Since none of you have probably ever heard of this “Lost” show, let me help you to understand what’s going on. Subsequent to our last discussion, the first thing you need to know is that if you’re an attractive babe…don’t go making any long range plans. You’ll almost for sure be dead by next episode. Only the stars are immune from this sorry plight. That doesn’t mean, however, that you can’t still make a cameo appearance from time to time because ghosts are welcome on this strange island. You should know, too, that cleavage is another welcome sight.
While some people are cured of deadly maladies and want to hang around the island for a while, others are selfishly anxious to be rescued. This creates problems with a pair of couples in particular. This middle-aged black gal with cancer gets re-united with her middle-aged husband who’s a white dentist and who is keen to write stuff in the white sand with black rocks. But he gets no further than, “This unhappy situation that we find ourselves in…” before his wife—who was all sweetness and light before they got reunited, reveals that she is actually Mrs. Satan. And she won’t help at all. They argue and he threatens to drill holes through all of her teeth without using novocain. But she won’t budge. And not just because she’s overweight. Because she's Mrs. Satan.
Then there’s this South Korean couple who were running away to escape their marital problems. She’s a business tycoon’s daughter who wisely married a fisherman’s son with an ugly disposition—even though the gal’s father had thoughtfully promoted him from shoeshine boy all the way up to hit man. Still, neither are satisfied and they fight all the time. She forgets to mention to Jen that her former lover has taught her to speak English so imagine his surprise when he learns of this fact after a couple of months. He’s so embarrassed and disgusted that he helps Michael build a raft.
It’s hard for Michael to find time to do this because he spends most of his time and energy in micromanaging his son, Walt, and Walt’s dog, Vincent. Vincent hates Michael and shows him his teeth. But Michael, being a city boy, doesn’t understand what this means and thinks that Vincent is grinning at him. But finally the raft is ready and will sail the next morning. No it won’t, because Walt has secretly set it on fire during the night and it burns to a crisp. John Locke knows that Walt did it because they’ve played a lot of backgammon together. So John blames it on those slimebally “Others,” the tribe that keeps kidnapping them and killing them and knocking them unconscious.
But it’s not all that uncommon to be knocked unconscious. In fact, all survivors’ job descriptions spell out their duties as: "Argue and throw fits; collect mangos, coconuts and interesting seashells; and prepare to often be knocked unconscious and to knock other folks unconscious." So no one is exempt from plenty of fighting and roughhousing. And all the girls, especially before they die, are exceptionally handy with their dukes and also, amazingly, know a good thing or two about Mixed Martial Arts. Most of them could kick Mike Tyson’s sorry butt in a heartbeat. And several of them prove it by beating up strapping fellows like Sawyer. Sawyer says “aint” a lot and did not attend an Ivy League college.
Sawyer has blackmailed Kate into some lengthy French-kissing but Dr. Jack doesn’t know about it or else there would be trouble in River City. Despite the fact that, early on, Jack didn’t want to be cast in the role of the survivors’ leader, he has become just that. He’s exceptionally smart because he passed his Medical Boards, and to prove it he is capable of making a correct decision darn near twenty percent of the time! This creates more arguing and unconsciousness and allows him to also have a turn kissing Kate. Locke keeps saying that they’re all predestined to be on the island and should keep a good attitude. And he uses this good attitude to knock people who don’t agree with him unconscious.
Just about everyone, after a few weeks, has developed an attitude of: shoot first and ask questions not at all. So Jack’s team and the Others get a lot of satisfaction out of gunning each other down, despite the fact that they need to keep a sharp eye on preventing the world from ending by pushing a button every hour and a half or so. And escaping from monsters.
There’s this Nigerian, Mr. Echo, who was a murdering druglord that coaxed his brother, a priest, into flying out of Africa with 90,000 religious statues filled with heroine. Which is good news for rock ‘n roller Charlie, who’s a drug fiend and sweet on Clair and her baby. But in the end, after the plane from Nigeria crashed on the island, it led in Mr. Echo taking the next logical career step, by himself joining the clergy—even though he didn’t graduate from seminary.
So he gets Charlie to help him and they start building a church but then Mr. Echo develops issues, and these are of a nature that sics this monster on him. And this is where you really have to take your hat off to those animal trainers on the set. It is their job to train nearly 40 million black flies into forming up into this scary-looking cloud that acts sorta like a tornado and is capable of wreaking havoc. Well, it wreaks havoc with Mr. Echo and leaves him to bleed vociferously from his every bodily orifice…until he is quite dead and no longer able to cavort with the ghost of his brother.
Hurley weighs less than a ton and enjoys snacking. One day he ate a whale that washed up on the beach. Also, he is being paid proportionately to the number of times he can say the word, “Dude.” He’s a daffy and fun-loving guy who’s never quite so happy as when he’s incarcerated in mental institutions, where he can laze around all day in a big open robe and pajamas. But he’s a deceptively fine athlete and proves it by smashing first Sawyer’s and then Dr. Jack’s guts at ping pong, and then he teaches Dr. Jack a lesson in basketball by smacking him in a game of ”Horse.” And sometimes Kate sees a horse in the jungle but doesn’t think too much about it. Why should she? This is a strange place.
There’s more, but don’t worry: I’ll keep you abreast of developments.
**********
I was down at the large City Centre Mall on Thursday night and that’s not a good idea, because it gets incredibly crowded on weekends—including lots of Saudis who have driven over from Dharan. I was alone and bored and so I had to devise my own entertainment.
I went into the food court. A lot of Bahraini women wear the black abaya but not so many wear veils. But some do and it’s always entertaining to watch them eat. They’ll jab something onto the fork and then lift the bottom of the veil and thereby guide the morsel secretly to the mouth. Then drop the veil and chew. As one of them was lifting the veil I inserted me hand under it and tickled her chin. Aghast, she allowed a piece of chicken to fall into her lap. Her eyes stared through the slit at me in something between terror and “I’m totally aghast and don’t know what to do next.”
Leaving her to her quandary, I wandered into the entry store of the Wahoo Water Park next and was attracted to the swim fins, sometimes known as duckfeet. I discarded my flip flops and stuck a pair of fins on me feet. Then I waddled around the crowded shop quacking noisily as I slapped the fins loudly on the floor. This totally befuddled both young and old. They observed intently. But I broke their reverie by shouting, “The sharks have gotten loose! The sharks have gotten loose! Run for your life!”
Bahrainis almost all have a darn good grasp of English and they understood immediately, panicking and running wildly out of the shop. The news of the shark outbreak soon reached through the turnstiles and into the water park itself and soon hundreds of bathing costume-attired fun seekers ran screaming and wild-eyed out of the entranceway and into the mall. Puddles of water were everywhere and some people were slipping and falling into piles because of it. It’s interesting to note that none of these folks had stopped to analyze the fact that there are no sharks in water parks. It’s not an aquarium, you know.
I walked along a ways and was attracted to the Marble Slab Creamery. Expensive ice cream. I watched how the workers dipped a flavor onto the marble slab and worked it with sort of a trowel thing for a while before putting it into a cup. I crowded to the front of the line and ordered caramel pecan. I noticed that the final product, before being put into the cup, was fashioned into a shape that was about as big as your hand. So I stopped the worker from putting mine in a cup and instead told her to put it onto me proferred palm. She was quite puzzled, not to mention reluctant. So I screamed in her face, “Just do it!” She fearfully, with a shriek, complied.
My scream and her responding scream, mixed in with all of the hubbub the other customers were making at my having taken cutsies in line had attracted a pair of security personnel. I hurried to them and showed them the slice of caramel pecan in me palm. I turned and, pointing, shouted to them, “SHE did it!” Outraged, they hustled to her and roughly placed her under arrest amid all the confusing chatter, accusations, and finger pointing (some at me). Cruel and Unusual Punishment would be the charge against her.
After I finished eating the ice cream off me hand (Darn! I guess I forgot to pay for it!) as I walked along, I noticed another familiar sight. Two local women were walking along in front of their combined six young children who were being attended by one of the lady’s harried Sri Lankan maid. This gal was having a devil of a time in trying to keep the unruly kids in control, as they abused her fearfully. I walked up behind one 4-year-old and whacked her loudly three times on her ample backside.
The child screamed in a combination of disbelief and pain. The mothers whirled around to see what was happening. That’s when I shouted “Leesh?!” as I pointed at the maid. Leesh, of course, means “Why?” The astonished mommies raced at the maid and began to beat her soundly. The children were all kicking her. But I didn’t watch for long, choosing instead to move right on along.
I saw a Godiva’s Chocolate shop. Very expensive (and good) Belgian chocolates in a great many varieties. First, I had the Filipina gal give me as many sample tastes of her wares as she would before she finally balked and asked what I would like. So I took about ten minutes pointing out maybe two hundred different chocolates that I wanted packaged up. She set to the task at a rapid pace and soon a large mass of chocolates was accumulating. That’s when I slipped away into the crowd, saying to myself, “Ha! It’ll take her two hours to put all of those back where they belong.”
Then I went out to the parking garage and found me car. I let the air out of all of the tires of the two cars on either side and then drove away. Me hand was steady on the wheel.
**********
I told you we would play Ahli and we did. It was a big crowd and the Ahli throng was rabid in the support of their underdogs. They were underdogs because their American player was suspended for two games for having a physical confrontation the game before, against Hala.
What had happened was that as the game was ending one of the Hala players took a swing at Ahli’s point guard, meaning to loosen several of his teeth. But this player, Shakur (an excellent point guard), ducked in the nick of time. That’s when teammate Johnny rushed over and pushed the Hala player. The Turkish referees hadn’t seen the swing, but saw the push and Mr. Taylor was ejected…drawing an automatic two-game suspension. Pretty tough break.
So they played us short-handed but I knew they, the defending league champs, had enough good players to make a tough game of it. We led by six points at half as Ahli was competing strongly. Then we opened up a 22 point third quarter lead and I was hoping for an ending with no drama. But it wasn’t to be. In the fourth quarter Ahli made seven 3-pointers and our lead was down to two. We pulled away a little at the end to win by ten in a game we had to win to stay alive in this Cup. Our local hero, Mohammed Hassan, who had 31 points the previous game, scored 36 points, including six of seven from long distance, and Lamond chipped in 31 points and 23 rebounds.
Tomorrow night we face Manama, who hasn’t lost a game in a couple of months, and we need to beat them in order to qualify for the best-two-of-three final for which they’ve already qualified. But M.H. (just mentioned) turned an ankle in the Ahli game and though he hobbled through the second half he hasn’t practiced since then and told me last night he doesn’t know if he can play or not. We’re in a degree of trouble if he can’t play. The gym will be packed to the rafters and the drums will pound. Hope Manama doesn’t pound us.
Tuesday, 23 March 2010
Tuesday, 16 March 2010
Lost and Durians
I finished Season 4 of “24” and had to take a break. Honestly, I had become pretty gun shy and was incessantly plagued with the conviction that if I didn’t whirl around every minute or so then Agent Tony Almeida would jump out of the shadows behind me and shoot me several times in the back.
He has a habit of doing that and I don’t know why the bad guys don’t realize it. For you bad guys out there: when you’re going to shoot someone don’t hold the gun, for no apparent reason, to the intended victim’s head for five seconds waiting to do it. I’m tellin’ ya, pull that blasted trigger! If you don’t, the chances are better than excellent that Tony’s about to fill your backside with painful hollow point bullets.
So maybe I was a little paranoid, but when I turned those tapes in I started looking around the video shop for something a little lighter. I eventually found one dusty bottom shelf and, through cobwebs, saw the following title: “Lost.” I was puzzled. Why didn’t the clerk realize these tapes weren’t lost but were just badly neglected?
