious, overrated climate on this whole stupid planet. It's so boring! Always thesame, always moderate, never contrary....even the goddam winters are afraid to offend a guy. I'm proud to admit that I grew up in Illinois. To me, 50 degrees isn't winter. It's barbecue weather.
Anyway, about the only thing wrong right about then was that there was no goddam way my phone was going to ring. God, what I wouldn't've given for a wrong number!
But let's proceed with our scenic southward plunge. I slalomed my way down the A-283, wondering where I was going and when I would stop. I almost pulled into a little pub just outside the village of Chiddingfold, called the WINTERTON ARMS, but it looked too much like a Swiss chalet to pique my interest. At this stage of the game, I wanted nothing that was not "authentic country English", period. In Petworth, which was the closest thing to a town I ran into south of Guildford, the A-283 decided for no good reason to make a left turn so instead I took the A-285, keeping south. I passed some more green wheat. Then a few miscellaneous sheep. Then the road narrowed, to a quaint wooden bridge over a stream, too narrow for more than one car to cross at a time, and it was leading into a blind corner with no stop signs, if you can believe it, and so I had to wait for six cars to come across before I gathered up the courage to cross myself. So stupid. I almost turned around right there, just on general principles. But I'm glad I didn't. Because when I passed a wonderful-looking old pub all by itself along the side of the road, just south of the narrow bridge, and looked up to see an old, wooden, hanging pub sign, with a cool name like THE BADGER & THE HONEYJAR swinging back and forth in the wind, I knew I would be setting up my base camp close by.
A couple miles south of THE BADGER, just outside the village of Duncton, there was a sign. Bignor : Roman Villa . Turn left. So I did. I figured I would check out some Roman ruins by day and hang out at THE BADGER, do my drinking there, by night.
They say in England that if you're looking to stay at a bed & breakfast all you have to do is drive around and start looking for one, and it worked, because I hadn't gone a half a mile east of the A-285 on this unnamed little road before the familiar B&B sign jumped into my windshield. It said, B&B-200 yards. Those 200 yards turned out to be more like half a mile (the English are only precise when they want to be), up a relentless hill and around a bend, but it was worth it to find a delightful, rickety-old, picture-book pretty, two-story cottage perched precariously on a ridge and overlooking---with, I should hasten to add, breathtaking, spectacular ease---the vast greenwooded valley that the Sussex folk call The Downs. I actually ran around the house to check out the view before I knocked on the door. My luck was holding out. (So there you have it; the "spectacular" Heathrow-to-Sussex drive. Hope you enjoyed the education, I did my best. I knew those UCLA creative writing classes would come in handy. But if you really want to enjoy it, make the drive yourself sometime.)
When the door opened I found myself looking down at just about the cutest little old fat lady with curly red hair I'd ever seen.
"Yes?"
I didn't know the rules, so I just went ahead and winged it.
&nbs
p; "This is a bed-and-breakfast, right?"
"Indeed...."
"Got a room?"
"We go' lots a'rooms, luv, bu' no' wi' beds long 'nough f'roight stringy bloke like you!"
I was so damn tired I would've slept in a goddam washing machine.
"That's okay, ma'am, I sleep curled up like a baby. What's the bite?"
"Sorry?"
"Scuse me?"
"An' by the way, please don' call me ma'am!"
"Oh....sorry."
(or something like that)
"Like t'see?"
"But how much is it? The cost---how much does it cost me per night for the room?"
"Oh! Y'mean the rate! Well, it's twel' 'na-'aff, 'andsome. Twel' 'na-'aff quid f'er
bed'n roight good English breakfast, any time 'fore 'aff-nine."
"I assume quid means pounds."
"Tha' 'sit, luv. Bout twenny dolla', 'merican money."
It's sort of cute the way the English leave off the beginnings and ends of words, but it
takes a little getting used to.
"You take American money?"
"Oh no---no' a'toll, ducks. Just thought you'd like t'compare."
"I got plenty of money," I remember saying, trying to sound casual; I know it was a
The Basketball Expatriate Page 5