“Baboo,” I said, “These tapes aren’t lost. Look, here they are.”
Baboo waggled his head at me, as only Indians with lifetime training can do, and explained that the tapes weren’t literally lost, but that was the name of an ongoing TV series. Not wishing to appear ignorant, I replied, “I knew that.” He waggled his head in response and I rented Season 1.
As I was leaving, I said, “You know, I knew Lost wasn’t lost. It was right there on the shelf, wasn’t it?” Baboo waggled his head. At home, I started watching the tapes.
The story is all about these varied people that have met each other before or are brother and sister or maybe father and son without realizing it, and they catch a flight out of Australia and head to L.A. Well, the darn aircraft gets all zonky and the next thing the passengers know they’re falling 30,000 feet, either onto a beach or into the Pacific Ocean. And this one guy gets sucked into a jet engine and never speaks even a single line after that.
As it, amazingly, transpires it doesn’t hurt all that bad to crash from high altitudes and most passengers sort of shrug it off. Others, however, are dead and play no further part in the saga. Some of the survivors need medical attention and receive it from Doctor Jack, who just moments earlier was boozing it up in the cabin in order to get even with his father for being a boozehound. Soon he’s attending to the injured, especially this U.S. Marshal who has the fuselage protruding from his stomach and is in great pain.
Well, Sawyer, this con man hillbilly with big dimples and a ready wit takes care of the pain problem by shooting the guy but Dr. Jack gets mad cuz it was a botched job. But John Locke, lying nearby, doesn’t pay too much attention because he’s busy wiggling his toes.
We learn later than John, inexplicably, has no sense of humor despite the fact that his dad was a great charmer, as well as practical jokester. He did little things to John like thieving one of his kidneys, causing him to be a party to Grand Larceny, wrecking his relationship with his girl friend, and finally throwing him out of an eighth story apartment building. It turns out to be worse to fall from 80 feet than from 30,000, because John’s back was broken in the fall and then he couldn’t go on a “Walkabout” in Australia because he couldn’t walk about. As the travel agent explained to him, “This isn’t a Wheelchairabout.”
So John was ticked. Until he realized that this strange island had cured him and his legs were no longer paralyzed. So he began to teach this little black kid how to play backgammon. But the kid’s father, who hadn’t seen the kid in like nine years, screams to the kid, “Stay away from him!” Yes, dad’s from New York City.
Meanwhile, Kate was proving to be incredibly compassionate in helping those in need. That compassion hadn’t necessarily been in evidence to her stepfather whom she burned to crisp while he was enjoying an alcohol-induced snooze from which he never awoke. Which made the marshal chase Kate to Australia where a widowed farmer turned her in for the bounty. Because he was having trouble with his mortgage.
So Kate was handcuffed to the marshal but she craftily got the cuffs off after the crash and pretended to be not a criminal but a prom queen. Which made both Sawyer and Dr. Jack ogle her and want to kiss her.
Well, there’s also other characters and some of them want to live on the beach while others want to live in a cave near a waterfall and this creates some tension. Also, certain eerie things keep happening. Like the guy found mangled high in a tree, and whispering noises in the jungle, and polar bears roaming about. And strange radio transmissions which even the group’s Iraqi torturer can’t quite understand.
Although this Iraqi guy, Saeed, knows an awful lot about things like martial arts and electronics. He also has an English vocabulary slightly superior to that of Queen Elizabeth. At one point he uses a wire coat hanger and a coconut to make a satellite that they hope will help them get rescued or at least provide entertaining views of outer space, but then these “Other” people on the island start pulling mischievous pranks. Like killing some of them and kidnapping a pregnant woman for sinister reasons best known only to themselves.
And then the sky turns purple and the island starts vibrating. And everything is real mysterious because they can’t figure out where they are and no one else knows either. Which I don’t understand, cuz they’re obviously on Hilo. Hadn’t even a single one of them ever been on the Road to Hana?
I’ll keep you appraised of how things progress.
**********
Last nite we had a hard game against Hala. Midway through the second quarter I was just about to pronounce myself a coaching genius, as we were ahead 34-17 and playing very well. Six minutes later I was preparing to defend myself against possible sandal peltings just before we moped off to the locker room with a five point halftime lead.
In the second half we upped the lead to near a dozen and then it went up and down until, late, it was down—way down. We led by one with a minute to play. A lot of scary things happened before we prevailed, 90-85, while my eyebrows (the shaved one has grown back in) turned white. Or maybe gray.
So now we have two top teams remaining to play in this Cup, as it’s called. We have to win them both to qualify for a place in the finals, which will be a best of three affair.
**********
Remember last time when I asked if you wanted Fadl to send you a durian from Thailand? And you didn’t know how to respond, because you didn’t know what a durian is…? Here’s the answer.
The durian is what Chinese call the King of Fruits. How they love them. I first became acquainted with them when we lived in Malaysia a number of years ago. To my surprise, I found out that Southeast Asia boasts a goodly number of fruits that most Westerners don’t even know exist. And they’re all good. The only iffy one in the bunch is the durian and I was told that it’s an acquired taste. My Chinese cohorts (Chinese make up 40% of Malaysia’s population and comprise the whole of the basketball community there) told me that the third time you try it you will be hooked for life.
I’ve had it twice and the jury's still out. I can best describe it as tasting like sweetish, mushy onions.
The durian looks like a giant hand grenade. It grows on large trees in the rain forests and is especially liked by the elephant. Elephants will butt the trunk of the durian tree until they get one to fall. Then they will use their mighty feet and weight to get the thing open. They’re really hard to open. You need something like a hammer and screwdriver to get at the insides of the things if you’re a mere human.
There’s another distinctive trait of the durian: its smell. Those rascals smell like giant limburger cheeses. Or, put another way, like poopoo. In Malaysia it’s against the law to transport them in taxis, on trains, buses, or airplanes. I mean, these things seriously stink.
Typically, you would see someone with a a big pile of durians for sale by the side of a road. And right next to them, invariably, a giant pile of mangosteens. The Chinese insist that to be enjoyed optimally the durian must be eaten in concert with the wily mangosteen. The mangosteen (looking nothing like a mango) is delicious. About the size of a small orange, it has four quarters inside that taste like sweet rhubarb. I love them and see them in markets here but they’re outrageously priced.
I love rhubarb pie. Don’t you?
He has a habit of doing that and I don’t know why the bad guys don’t realize it. For you bad guys out there: when you’re going to shoot someone don’t hold the gun, for no apparent reason, to the intended victim’s head for five seconds waiting to do it. I’m tellin’ ya, pull that blasted trigger! If you don’t, the chances are better than excellent that Tony’s about to fill your backside with painful hollow point bullets.
So maybe I was a little paranoid, but when I turned those tapes in I started looking around the video shop for something a little lighter. I eventually found one dusty bottom shelf and, through cobwebs, saw the following title: “Lost.” I was puzzled. Why didn’t the clerk realize these tapes weren’t lost but were just badly neglected?
“Baboo,” I said, “These tapes aren’t lost. Look, here they are.”
Baboo waggled his head at me, as only Indians with lifetime training can do, and explained that the tapes weren’t literally lost, but that was the name of an ongoing TV series. Not wishing to appear ignorant, I replied, “I knew that.” He waggled his head in response and I rented Season 1.
As I was leaving, I said, “You know, I knew Lost wasn’t lost. It was right there on the shelf, wasn’t it?” Baboo waggled his head. At home, I started watching the tapes.
The story is all about these varied people that have met each other before or are brother and sister or maybe father and son without realizing it, and they catch a flight out of Australia and head to L.A. Well, the darn aircraft gets all zonky and the next thing the passengers know they’re falling 30,000 feet, either onto a beach or into the Pacific Ocean. And this one guy gets sucked into a jet engine and never speaks even a single line after that.
As it, amazingly, transpires it doesn’t hurt all that bad to crash from high altitudes and most passengers sort of shrug it off. Others, however, are dead and play no further part in the saga. Some of the survivors need medical attention and receive it from Doctor Jack, who just moments earlier was boozing it up in the cabin in order to get even with his father for being a boozehound. Soon he’s attending to the injured, especially this U.S. Marshal who has the fuselage protruding from his stomach and is in great pain.
Well, Sawyer, this con man hillbilly with big dimples and a ready wit takes care of the pain problem by shooting the guy but Dr. Jack gets mad cuz it was a botched job. But John Locke, lying nearby, doesn’t pay too much attention because he’s busy wiggling his toes.
We learn later than John, inexplicably, has no sense of humor despite the fact that his dad was a great charmer, as well as practical jokester. He did little things to John like thieving one of his kidneys, causing him to be a party to Grand Larceny, wrecking his relationship with his girl friend, and finally throwing him out of an eighth story apartment building. It turns out to be worse to fall from 80 feet than from 30,000, because John’s back was broken in the fall and then he couldn’t go on a “Walkabout” in Australia because he couldn’t walk about. As the travel agent explained to him, “This isn’t a Wheelchairabout.”
So John was ticked. Until he realized that this strange island had cured him and his legs were no longer paralyzed. So he began to teach this little black kid how to play backgammon. But the kid’s father, who hadn’t seen the kid in like nine years, screams to the kid, “Stay away from him!” Yes, dad’s from New York City.
Meanwhile, Kate was proving to be incredibly compassionate in helping those in need. That compassion hadn’t necessarily been in evidence to her stepfather whom she burned to crisp while he was enjoying an alcohol-induced snooze from which he never awoke. Which made the marshal chase Kate to Australia where a widowed farmer turned her in for the bounty. Because he was having trouble with his mortgage.
So Kate was handcuffed to the marshal but she craftily got the cuffs off after the crash and pretended to be not a criminal but a prom queen. Which made both Sawyer and Dr. Jack ogle her and want to kiss her.
Well, there’s also other characters and some of them want to live on the beach while others want to live in a cave near a waterfall and this creates some tension. Also, certain eerie things keep happening. Like the guy found mangled high in a tree, and whispering noises in the jungle, and polar bears roaming about. And strange radio transmissions which even the group’s Iraqi torturer can’t quite understand.
Although this Iraqi guy, Saeed, knows an awful lot about things like martial arts and electronics. He also has an English vocabulary slightly superior to that of Queen Elizabeth. At one point he uses a wire coat hanger and a coconut to make a satellite that they hope will help them get rescued or at least provide entertaining views of outer space, but then these “Other” people on the island start pulling mischievous pranks. Like killing some of them and kidnapping a pregnant woman for sinister reasons best known only to themselves.
And then the sky turns purple and the island starts vibrating. And everything is real mysterious because they can’t figure out where they are and no one else knows either. Which I don’t understand, cuz they’re obviously on Hilo. Hadn’t even a single one of them ever been on the Road to Hana?
I’ll keep you appraised of how things progress.
**********
Last nite we had a hard game against Hala. Midway through the second quarter I was just about to pronounce myself a coaching genius, as we were ahead 34-17 and playing very well. Six minutes later I was preparing to defend myself against possible sandal peltings just before we moped off to the locker room with a five point halftime lead.
In the second half we upped the lead to near a dozen and then it went up and down until, late, it was down—way down. We led by one with a minute to play. A lot of scary things happened before we prevailed, 90-85, while my eyebrows (the shaved one has grown back in) turned white. Or maybe gray.
So now we have two top teams remaining to play in this Cup, as it’s called. We have to win them both to qualify for a place in the finals, which will be a best of three affair.
**********
Remember last time when I asked if you wanted Fadl to send you a durian from Thailand? And you didn’t know how to respond, because you didn’t know what a durian is…? Here’s the answer.
The durian is what Chinese call the King of Fruits. How they love them. I first became acquainted with them when we lived in Malaysia a number of years ago. To my surprise, I found out that Southeast Asia boasts a goodly number of fruits that most Westerners don’t even know exist. And they’re all good. The only iffy one in the bunch is the durian and I was told that it’s an acquired taste. My Chinese cohorts (Chinese make up 40% of Malaysia’s population and comprise the whole of the basketball community there) told me that the third time you try it you will be hooked for life.
I’ve had it twice and the jury's still out. I can best describe it as tasting like sweetish, mushy onions.
The durian looks like a giant hand grenade. It grows on large trees in the rain forests and is especially liked by the elephant. Elephants will butt the trunk of the durian tree until they get one to fall. Then they will use their mighty feet and weight to get the thing open. They’re really hard to open. You need something like a hammer and screwdriver to get at the insides of the things if you’re a mere human.
There’s another distinctive trait of the durian: its smell. Those rascals smell like giant limburger cheeses. Or, put another way, like poopoo. In Malaysia it’s against the law to transport them in taxis, on trains, buses, or airplanes. I mean, these things seriously stink.
Typically, you would see someone with a a big pile of durians for sale by the side of a road. And right next to them, invariably, a giant pile of mangosteens. The Chinese insist that to be enjoyed optimally the durian must be eaten in concert with the wily mangosteen. The mangosteen (looking nothing like a mango) is delicious. About the size of a small orange, it has four quarters inside that taste like sweet rhubarb. I love them and see them in markets here but they’re outrageously priced.
I love rhubarb pie. Don’t you?
Wednesday, 10 March 2010
Memory and Barefootin'
Most of you will remember that a fair number of years ago I took a Jerry Lucas weekend seminar on memory training. Unfortunately, I can’t remember what year that was, but so what? The important thing is that the seminar greatly inhanced my memorization abilities. Whereas before the presentation my memory was just good, afterwards it was, and remains, great.
I’ll always remember (you see, it worked) that he opened his presentation in the Anaheim auditorium by asking everyone that had introduced themselves to him just before the course started that morning to stand up. So about thirty people, men and women, stood. Then he asked them to sit if he correctly called out their names.
He started pointing at people and calling out their names and they began to sit down. In the end one guy stubbornly remained standing. Jerry said to him something like, “Ben, isn’t your last name Brombaird?” “No, it’s Brumbard,” he said smugly. What kind of idiot parents name their kid Brumbard? Anyway, notwithstanding that one near-miss it was still an impressive performance and there was much more to come. All of which I was fortunate enough to grasp with relative ease.
So when I recently read in the Bahrain Daily News that over 100,000 visas had been issued to foreigners, from 46 foreign countries, who would descend upon this island to witness the annual Formula One race an idea entered my mind. I decided to meet this vast and varied horde at the airport and get to know them. At least by name--since I didn’t feel I’d have time to have lunch with them all.
And so I spent a good many hours over several days at the Arrivals Hall collecting these folks’ names and making the necessary picture-association with each name that would later allow me to remember the identity of each and every person. This would be fun. And pretty darn impressive.
The big day came and there I was, roaming before the massed grandstands armed with nothing but a megaphone. Thousands and thousands of my new friends gazed at me with wonderment. I boomed out instructions to them about first standing and then sitting as they were correctly identified. They stood right on cue and, coincidentally, the race started at that exact same moment. The roar of the many powerful engines was deafening. I mean, REALLY LOUD.
Nevertheless I started pointing and calling out names but two things went awry. First, no one sat down; second, after 30 minutes of screaming into my megaphone I was so hoarse that I could barely croak. Plus my ears were ringing, being so near the track. So, mystified and a little frustrated, I made what maybe in hindsight could be termed an error in judgement. What I did was, that I had become so miffed that I turned and hurled my megaphone at the nearest racer to me…and he swerved sharply.
I thought these guys were supposed to be highly trained professionals. So how do you account for the fact that this clown managed to take himself and seventeen other cars out of the race? The caution flags were out and, as I was being escorted away by overly-angry course marshals, I happened to notice that a great many of my new friends were somewhat overwrought as well, and were making menacing gestures towards me and shouting out various cuss words in their mother tongues. All of which I understood, through lip reading (I was stone deaf by this time), as I’m also something of a linguist.
As I watched the replay of the race on TV the next day through the bars of my cell my greatest feeling was one of puzzlement. First, what’s wrong with the human race? Second, why hadn’t anyone sat down? After all, I had called out well over 200 names. It was pure happenstance that every single name was either Baboo Singh or Apu Indiri. Not my fault. That’s just how they happened to be seated.
Let me be perfectly candid with you and admit that I am not opposed to your contributing to the Free Coach Pat Fund. But don’t bother to call because the warden says I probably won’t regain my hearing for another three months.
**********
Good news for all you folks who read last week’s blog and plan to arrive here and take up careers in Food Delivery. Not only do you get to ride your scooter a lot, I found out the other day that you also get to FIX YOUR VEHICLE should it weaken!
What happened was, I was walking on the narrow street to the Al Jazira market to get some pomegranate juice and ground rhinocerous horn, and in so doing walked right by the adjoining Hardee’s and Al Kabara Restaurants. And delivery persons had taken up about two curbside parking spaces in front and were working on about six different scooters.
These people were performing differing cures upon their transports but the one I found most interesting was the fellow who had a wheel off and was walking, barefoot, around on the rubber part of the tire, trying to get it to pop into place on the rim. I mean how many jobs out there (even if you could get them, which you can’t) allow you to work barefooted any time you deem it necessary?! How many Wal*Mart Managers do you see walking the aisles without shoes on? How many doctors do you observe listening to hearts through stethoscopes while unshodden? What a great perk. Remember how great summers were when you were little and went barefoot all the time? And do you remember the song, "Barefootin'"?
Also, in the few minutes that I stood watching (work has always fascinated me) I noticed that not a single passing car hit any of the delivery persons or their scooters! Oh, sure, there were some close calls. But let’s keep those close calls in perspective and just call them exciting workplace challenges. Think of the gratification and sense of accomplishment when you nimbly leap aside at the last possible second and that Lexus misses you by a good three inches! Yet another perk!
**********
What do you think the Pakistanis and Indians in the Gulf do on Friday, their day off? Your first guess was dead-on! Yes, they play cricket! In the various Gulf countries there are always vacant lots to be found and great numbers of these serve as cricket pitches for these cricket fanatics. No, you are not justified in labeling them as “insane” for loving cricket. Let’s just say that it’s a “curious” phenomenon.
After all, you can stay at bat for like three hours and score maybe 300 runs before having your wicket knocked off or something else as bad—like having a defender catch your fly ball. Barehanded, but not necessarily barefooted, of course. They don’t use gloves in cricket. Also, all balls are fair, even if they go behind you. Which of course sends you sprinting, your bat in hand, to what we would call second base. There, you leisurely wait at that wicket until another batsman eventually does something or other.
Games only last a few days, if you happen to have that much time. These guys don’t of course and have to play hurry-up seven-hour matches. It’s an exciting affair and no wonder they love it.
Finally. On defense, which would you rather be: a fast bowler or play silly mid-off? Those things are both real.
You’re wondering how much a cricket bat costs? Sun and Sand Sporting Goods in City Centre Mall was having a big sale recently and I went inside and mosied around, finally buying some red flip flops. But I saw some cricket bats and, curious, had a look. Not bad. On sale, you can snare one for about eighteen bucks. Shall I order you two?
**********
Less than a week ago I was shrouded in doom and gloom. You’ll remember that I told you our first Cup opponent, Nuwaidrat, was dangerous. Well, we stunk up the gym and lost to them. We had a game when not a single player had a good game, plus we were still without our leading Bahraini scorer. In the locker room after the game I didn’t even get to scream at the players, because both the Shaikh (who’s normally mild mannered) and Manager Hussain both did that very capably. It was neither pretty nor fun.
Last nite we got the yucky taste out of our mouths for the time being by beating Sitra by 25 points. We played well for three of the four quarters, which, for us, is improvement. We also had Mohd Hassan back and he scored about 25 points. I’d like to watch you try and guard him. Lamond also played with good energy and that always help. Though 36 or 37 now, he’s still talented. Played in NBA nearly 13 seasons.
We play Hala next Sunday. One very welcome development is that our Federation has brought in three very good referees from Turkey to work this Cup. Consequently, there are way fewer fouls and traveling calls made, and the players/coaches don’t have to worry about the usual stuff that happens in games here when locals do them. Also, stinkin Fadl—our old nemesis—is enjoying himself of late in Thailand.
Would you like me to arrange to have him send you a durian?
I’ll always remember (you see, it worked) that he opened his presentation in the Anaheim auditorium by asking everyone that had introduced themselves to him just before the course started that morning to stand up. So about thirty people, men and women, stood. Then he asked them to sit if he correctly called out their names.
He started pointing at people and calling out their names and they began to sit down. In the end one guy stubbornly remained standing. Jerry said to him something like, “Ben, isn’t your last name Brombaird?” “No, it’s Brumbard,” he said smugly. What kind of idiot parents name their kid Brumbard? Anyway, notwithstanding that one near-miss it was still an impressive performance and there was much more to come. All of which I was fortunate enough to grasp with relative ease.
So when I recently read in the Bahrain Daily News that over 100,000 visas had been issued to foreigners, from 46 foreign countries, who would descend upon this island to witness the annual Formula One race an idea entered my mind. I decided to meet this vast and varied horde at the airport and get to know them. At least by name--since I didn’t feel I’d have time to have lunch with them all.
And so I spent a good many hours over several days at the Arrivals Hall collecting these folks’ names and making the necessary picture-association with each name that would later allow me to remember the identity of each and every person. This would be fun. And pretty darn impressive.
The big day came and there I was, roaming before the massed grandstands armed with nothing but a megaphone. Thousands and thousands of my new friends gazed at me with wonderment. I boomed out instructions to them about first standing and then sitting as they were correctly identified. They stood right on cue and, coincidentally, the race started at that exact same moment. The roar of the many powerful engines was deafening. I mean, REALLY LOUD.
Nevertheless I started pointing and calling out names but two things went awry. First, no one sat down; second, after 30 minutes of screaming into my megaphone I was so hoarse that I could barely croak. Plus my ears were ringing, being so near the track. So, mystified and a little frustrated, I made what maybe in hindsight could be termed an error in judgement. What I did was, that I had become so miffed that I turned and hurled my megaphone at the nearest racer to me…and he swerved sharply.
I thought these guys were supposed to be highly trained professionals. So how do you account for the fact that this clown managed to take himself and seventeen other cars out of the race? The caution flags were out and, as I was being escorted away by overly-angry course marshals, I happened to notice that a great many of my new friends were somewhat overwrought as well, and were making menacing gestures towards me and shouting out various cuss words in their mother tongues. All of which I understood, through lip reading (I was stone deaf by this time), as I’m also something of a linguist.
As I watched the replay of the race on TV the next day through the bars of my cell my greatest feeling was one of puzzlement. First, what’s wrong with the human race? Second, why hadn’t anyone sat down? After all, I had called out well over 200 names. It was pure happenstance that every single name was either Baboo Singh or Apu Indiri. Not my fault. That’s just how they happened to be seated.
Let me be perfectly candid with you and admit that I am not opposed to your contributing to the Free Coach Pat Fund. But don’t bother to call because the warden says I probably won’t regain my hearing for another three months.
**********
Good news for all you folks who read last week’s blog and plan to arrive here and take up careers in Food Delivery. Not only do you get to ride your scooter a lot, I found out the other day that you also get to FIX YOUR VEHICLE should it weaken!
What happened was, I was walking on the narrow street to the Al Jazira market to get some pomegranate juice and ground rhinocerous horn, and in so doing walked right by the adjoining Hardee’s and Al Kabara Restaurants. And delivery persons had taken up about two curbside parking spaces in front and were working on about six different scooters.
These people were performing differing cures upon their transports but the one I found most interesting was the fellow who had a wheel off and was walking, barefoot, around on the rubber part of the tire, trying to get it to pop into place on the rim. I mean how many jobs out there (even if you could get them, which you can’t) allow you to work barefooted any time you deem it necessary?! How many Wal*Mart Managers do you see walking the aisles without shoes on? How many doctors do you observe listening to hearts through stethoscopes while unshodden? What a great perk. Remember how great summers were when you were little and went barefoot all the time? And do you remember the song, "Barefootin'"?
Also, in the few minutes that I stood watching (work has always fascinated me) I noticed that not a single passing car hit any of the delivery persons or their scooters! Oh, sure, there were some close calls. But let’s keep those close calls in perspective and just call them exciting workplace challenges. Think of the gratification and sense of accomplishment when you nimbly leap aside at the last possible second and that Lexus misses you by a good three inches! Yet another perk!
**********
What do you think the Pakistanis and Indians in the Gulf do on Friday, their day off? Your first guess was dead-on! Yes, they play cricket! In the various Gulf countries there are always vacant lots to be found and great numbers of these serve as cricket pitches for these cricket fanatics. No, you are not justified in labeling them as “insane” for loving cricket. Let’s just say that it’s a “curious” phenomenon.
After all, you can stay at bat for like three hours and score maybe 300 runs before having your wicket knocked off or something else as bad—like having a defender catch your fly ball. Barehanded, but not necessarily barefooted, of course. They don’t use gloves in cricket. Also, all balls are fair, even if they go behind you. Which of course sends you sprinting, your bat in hand, to what we would call second base. There, you leisurely wait at that wicket until another batsman eventually does something or other.
Games only last a few days, if you happen to have that much time. These guys don’t of course and have to play hurry-up seven-hour matches. It’s an exciting affair and no wonder they love it.
Finally. On defense, which would you rather be: a fast bowler or play silly mid-off? Those things are both real.
You’re wondering how much a cricket bat costs? Sun and Sand Sporting Goods in City Centre Mall was having a big sale recently and I went inside and mosied around, finally buying some red flip flops. But I saw some cricket bats and, curious, had a look. Not bad. On sale, you can snare one for about eighteen bucks. Shall I order you two?
**********
Less than a week ago I was shrouded in doom and gloom. You’ll remember that I told you our first Cup opponent, Nuwaidrat, was dangerous. Well, we stunk up the gym and lost to them. We had a game when not a single player had a good game, plus we were still without our leading Bahraini scorer. In the locker room after the game I didn’t even get to scream at the players, because both the Shaikh (who’s normally mild mannered) and Manager Hussain both did that very capably. It was neither pretty nor fun.
Last nite we got the yucky taste out of our mouths for the time being by beating Sitra by 25 points. We played well for three of the four quarters, which, for us, is improvement. We also had Mohd Hassan back and he scored about 25 points. I’d like to watch you try and guard him. Lamond also played with good energy and that always help. Though 36 or 37 now, he’s still talented. Played in NBA nearly 13 seasons.
We play Hala next Sunday. One very welcome development is that our Federation has brought in three very good referees from Turkey to work this Cup. Consequently, there are way fewer fouls and traveling calls made, and the players/coaches don’t have to worry about the usual stuff that happens in games here when locals do them. Also, stinkin Fadl—our old nemesis—is enjoying himself of late in Thailand.
Would you like me to arrange to have him send you a durian?
Monday, 1 March 2010
News Flashes
In speed walking (I calculate that I go about 42 mph) through both Juffair and Amwaj Island I very often see vacancy signs, as both areas have a great number of apartments that need tenants.
Some of the signs say “For Rent,” but at least half use Brit-speak and say something else. You know that this area’s first foreign influence was British. And every one of you remembers that what are now the United Arab Emirates were previously the Trucial States, under a British Protectorate. So there are still a lot of British reminders throughout the Gulf.
And one of them, regarding vacancies, is: “To Let.” So as I zip around I see a lot of For Rents and a lot more of To Lets. But when I see TO LET from a distance, my body, from long years of conditioning, immediately makes a beeline for that sign. It seems that my mind (which is a trickster) doesn’t recognize that there’s a missing letter. Anyway, I get there as fast as I can, anticipation building.
There’s no need to go into detail about what happens once I arrive, but let it suffice to say that there have been some loud and colorful shouting matches. And that I’ve never even once been arrested.
**********
I wonder how you’re doing with your honey and cinnamon regimen. I’ve been on it about four months now and it’s for sure a wonder drug. It cures absolutely everything, and also promotes weight loss—something not relevant to me but which you, Tubbo, may be somewhat interested in. Earlier, I’d told you how I’d seen results within just a couple of weeks: no new outbreaks of acne, plus I’d suddenly gained feeling below my knees.
The list has grown. I was thinking real hard the other day and I realized that I’ve also been free of diphtheria, whooping cough, measles, tuberculosis, insanity, bowlegedness, colic, and swayback. For just a minute there one morning I thought I’d contracted mumps when I woke up with a swollen jaw. But then I thought back to the night before and remembered that when I’d gone in to pick up my laundry around the corner one of the workers (a suspicious sort of fellow by the name of Baboo) had accidentally hit me with a croquet mallet. So no mumps either.
And it gets even better. What with having regained feeling in my lower extremities I, one night, just for the fun of it, decided to put on my cowboy boots. With a tad of effort I squeezed my sausage-like phalanges into those pointy-toed rascals and had a look in the mirror. Pretty darn good. Why stop here?
So I went down to a cowboy place in Juffair, called the Texas Buttstomper, and did a little showing off. At first by just letting folks admire my boots while I watched the line dancing. But then (you decide if it was a miracle or not) those boots suddenly took on a life of their own and made my feet do things they never knew they could do. The bottom line is that I was a line dancing rock star for like three hours. And, more kudos to the honey and cinnamon: I’d never known a single step before that night. I’m tellin ya, it’s good stuff.
**********
We won our last game of the first phase of league play by giving a dose of strong medicine to winless Bahrain Club. Their coach, who until now had invariably worn long baggy blue shorts to go with an NFL jersey, on this night pulled a surprise. He matched up his Isaac Bruce Forty-Niners shirt with matching RED long baggy shorts. One night I asked him how many jerseys he had. He told me, proudly, that he had five—a friend of his in Canada sends them to him. You see how good it is to be well-connected, especially with Canucks? Eh?
The following night, the last game of the schedule was played and we received an unexpected gift, as Hala, playing without two injured starters, upset Ahli. We had been tied for first with Ahli and Manama and this result knocked Ahli down to third while we’re first because of a point difference over Manama; although we have the same record at 15-3. We have not won a championship, but by being first after two full rounds of play have qualified to represent Bahrain next year in the Arab Games. The winner of the grand finale, the Golden Square, will be the rep to the Gulf Games. Meanwhile, we start a new Cup competition tomorrow night, our first game against the team that just finished sixth. We still have three injured players so can take nothing for granted. Except great health, if we take large doses of you-know-what.
**********
Okay, the economy is in shambles. Jobs have disappeared, incomes have shrunk. You’d hoped to make a ton from the comfort of your home by working for E-Bay or Google, but that hasn’t worked out…as you knew, deep down, it wouldn’t. What to do?
Let me tell you about great opportunities in a thriving industry here. Just about all of the fast food places and a great many low budget type restaurants offer delivery service. And that service requires both a goodly number of motor scooters and a delivery person for each. There are swarms of these people on the busy streets.
The benefits are great. You get absolutely tons of fresh air up your nose, as you, excitedly, zip in and out of what might be described as “interesting” local traffic conditions. In addition to your insulated delivery box behind your seat (keeping you warm in winter), you have a horn and get to wear a crash helmet. At any given delivery point you may expect a tip ranging from the equivalent of 50 cents all the way up to a dollar. You will learn shortcuts that will make you the envy of your neighborhood back in India…or in your case, the West. I want you to seriously consider if this might not be the exciting adventure and career move that you’ve been looking for.
The only tiny drawback is that, statistically, you’ll have a life expectancy of exactly 227.2 days. But who’s to say you won’t laugh in the face of those odds, and whiz around a great deal longer?
As the Philosopher said: "It's a great life if you don't weaken."
**********
Well, Jenny the bride-to-be has come and gone. You remember when, three weeks ago, Rick proposed to her in public practically the second she sat foot in the Kingdom…in the Arrivals Hall at the airport? Speechless, she’d nodded her head yes, but I was just thinking. Is a non-verbalism legally binding? Or can she somehow squirm out of it without making Ann Landers mad?
No need to wonder too hard on that though, because she doesn’t seem to want to squirm out. She was here for 16 days and everything seems to have been a real life fairy tale. She likes both Rick and Bahrain. (What do you mean: “Is she on drugs?” Of course not!) And since he’s anticipating a move to Dubai they also took a 4-day side trip to the nearby Emirates and enjoyed themselves to the max while there.
Remember the ring that Rick took ten seconds to pick out…gold with tiny little pearls in a design? Well, at first she pretended to like it. Then she admitted that just maybe they should think about a possible exchange. Then, finally, she admitted that she hated its guts. That surprised me, because I didn’t even realize rings had intestines. But sure enough…she showed me part of the duodenum that she’d ripped off in a rage. Which left Rick, who’s for World Peace, ashen and shaken.
“Get used to it!” she shrieked. And then smiled sweetly at him and hinted that she was maybe just joking. But her college soccer coach at Charleston Southern wasn’t just joking when she reported back after a summer off and he called her Lard Bucket. Or was it Butterball? It was one of those two. Anyway, she admits that she’d gained a pound or two but got even with him when he wouldn’t let her play until she was again svelte. By sulking.
You’ll like this: Rick, in summing up his feelings for her, said to me, “She was everything that I expected her to be…and much, much more.” Okay, when you girls out there have stopped dabbing your eyes, and when the guys have stopped regurgitating, I’ll fill you in on what’s next. So now you’re ready? Okay.
Rick will tentatively fly to North Carolina next Month and the knot will be tied in perhaps a civil ceremony. He’ll stay there maybe a week and then come back here and then…either she’ll come here…or he’ll move there…or they will both move to Dubai…who knows? You’ll have to stay tuned to find out.
Some of the signs say “For Rent,” but at least half use Brit-speak and say something else. You know that this area’s first foreign influence was British. And every one of you remembers that what are now the United Arab Emirates were previously the Trucial States, under a British Protectorate. So there are still a lot of British reminders throughout the Gulf.
And one of them, regarding vacancies, is: “To Let.” So as I zip around I see a lot of For Rents and a lot more of To Lets. But when I see TO LET from a distance, my body, from long years of conditioning, immediately makes a beeline for that sign. It seems that my mind (which is a trickster) doesn’t recognize that there’s a missing letter. Anyway, I get there as fast as I can, anticipation building.
There’s no need to go into detail about what happens once I arrive, but let it suffice to say that there have been some loud and colorful shouting matches. And that I’ve never even once been arrested.
**********
I wonder how you’re doing with your honey and cinnamon regimen. I’ve been on it about four months now and it’s for sure a wonder drug. It cures absolutely everything, and also promotes weight loss—something not relevant to me but which you, Tubbo, may be somewhat interested in. Earlier, I’d told you how I’d seen results within just a couple of weeks: no new outbreaks of acne, plus I’d suddenly gained feeling below my knees.
The list has grown. I was thinking real hard the other day and I realized that I’ve also been free of diphtheria, whooping cough, measles, tuberculosis, insanity, bowlegedness, colic, and swayback. For just a minute there one morning I thought I’d contracted mumps when I woke up with a swollen jaw. But then I thought back to the night before and remembered that when I’d gone in to pick up my laundry around the corner one of the workers (a suspicious sort of fellow by the name of Baboo) had accidentally hit me with a croquet mallet. So no mumps either.
And it gets even better. What with having regained feeling in my lower extremities I, one night, just for the fun of it, decided to put on my cowboy boots. With a tad of effort I squeezed my sausage-like phalanges into those pointy-toed rascals and had a look in the mirror. Pretty darn good. Why stop here?
So I went down to a cowboy place in Juffair, called the Texas Buttstomper, and did a little showing off. At first by just letting folks admire my boots while I watched the line dancing. But then (you decide if it was a miracle or not) those boots suddenly took on a life of their own and made my feet do things they never knew they could do. The bottom line is that I was a line dancing rock star for like three hours. And, more kudos to the honey and cinnamon: I’d never known a single step before that night. I’m tellin ya, it’s good stuff.
**********
We won our last game of the first phase of league play by giving a dose of strong medicine to winless Bahrain Club. Their coach, who until now had invariably worn long baggy blue shorts to go with an NFL jersey, on this night pulled a surprise. He matched up his Isaac Bruce Forty-Niners shirt with matching RED long baggy shorts. One night I asked him how many jerseys he had. He told me, proudly, that he had five—a friend of his in Canada sends them to him. You see how good it is to be well-connected, especially with Canucks? Eh?
The following night, the last game of the schedule was played and we received an unexpected gift, as Hala, playing without two injured starters, upset Ahli. We had been tied for first with Ahli and Manama and this result knocked Ahli down to third while we’re first because of a point difference over Manama; although we have the same record at 15-3. We have not won a championship, but by being first after two full rounds of play have qualified to represent Bahrain next year in the Arab Games. The winner of the grand finale, the Golden Square, will be the rep to the Gulf Games. Meanwhile, we start a new Cup competition tomorrow night, our first game against the team that just finished sixth. We still have three injured players so can take nothing for granted. Except great health, if we take large doses of you-know-what.
**********
Okay, the economy is in shambles. Jobs have disappeared, incomes have shrunk. You’d hoped to make a ton from the comfort of your home by working for E-Bay or Google, but that hasn’t worked out…as you knew, deep down, it wouldn’t. What to do?
Let me tell you about great opportunities in a thriving industry here. Just about all of the fast food places and a great many low budget type restaurants offer delivery service. And that service requires both a goodly number of motor scooters and a delivery person for each. There are swarms of these people on the busy streets.
The benefits are great. You get absolutely tons of fresh air up your nose, as you, excitedly, zip in and out of what might be described as “interesting” local traffic conditions. In addition to your insulated delivery box behind your seat (keeping you warm in winter), you have a horn and get to wear a crash helmet. At any given delivery point you may expect a tip ranging from the equivalent of 50 cents all the way up to a dollar. You will learn shortcuts that will make you the envy of your neighborhood back in India…or in your case, the West. I want you to seriously consider if this might not be the exciting adventure and career move that you’ve been looking for.
The only tiny drawback is that, statistically, you’ll have a life expectancy of exactly 227.2 days. But who’s to say you won’t laugh in the face of those odds, and whiz around a great deal longer?
As the Philosopher said: "It's a great life if you don't weaken."
**********
Well, Jenny the bride-to-be has come and gone. You remember when, three weeks ago, Rick proposed to her in public practically the second she sat foot in the Kingdom…in the Arrivals Hall at the airport? Speechless, she’d nodded her head yes, but I was just thinking. Is a non-verbalism legally binding? Or can she somehow squirm out of it without making Ann Landers mad?
No need to wonder too hard on that though, because she doesn’t seem to want to squirm out. She was here for 16 days and everything seems to have been a real life fairy tale. She likes both Rick and Bahrain. (What do you mean: “Is she on drugs?” Of course not!) And since he’s anticipating a move to Dubai they also took a 4-day side trip to the nearby Emirates and enjoyed themselves to the max while there.
Remember the ring that Rick took ten seconds to pick out…gold with tiny little pearls in a design? Well, at first she pretended to like it. Then she admitted that just maybe they should think about a possible exchange. Then, finally, she admitted that she hated its guts. That surprised me, because I didn’t even realize rings had intestines. But sure enough…she showed me part of the duodenum that she’d ripped off in a rage. Which left Rick, who’s for World Peace, ashen and shaken.
“Get used to it!” she shrieked. And then smiled sweetly at him and hinted that she was maybe just joking. But her college soccer coach at Charleston Southern wasn’t just joking when she reported back after a summer off and he called her Lard Bucket. Or was it Butterball? It was one of those two. Anyway, she admits that she’d gained a pound or two but got even with him when he wouldn’t let her play until she was again svelte. By sulking.
You’ll like this: Rick, in summing up his feelings for her, said to me, “She was everything that I expected her to be…and much, much more.” Okay, when you girls out there have stopped dabbing your eyes, and when the guys have stopped regurgitating, I’ll fill you in on what’s next. So now you’re ready? Okay.
Rick will tentatively fly to North Carolina next Month and the knot will be tied in perhaps a civil ceremony. He’ll stay there maybe a week and then come back here and then…either she’ll come here…or he’ll move there…or they will both move to Dubai…who knows? You’ll have to stay tuned to find out.
Monday, 22 February 2010
The Pre-Game Meeting
The women’s team had left the locker room and taken the floor. Only a large part of the coaching staff remained.
The game was a big one and so the pre-game meeting was vitally important.
Head Coach Ullom, serious determination etched on his manly face, paced the room. He stopped, and looked to Assisstant Coach Drahos.
"Assisstant Coach Drahos, what kind of a start do you visualize us getting off to in order to win this game?"
Fidgeting nervously, Asst. Coach Drahos, looked up from the stool upon which he was perched, and answered, "I was sorta thinkin if we could maybe go up early, 12-0, then we--"
Coach Ullom cut him off with the insightful query, "Why twelve, Asst. Coach Drahos? Why not, say, twenty-three?" Only a little rattled, Asst. Coach Drahos, his eyes to the floor, answered, "Well, up in Moundsville...I mean down in Moundsville, we always had this saying--'Good to be up a Doz Cuz.' So it seems like a--"
Head Coach Ullom snapped, "That's pitiful rhyming, Asst. Coach Drahos! O and U don't work at all. And besides that, you didn't differentiate between a regular dozen and a baker's dozen."
Abashed, Asst. Coach Drahos hung his head and studied his shoes. That's when he noticed one heel was missing. He was wondering where it might have gotten off to when suddenly Asst. Coach Jared, stuffing the last of a hot dog into his mouth, piped up: “Dad, what's a baker's dozen?”
The Head Coach replied, "It's thirteen." Asst. Coach Jared then responded very sensibly with, "Then may I have a baker's dozen doughnuts right now?" The Head Coach gazed at him steadily and then said, "First, let's hear your idea on how to start the game."
"Open the wide doors that lead, you know, into the gym, and then have Batman and Robin drive in at, like, two-hundred miles an hour, and just, like, drive right over the Fairmont players on their bench. You know...squish 'em." The youngish aide then put a 32-ounce Pepsi to his diminutive lips and drained the bottle expertly.
As the Head Coach was considering this second possible scenario he suddenly wheeled to Asst. Coach Aaron and demanded, "And what's your idea, Asst. Coach Aaron?" Asst. Coach Aaron immediately said, "If we concentrate on--" But he was cut off by the impatient Head Coach, who snapped: "Shut-up, Asst. Coach Aaron! You've had plenty of time to think about a game plan! You should have been ready!"
The Head Coach paced some more, thinking. Then commanded, "Assisstant Coach Aaron, get out there and measure how wide those doors are!" Fumbling for the tape measure in his pocket, Asst. Coach Aaron stood and exited the room. Some more pacing and then, sneeringly, "Asst. Coach Drahos…OK, let's say we do go up a DOZ CUZ...and then what?"
Unable to hold the Head Mentor's steely gaze, Asst. Coach Drahos dropped his eyes, and said, "Well, I thought that then we could maybe up the lead to 21-7." A scowl immediately took control of Head Coach Ullom's manly face. He shook his head scornfully and said, "Asst. Coach Drahos, I wish you knew how many times I've seen a team down 21-7, then they score a touchdown and kick the extra point...and then, with the clock running out, they score another TD...and then they go for the two point conversion...and MAKE it, and presto, the team that was ahead 21-7 has LOST! So is THAT what you're advising...a recipe for losing?!"
Shattered, Asst. Coach Drahos felt his underwear dampen just slightly, and then said, "Sir, no, sir." He then began an examination of his folded hands and was a bit surprised to see that much of his fingernail polish was chipped off. "Baby Pink," he muttered to himself.
"What did you say, Asst. Coach Drahos?!" demanded his master. Eyes still down and balanced precariously on the edge of the stool, Asst. Coach Drahos said, "I said, 'Sorry, I didn't think about that.'" The Commandant glared down at him. But just then his attention was diverted to Asst. Coach Aaron who at that time returned.
"Well?" demanded Head Coach Ullom. Assisstant Coach Aaron studied the small notebook in his hand and said, "If the doors are completely open there is a space 33 feet wide. Since the Batmobile is seven feet wide, theoretically four full Batmobiles and five-seventh of another could come roaring through."
"Asst. Coach Aaron, that's ridiculous!" shouted the Head Coach. "Did Asst. Coach Jared say anything about MULTIPLE Batmobiles mowing down the Falcon warriors?!" Asst. Coach Jared, dumping the last of a bag of popcorn into his mouth, joined in on the assault, with, "Asst. Coach Aaron, there are no five-seventh Batmobiles. What would happen to Robin? Would only, like, two-thirds of him be sitting next to Batman? That's impossible."
"Well said, Asst. Coach Jared," replied the Head Coach. "All those Math camps we send you to in the summer are paying handsome dividends. But what would be your advice if, by some mischance, we should fall behind?"
Popping half a dozen Gummi Bears into his mouth, Asst. Coach Jared barely hesitated before responding, "We could have Spiderman hidden in the rafters and he could let down a spidery web net and, like, when their coach wasn't looking, he could, like, snatch up all but three of Fairmont's players."
"All but three. I like that. That would leave three-fifths of a full complement of the quintet, would it not?" Asst. Coach Jared was busy stuffing an extra-large Snickers into his mouth and couldn't answer verbally, but nodded his head yes. This gave the Head Coach a smug smile; he'd thought he was right. But it didn't last, because he turned quickly on Coach Aaron with "And you, Asst. Coach Aaron, how do you say we overcome adversity?"
Immediately, Asst. Coach Aaron responded that, "In every case where--" but didn't quite finish the thought, as the Head Coach countered heatedly with, "A SUBJECT, Asst. Coach Aaron! And a VERB! I need a noun and a verb from you in order to understand what you're trying to say! What's wrong with you?! Quit rambling! Now get out your cell phone and call Asst. Coaches The Minches and have them get a baker's dozen doughnuts to Asst. Coach Jared within six minutes! And tell them not to scrimp on cream-filled chocolate ones!"
Still in something of a frenzy owing to Asst. Coach Aaron's sketchy answers, Head Coach Ullom stamped around the room, his manly face red and saying terrible things. But he stopped abruptly when he heard something familiar just outside the locker room door. It was the voice of his approaching wife, Asst. Head Coach Jo Jo. As the door began to open he quickly and adroitly let himself into the nearest full-length player's locker and closed its door.
Asst. Head Coach Jo Jo barged into the room and raged, "Where IS that IMBICILE?! He forgot again that he is supposed to report to Reid “the Voice” Amos for the pre-game interview exactly at the top of the hour, didn't he?! She stomped around the room, breathing threats and murder upon the person of the absent Head Mentor.
Asst. Coach Drahos cringed in terror from his place on the floor where he'd fallen. Asst. Coach Aaron asserted, "I have both nouns AND verbs." Asst. Coach Jared said, "Mom, can I have two more hot dogs?"
[READER’S GUIDE: In order to better understand this almost-verbatim story, it would be helpful to know a little about its characters:
Lynn Ullom is closing in on his 400th career win at West Liberty University.
Mike Drahos, at 6-6, was a college standout and All-Conference MVP, as was his twin brother, Matt, who coaches at a nearby college. Unfortunately there was not space enough in which to embarrass Matt in this piece.
Aaron Huffman was a very successful head coach at the college level and is currently colorman for Reid (The Fastest Gun in the Mountain State) Amos during broadcast of the men’s games. Both are scholarly and astute.
Jared Ullom, about 9 or 10, has for the past three years sat next to his father on the Fighting Mountain Weevils’ bench. He has chosen to dress nearly identically to his father every time, sporting coat and tie. He enjoys sharing an opening handshake with the opposing coach. He is a huge Super Heroes fan. He is not adverse to consuming portions of junk food…in quantity.
The Minches are former player and asst. coach Ashleigh and head trainer Herb, now bound together in holy matrimony. Ashleigh is regarded as something of a marvel in her small hometown, in that she claims to have never eaten road kill.
Jo Jo Ullom is not only the head coach’s wife, she doubles as the mayor of surging West Liberty, WV. She vows to one day be Governor. She would remind you of your favorite aunt, only twice as wonderful. Unfortunately, her five-year-old daughter Ling Ling, a member of the Chinese Olympic gymnastics squad, has not yet been added to the coaching staff by her father, and so was unqualified to appear here. It is also worthy of note that the Weevils indeed opened up 12-0 and 21-7 early leads in securing an important victory over visiting Fairmont a few days ago.]
The game was a big one and so the pre-game meeting was vitally important.
Head Coach Ullom, serious determination etched on his manly face, paced the room. He stopped, and looked to Assisstant Coach Drahos.
"Assisstant Coach Drahos, what kind of a start do you visualize us getting off to in order to win this game?"
Fidgeting nervously, Asst. Coach Drahos, looked up from the stool upon which he was perched, and answered, "I was sorta thinkin if we could maybe go up early, 12-0, then we--"
Coach Ullom cut him off with the insightful query, "Why twelve, Asst. Coach Drahos? Why not, say, twenty-three?" Only a little rattled, Asst. Coach Drahos, his eyes to the floor, answered, "Well, up in Moundsville...I mean down in Moundsville, we always had this saying--'Good to be up a Doz Cuz.' So it seems like a--"
Head Coach Ullom snapped, "That's pitiful rhyming, Asst. Coach Drahos! O and U don't work at all. And besides that, you didn't differentiate between a regular dozen and a baker's dozen."
Abashed, Asst. Coach Drahos hung his head and studied his shoes. That's when he noticed one heel was missing. He was wondering where it might have gotten off to when suddenly Asst. Coach Jared, stuffing the last of a hot dog into his mouth, piped up: “Dad, what's a baker's dozen?”
The Head Coach replied, "It's thirteen." Asst. Coach Jared then responded very sensibly with, "Then may I have a baker's dozen doughnuts right now?" The Head Coach gazed at him steadily and then said, "First, let's hear your idea on how to start the game."
"Open the wide doors that lead, you know, into the gym, and then have Batman and Robin drive in at, like, two-hundred miles an hour, and just, like, drive right over the Fairmont players on their bench. You know...squish 'em." The youngish aide then put a 32-ounce Pepsi to his diminutive lips and drained the bottle expertly.
As the Head Coach was considering this second possible scenario he suddenly wheeled to Asst. Coach Aaron and demanded, "And what's your idea, Asst. Coach Aaron?" Asst. Coach Aaron immediately said, "If we concentrate on--" But he was cut off by the impatient Head Coach, who snapped: "Shut-up, Asst. Coach Aaron! You've had plenty of time to think about a game plan! You should have been ready!"
The Head Coach paced some more, thinking. Then commanded, "Assisstant Coach Aaron, get out there and measure how wide those doors are!" Fumbling for the tape measure in his pocket, Asst. Coach Aaron stood and exited the room. Some more pacing and then, sneeringly, "Asst. Coach Drahos…OK, let's say we do go up a DOZ CUZ...and then what?"
Unable to hold the Head Mentor's steely gaze, Asst. Coach Drahos dropped his eyes, and said, "Well, I thought that then we could maybe up the lead to 21-7." A scowl immediately took control of Head Coach Ullom's manly face. He shook his head scornfully and said, "Asst. Coach Drahos, I wish you knew how many times I've seen a team down 21-7, then they score a touchdown and kick the extra point...and then, with the clock running out, they score another TD...and then they go for the two point conversion...and MAKE it, and presto, the team that was ahead 21-7 has LOST! So is THAT what you're advising...a recipe for losing?!"
Shattered, Asst. Coach Drahos felt his underwear dampen just slightly, and then said, "Sir, no, sir." He then began an examination of his folded hands and was a bit surprised to see that much of his fingernail polish was chipped off. "Baby Pink," he muttered to himself.
"What did you say, Asst. Coach Drahos?!" demanded his master. Eyes still down and balanced precariously on the edge of the stool, Asst. Coach Drahos said, "I said, 'Sorry, I didn't think about that.'" The Commandant glared down at him. But just then his attention was diverted to Asst. Coach Aaron who at that time returned.
"Well?" demanded Head Coach Ullom. Assisstant Coach Aaron studied the small notebook in his hand and said, "If the doors are completely open there is a space 33 feet wide. Since the Batmobile is seven feet wide, theoretically four full Batmobiles and five-seventh of another could come roaring through."
"Asst. Coach Aaron, that's ridiculous!" shouted the Head Coach. "Did Asst. Coach Jared say anything about MULTIPLE Batmobiles mowing down the Falcon warriors?!" Asst. Coach Jared, dumping the last of a bag of popcorn into his mouth, joined in on the assault, with, "Asst. Coach Aaron, there are no five-seventh Batmobiles. What would happen to Robin? Would only, like, two-thirds of him be sitting next to Batman? That's impossible."
"Well said, Asst. Coach Jared," replied the Head Coach. "All those Math camps we send you to in the summer are paying handsome dividends. But what would be your advice if, by some mischance, we should fall behind?"
Popping half a dozen Gummi Bears into his mouth, Asst. Coach Jared barely hesitated before responding, "We could have Spiderman hidden in the rafters and he could let down a spidery web net and, like, when their coach wasn't looking, he could, like, snatch up all but three of Fairmont's players."
"All but three. I like that. That would leave three-fifths of a full complement of the quintet, would it not?" Asst. Coach Jared was busy stuffing an extra-large Snickers into his mouth and couldn't answer verbally, but nodded his head yes. This gave the Head Coach a smug smile; he'd thought he was right. But it didn't last, because he turned quickly on Coach Aaron with "And you, Asst. Coach Aaron, how do you say we overcome adversity?"
Immediately, Asst. Coach Aaron responded that, "In every case where--" but didn't quite finish the thought, as the Head Coach countered heatedly with, "A SUBJECT, Asst. Coach Aaron! And a VERB! I need a noun and a verb from you in order to understand what you're trying to say! What's wrong with you?! Quit rambling! Now get out your cell phone and call Asst. Coaches The Minches and have them get a baker's dozen doughnuts to Asst. Coach Jared within six minutes! And tell them not to scrimp on cream-filled chocolate ones!"
Still in something of a frenzy owing to Asst. Coach Aaron's sketchy answers, Head Coach Ullom stamped around the room, his manly face red and saying terrible things. But he stopped abruptly when he heard something familiar just outside the locker room door. It was the voice of his approaching wife, Asst. Head Coach Jo Jo. As the door began to open he quickly and adroitly let himself into the nearest full-length player's locker and closed its door.
Asst. Head Coach Jo Jo barged into the room and raged, "Where IS that IMBICILE?! He forgot again that he is supposed to report to Reid “the Voice” Amos for the pre-game interview exactly at the top of the hour, didn't he?! She stomped around the room, breathing threats and murder upon the person of the absent Head Mentor.
Asst. Coach Drahos cringed in terror from his place on the floor where he'd fallen. Asst. Coach Aaron asserted, "I have both nouns AND verbs." Asst. Coach Jared said, "Mom, can I have two more hot dogs?"
[READER’S GUIDE: In order to better understand this almost-verbatim story, it would be helpful to know a little about its characters:
Lynn Ullom is closing in on his 400th career win at West Liberty University.
Mike Drahos, at 6-6, was a college standout and All-Conference MVP, as was his twin brother, Matt, who coaches at a nearby college. Unfortunately there was not space enough in which to embarrass Matt in this piece.
Aaron Huffman was a very successful head coach at the college level and is currently colorman for Reid (The Fastest Gun in the Mountain State) Amos during broadcast of the men’s games. Both are scholarly and astute.
Jared Ullom, about 9 or 10, has for the past three years sat next to his father on the Fighting Mountain Weevils’ bench. He has chosen to dress nearly identically to his father every time, sporting coat and tie. He enjoys sharing an opening handshake with the opposing coach. He is a huge Super Heroes fan. He is not adverse to consuming portions of junk food…in quantity.
The Minches are former player and asst. coach Ashleigh and head trainer Herb, now bound together in holy matrimony. Ashleigh is regarded as something of a marvel in her small hometown, in that she claims to have never eaten road kill.
Jo Jo Ullom is not only the head coach’s wife, she doubles as the mayor of surging West Liberty, WV. She vows to one day be Governor. She would remind you of your favorite aunt, only twice as wonderful. Unfortunately, her five-year-old daughter Ling Ling, a member of the Chinese Olympic gymnastics squad, has not yet been added to the coaching staff by her father, and so was unqualified to appear here. It is also worthy of note that the Weevils indeed opened up 12-0 and 21-7 early leads in securing an important victory over visiting Fairmont a few days ago.]
Friday, 19 February 2010
Jeita Grotto and Shrimp
From Oct. 13-09
I'm back at the internet cafe here in Beirut. After a while you hardly notice the incessant horn honking taking place outside on the streets. It's part of the culture. Like baklava(Lebanon's famous pastry). But horn honking is less fattening.
Three nites ago we played towering Sporting Club. They started 7-0 Joe Vogel (Colorado State), 6-10 guy maybe named Matt Frazier (an adept 3-point shooter) and a 6-7 local up front. Soon their 7-3 Serb also entered the fray. They should have beaten us by exactly one hundred points but it escapes the attention of their coach that it would be wise to play an inside power game. Especially as we go with Lamond at 6-7, Mohsen at 6-4, and Ibrahim at 6-1. Our first two subs off the bench are 5-7 and 5-6. We don't match up so well with the teams here. Anyway, after a bad start in which we were down 14 after first quarter we whittled their lead to 9 at the half. I was quite surprised, with about five minutes remaining, to see us up by six. But we couldn't sustain it and lost by 7.
Their Lebanese coach is regarded as a genius because he's won the league several times. People fail to notice that he has all the best players. He may not notice it either. They have a huge payroll. I have a huge paunch--but hiding it well by wearing dark trousers. The paunch is due to baklava. I have already explained that horn honking is calorie free. In this game Lamond had 30 points and 16 rebounds. Our pick-up Yank only played 14 minutes...I thought I'd win or lose with our local guys.
The next afternoon I went with Shaikh Mohd, Hussain, Lamond, and fat-face asst. to see sights. The Shaikh hired car and driver. We first went to the Jeita Grotto. A grotto is a cave. Soon my tummy will be conCAVE but right now there are too many desserts available at every meal. I'd been to these caves some ten years ago and it was nice to visit again. They're quite spectacular and one of them sports a lake. We got into electric boats to ride around for a while and you had to duck your head to avoid having a stalagmite or a stalagtite take it off. Can anyone remember which of these goes up and which go down?
There was also a wishing well down there and the Shaikh gave me a coin to toss into it. I tried my best to palm the coin but he watched me intently. So finally I had to fling it. Then he flung one...voicing his wish out loud: that we would win the league in Bahrain. My wish, unfortunately didn't come true, because when I later checked my bank acct. his funds had NOT been transferred in to join mine.
After that we mosied into Junieah--the Christian area and quite a bit nicer than other places in and around the city. There we were joined by Mohd's brother, Shaikh Rashid. He'd brought his wife for a medical checkup and to see us play. Soon, we all drove back to the new area of Beirut called Solidaire (use your French pronunciation here) and ate at one of the many trendy (and expensive) sidewalk restaurants. It was Lebanese food and as good as I've ever had. I gorged myself with many jumbo grilled shrimp...and everything else.
We were joined by Abdul Rahman who is a Bahraini soccer official who was in Beirut to judge, for FIFA, a couple of local refs. He's retired and that's what he does now. Like Shaikh Mohd, he went to St. Edwards U. in Texas, while Rashid went first to the U. of Cairo (a mere 200,000 students he said...a city unto itself) and took a degree in architecture; he then went to Howard U. in Wash D.C. and took a master's in City Planning. Perhaps he'll plan a city near you soon; you just never know. Guess how many Bahrainis were at St. Edwards at this time? Only 300. That astonished me (one shrimp fell out of my mouth and made a getaway; they were quite fresh and just barely grilled). They told how a guy at American U. of Beirut here moved all of his students to Texas when the civil war here broke out and they soon had hundreds of Middle Easterners at schools all over the Lone Star State. These guys actually talk about chili rellenos and such things.
Abdul Rahman talked also of the several times when irate soccer fans lusted after his life's blood after a home team loss, and he and the other officials had to hunker down in the stadium under police protection for many hours before being able to leave. Sport is a wonderful vehicle with which to bring about world peace.
Rashid picked up the bill, which had to be several hundred bucks. He didn't blink. He and his brother are quite affable and unaffected. Had the bill been presented to me, I would have blinked. Just before passing out.
Last nite we played undefeated team from Tunisia and they had lots of 6-9 and 6-8 types to go with a Senagalese and a 6-9 Russian. They jumped on us early and I was pleased to only lose by 15. Lamond got roughed up by their players and lost his composure; his first bad game. Fouled out after playing maybe 25 minutes. Our guest American didn't play too much or too well.
Fortunately, Hussain has moved our departure up to tomorrow instead of two days later. Today is dedicated by our players for shopping. Arabs can shop. Ready: SHOP!!! (look attim Go!)
Coach Grady
I'm back at the internet cafe here in Beirut. After a while you hardly notice the incessant horn honking taking place outside on the streets. It's part of the culture. Like baklava(Lebanon's famous pastry). But horn honking is less fattening.
Three nites ago we played towering Sporting Club. They started 7-0 Joe Vogel (Colorado State), 6-10 guy maybe named Matt Frazier (an adept 3-point shooter) and a 6-7 local up front. Soon their 7-3 Serb also entered the fray. They should have beaten us by exactly one hundred points but it escapes the attention of their coach that it would be wise to play an inside power game. Especially as we go with Lamond at 6-7, Mohsen at 6-4, and Ibrahim at 6-1. Our first two subs off the bench are 5-7 and 5-6. We don't match up so well with the teams here. Anyway, after a bad start in which we were down 14 after first quarter we whittled their lead to 9 at the half. I was quite surprised, with about five minutes remaining, to see us up by six. But we couldn't sustain it and lost by 7.
Their Lebanese coach is regarded as a genius because he's won the league several times. People fail to notice that he has all the best players. He may not notice it either. They have a huge payroll. I have a huge paunch--but hiding it well by wearing dark trousers. The paunch is due to baklava. I have already explained that horn honking is calorie free. In this game Lamond had 30 points and 16 rebounds. Our pick-up Yank only played 14 minutes...I thought I'd win or lose with our local guys.
The next afternoon I went with Shaikh Mohd, Hussain, Lamond, and fat-face asst. to see sights. The Shaikh hired car and driver. We first went to the Jeita Grotto. A grotto is a cave. Soon my tummy will be conCAVE but right now there are too many desserts available at every meal. I'd been to these caves some ten years ago and it was nice to visit again. They're quite spectacular and one of them sports a lake. We got into electric boats to ride around for a while and you had to duck your head to avoid having a stalagmite or a stalagtite take it off. Can anyone remember which of these goes up and which go down?
There was also a wishing well down there and the Shaikh gave me a coin to toss into it. I tried my best to palm the coin but he watched me intently. So finally I had to fling it. Then he flung one...voicing his wish out loud: that we would win the league in Bahrain. My wish, unfortunately didn't come true, because when I later checked my bank acct. his funds had NOT been transferred in to join mine.
After that we mosied into Junieah--the Christian area and quite a bit nicer than other places in and around the city. There we were joined by Mohd's brother, Shaikh Rashid. He'd brought his wife for a medical checkup and to see us play. Soon, we all drove back to the new area of Beirut called Solidaire (use your French pronunciation here) and ate at one of the many trendy (and expensive) sidewalk restaurants. It was Lebanese food and as good as I've ever had. I gorged myself with many jumbo grilled shrimp...and everything else.
We were joined by Abdul Rahman who is a Bahraini soccer official who was in Beirut to judge, for FIFA, a couple of local refs. He's retired and that's what he does now. Like Shaikh Mohd, he went to St. Edwards U. in Texas, while Rashid went first to the U. of Cairo (a mere 200,000 students he said...a city unto itself) and took a degree in architecture; he then went to Howard U. in Wash D.C. and took a master's in City Planning. Perhaps he'll plan a city near you soon; you just never know. Guess how many Bahrainis were at St. Edwards at this time? Only 300. That astonished me (one shrimp fell out of my mouth and made a getaway; they were quite fresh and just barely grilled). They told how a guy at American U. of Beirut here moved all of his students to Texas when the civil war here broke out and they soon had hundreds of Middle Easterners at schools all over the Lone Star State. These guys actually talk about chili rellenos and such things.
Abdul Rahman talked also of the several times when irate soccer fans lusted after his life's blood after a home team loss, and he and the other officials had to hunker down in the stadium under police protection for many hours before being able to leave. Sport is a wonderful vehicle with which to bring about world peace.
Rashid picked up the bill, which had to be several hundred bucks. He didn't blink. He and his brother are quite affable and unaffected. Had the bill been presented to me, I would have blinked. Just before passing out.
Last nite we played undefeated team from Tunisia and they had lots of 6-9 and 6-8 types to go with a Senagalese and a 6-9 Russian. They jumped on us early and I was pleased to only lose by 15. Lamond got roughed up by their players and lost his composure; his first bad game. Fouled out after playing maybe 25 minutes. Our guest American didn't play too much or too well.
Fortunately, Hussain has moved our departure up to tomorrow instead of two days later. Today is dedicated by our players for shopping. Arabs can shop. Ready: SHOP!!! (look attim Go!)
Coach Grady
Home Again
From Oct. 17-09
Dear Peoples,
We left Beirut on Wednesday. Bloodied but not bowed. Hussain had said we all needed to be down in the lobby at 12:30, so there I was at 12:25. How foolish of me! How soon I had forgotten the ways of the wily Gulf Arab! Telling us to be there at 12:30 is Arab-speak for "We may actually get on the bus at 1:00."
It was really Hamed's job to arrange these things because he was the trip Manager. He is Hussain's nephew and they mostly argue when they talk. But he didn't tell me anything, because he was power-pouting. He had a bunch of bad ideas from the beginning...like making the players all eat together (coach included) at the same time; having the coach accompany him on midnite curfew room checks; laying down hard rules for this and that; and more. I didn't want to operate this way and neither did the others. Feeling rebuffed and scorned, Hamed had no recourse but to resort to giving us the dreaded Silent Treatment. We were hurt to the quick, but overcame it. Perhap he didn't notice that no one cared.
Meanwhile, a few players would show up by the bus from time to time but would usually scurry across the street to a little store that sold most junk food known to man. Players would come and go, munching on chips and candy bars, washing it down with soda pop. They were fairly happy in this routine. The bus driver stewed, I just stood and observed things. And it's a good thing I did! Remember the lightly-grilled shrimp that made a gettaway when my mouth fell open in astonishment that night at the Lebanese restaurant? Well, by chance, I spotted him walking along on the sidewalk! Remembering my loss, I lunged at him...but dang! I never realized how fast those things can run when properly motivated!
At about 1:15 most of us were on the bus. Except the "doctor," as they call the trainer, and my fat-faced oily assisstant. Earlier, I'd had to have a minor showdown with him. This was occasioned by him missing his second practice of the trip. The nite before he'd forgotten to bring the camera that would be used to record our game but he quickly and skillfully blamed it on our Indian slave, Onee. Onee only had about a thousand other chores to attend to and things to carry. Ahmed had only his gut to carry. And his hangover. So I lectured him on changing his wicked ways. Eyes cast down, he feigned repentance. He majors, by the way, in false flattery. Yuck.
We got to the airport and the absentees eventually showed up via taxi. That reminds me: astoundig taxi news here in Bahrain! As of this year they have imported a large fleet of the old British-style taxis...but they're new and pretty cute. They're painted cream on the bottom and the top half is black and white checks. And just as interesting is the fact that many of the drivers are...gasp...local women! But most of the Lebanese taxis are still 1937 Mercedes Benzes or 1951 Huson Hornets.
At the airport a fellow came up and joyously introduced himself. He said that his name was Charlie and that he had been our local liaison guy at the 1997 Pan Arab Games in Beirut when I was coaching Saudi Arabia. I was ashamed that I didn't remember him. He started talking about that tournament and how we'd snared the gold and all and then started talking about our first game vs. Morocco...and how we'd come from ten down early to eventually smash their rotten guts (I'm paraphasing)! He supplied quite a bit of detail and so I never admitted to him that I didn't even remember we'd played Morocco.
We had an unpleasant trip en route to Manama: we first had a stop in Damascus that was unsuspected. None of the people that boarded the plane there looked like Fortune 500 people. A rough looking bunch...many of them with brats. If I'm not mistaken the brats will eventually grow up to become yet another rough looking bunch. A "bunch," by the way, is a group of between six and 81 persons. It was with great difficulty that our stewardesses (two Thais and an attractive local chick--Hussain was amazed at seeing this latter...said locals never worked as flight attendants) got the mob seated.
Deprived of lunch, after arriving back to my apt. I hustled to local shawerma place and wolfed down three of them. Chicken. You always have your choice of either chicken (dajuz) or lamb (laham). My accent is perfect, and I ordered with no difficulty. They also give you a packet of pickles and small hot peppers with the sandwiches. It's a winning combo and the price is always right. Many people sit out in the parking lot in their cars and honk their horns and the establishment's several Indian men/Filipina gal provide the car service. remember: the locals are an exalted breed. They'll also often pull up in front of a little market and honk for curb service. Never mind that they block one lane of traffic.
We had practice the next nite and, surprisingly, all the players but one showed up. Couldn't practice yesterday (Friday) because Filipinos rent our gym for a day-long league. Have you noticed that girls are Filipinas and boys are Filipinos? And that neither starts with a "P," as in Philippines? It's really good for you to remember this. Last nite my old asst coach Hameed pitted his Manama Club team vs. Ahli in a Cup game. I stayed home and watched it on TV; the gym was packed, and Ahli pulled out a close win. They have a 6-9 former NBA player named Johnny Taylor that's pretty good. Of course the announcer always referred to him as Johnny. Just as in Lebanon Lamond was always just that--no Murray needed. Our player all call him Limone. We're slated to play our first league game Sunday nite. The battle is set to begin.
Till After Then,
Old Coach Pat
Dear Peoples,
We left Beirut on Wednesday. Bloodied but not bowed. Hussain had said we all needed to be down in the lobby at 12:30, so there I was at 12:25. How foolish of me! How soon I had forgotten the ways of the wily Gulf Arab! Telling us to be there at 12:30 is Arab-speak for "We may actually get on the bus at 1:00."
It was really Hamed's job to arrange these things because he was the trip Manager. He is Hussain's nephew and they mostly argue when they talk. But he didn't tell me anything, because he was power-pouting. He had a bunch of bad ideas from the beginning...like making the players all eat together (coach included) at the same time; having the coach accompany him on midnite curfew room checks; laying down hard rules for this and that; and more. I didn't want to operate this way and neither did the others. Feeling rebuffed and scorned, Hamed had no recourse but to resort to giving us the dreaded Silent Treatment. We were hurt to the quick, but overcame it. Perhap he didn't notice that no one cared.
Meanwhile, a few players would show up by the bus from time to time but would usually scurry across the street to a little store that sold most junk food known to man. Players would come and go, munching on chips and candy bars, washing it down with soda pop. They were fairly happy in this routine. The bus driver stewed, I just stood and observed things. And it's a good thing I did! Remember the lightly-grilled shrimp that made a gettaway when my mouth fell open in astonishment that night at the Lebanese restaurant? Well, by chance, I spotted him walking along on the sidewalk! Remembering my loss, I lunged at him...but dang! I never realized how fast those things can run when properly motivated!
At about 1:15 most of us were on the bus. Except the "doctor," as they call the trainer, and my fat-faced oily assisstant. Earlier, I'd had to have a minor showdown with him. This was occasioned by him missing his second practice of the trip. The nite before he'd forgotten to bring the camera that would be used to record our game but he quickly and skillfully blamed it on our Indian slave, Onee. Onee only had about a thousand other chores to attend to and things to carry. Ahmed had only his gut to carry. And his hangover. So I lectured him on changing his wicked ways. Eyes cast down, he feigned repentance. He majors, by the way, in false flattery. Yuck.
We got to the airport and the absentees eventually showed up via taxi. That reminds me: astoundig taxi news here in Bahrain! As of this year they have imported a large fleet of the old British-style taxis...but they're new and pretty cute. They're painted cream on the bottom and the top half is black and white checks. And just as interesting is the fact that many of the drivers are...gasp...local women! But most of the Lebanese taxis are still 1937 Mercedes Benzes or 1951 Huson Hornets.
At the airport a fellow came up and joyously introduced himself. He said that his name was Charlie and that he had been our local liaison guy at the 1997 Pan Arab Games in Beirut when I was coaching Saudi Arabia. I was ashamed that I didn't remember him. He started talking about that tournament and how we'd snared the gold and all and then started talking about our first game vs. Morocco...and how we'd come from ten down early to eventually smash their rotten guts (I'm paraphasing)! He supplied quite a bit of detail and so I never admitted to him that I didn't even remember we'd played Morocco.
We had an unpleasant trip en route to Manama: we first had a stop in Damascus that was unsuspected. None of the people that boarded the plane there looked like Fortune 500 people. A rough looking bunch...many of them with brats. If I'm not mistaken the brats will eventually grow up to become yet another rough looking bunch. A "bunch," by the way, is a group of between six and 81 persons. It was with great difficulty that our stewardesses (two Thais and an attractive local chick--Hussain was amazed at seeing this latter...said locals never worked as flight attendants) got the mob seated.
Deprived of lunch, after arriving back to my apt. I hustled to local shawerma place and wolfed down three of them. Chicken. You always have your choice of either chicken (dajuz) or lamb (laham). My accent is perfect, and I ordered with no difficulty. They also give you a packet of pickles and small hot peppers with the sandwiches. It's a winning combo and the price is always right. Many people sit out in the parking lot in their cars and honk their horns and the establishment's several Indian men/Filipina gal provide the car service. remember: the locals are an exalted breed. They'll also often pull up in front of a little market and honk for curb service. Never mind that they block one lane of traffic.
We had practice the next nite and, surprisingly, all the players but one showed up. Couldn't practice yesterday (Friday) because Filipinos rent our gym for a day-long league. Have you noticed that girls are Filipinas and boys are Filipinos? And that neither starts with a "P," as in Philippines? It's really good for you to remember this. Last nite my old asst coach Hameed pitted his Manama Club team vs. Ahli in a Cup game. I stayed home and watched it on TV; the gym was packed, and Ahli pulled out a close win. They have a 6-9 former NBA player named Johnny Taylor that's pretty good. Of course the announcer always referred to him as Johnny. Just as in Lebanon Lamond was always just that--no Murray needed. Our player all call him Limone. We're slated to play our first league game Sunday nite. The battle is set to begin.
Till After Then,
Old Coach Pat
Tuesday, 16 February 2010
Ready...Set...Propose!
Most of you have seen a live broadcast of some kind—usually a football game it seems—where suddenly some guy drops to a knee and proposes to some girl. Well, it’s maybe on national television and what’s she going to do? Is she going to answer, “What?! You thought I was actually serious about you?” Or, angrily, “Are you crazy? I should have known you were unbalanced enough to pull some stunt like this!” Not likely. They’re pretty much forced by circumstances to seem thrilled and to radiate excitement.
Which is maybe why temporary roommate Rick hatched his plan. Remember when I told you how I recently went with him to pick up a tux that he had had made for himself (he was getting ready to attend a charity ball, and not alone)? Well, that’s not all he picked up. We also went into a jeweler’s and he asked to see rings. So this Indian showed him a parcel of them. While Rick pondered and pondered, I waited and waited and waited. Finally he made a decision. At least ten seconds had passed. Now could a girl have done that? Of course not.
So Rick now had a ring. And he told me his plan regarding Jennifer. I may have mentioned that he’d been cyber dating this girl from North Carolina for a few weeks and things had gotten pretty serious, despite the fact that they’d never met face to face. They had talked for hours and hours on Skype while viewing each other via webcam, however. Then arrangements were made for her to fly here.
Rick told me, “When I meet her at the airport I’ll have a big bouquet and this ring. I’ll have a photographer and a video man (Rick works for a production company so has guys like these hanging around). Then, when she clears customs and we come face to face, I’m going to take a knee and say, ‘Jennifer, will you marry me?’ So those will be the first words she ever hears from me in person.”
The night arrived three days ago and Rick was prepared. Amid a waiting-area crowd estimated at 500 milling people of every nationality, Jen appeared. Rick fell to a knee and carried out his threat. Severely jet-lagged, Jen screamed…and then sort of collapsed (fortunately she was caught by a certain gentleman from Kerala, named Baboo). No, she could have done that, and Baboo could have done that, but that’s not what came to pass. Instead, she nodded her head up and down. She agreed to terms.
I’ll let you know how chapter 2 comes out.
**********
The next night, while Rick and Jen were at the fancy ball, Darren (furious, because he hadn’t had the foresight to have a tux made for himself so that he could hobnob with the Rich and Famous) countered by having a dinner party at his house. And I was invited. The other guests were two South African couples and a teacher gal from Texas named Lynette. One of the South Africans was Henry, who you will remember as being the guy that showed Darren and I around the new island that was being dredged from the sea. Henry was also featured for having sailed a boat from Maryland to Capetown…remember?
During the excellent dinner that Darren served up (forcing me to retract many of the bad things I had previously said about him) we talked about another couple of yacht races that Henry was involved in. Once, he and his wife spearheaded an effort to fund and train a group of high school students to be the crew for a Capetown to Punta del Este (Uruguay) race. It turned out to be a glowing success.
But dare I mention Punta del Este to you without mentioning the short chapter in my life that revolved around that locale? I guess not. When I was at the American School in Rio de Janeiro (I wish you could hear me pronounce that name with my glorious Carioca accent—folks from Rio are Cariocas, those from Sao Paulo, Paulistas) in 1972, I took a nice trip to Uruguay and Argentina during holiday break. On one leg, I took a bus to Punta del Este, which is 140 miles from Montevideo.
It was one of the nicest surprises ever. Pine forests that came down to golden sand beaches, and almost no one on them. There were decent waves and some surfers were enjoying a slice of paradise. I found that Punta was the hub of international yacht races owing to the fact of its geographical locale—something about longitude or latitude, and maybe even degrees. Or perhaps the Equator.
At some point before lunch I rented a motor scooter and rode along between the water and the sweet-smelling pines until I came to a little fishing village. I sat outdoors at a little fish restaurant on a jetty and had a wonderful, really cheap, meal. Perfect weather. Got back on my scooter and headed back but, totally without warning, the scooter had the temerity to break down on me. I asked it: “How have I offended thee?” No answer. Of course I can’t replace the twist-on cap on a bottle, much less fix a complicated apparatus. What to do?
Say “Gracias,” that’s what. Because some guy driving by (there was very little traffic) was so struck by the combination of perplexity and woe on my face that he stopped and fixed the bike for me. I wish I had his address right now, so that I could send him five bucks. He was a good guy.
I got back to town and immediately checked into a beer garden. This was back in my beer-drinking days. And since it was day and there was beer available, I sat and drank a goodly portion. Then I notice the sun going down and decided I’d better catch the shuttle bus back to Maldonado. That was the name of the little town about ten miles away where I’d taken a hotel room. Much cheaper than in Punta.
As I rode along in the little bus something bad started to happen. And with every minute it got worse. It is a scientific fact that large portions of beer will eventually seek an outlet, and this was the painful case. Could I possibly make it back to my hotel before exploding? I was in dire straits.
The bus stopped and I hustled off, looking for a likely place to find relief. Nothing was apparent. I was on a sidewalk in town and I passed a cinema, practically running (can’t remember if I was holding myself or not). Look! A little alley! I made a sharp left, and was soon feeling my soul flood with relief. But my relief vanished as I finished and headed back to the sidewalk.
There was a man. With a woman. They were part of the movie crowd that was just exiting. The man looked at me balefully. He spoke to me (gruffly) in Spanish and showed me his badge. I had the feeling that he had taken a dim view of what he and his wife or date (he never explained the relationship with the woman to me, nor even why he had joined the police) had encountered when they saw me down the alley. He promptly walked me to the local jail, which was on a corner of the same plaza where my hotel was located.
At the jail they took my belt away. Honestly, I wasn’t contemplated hanging myself, drastic as the situation was. I was put in a cell. With another guy—no doubt a hardened criminal—as a cellmate. He asked me, in Spanish, what I was in for. I think he was hoping to hear “Multiple rape and pillaging,” but all he got was my bad Espanol, explaining that “I made water in the street.” He greeted that news with an immediate answer: “Veinte y quatro horas.” Obviously a veteran of the penal system, he knew exactly how long each transgression deserved. He himself was in for fighting, he said proudly. I think he had double my penalty, 48 hours.
Sure enough, in exactly 24 hours I was released and, I feel, rehabilitated, and no longer a threat to society. But look how I have digressed! I must get back to the dinner party next time, but now I must relate something else.
**********
Last nite we had our big showdown game with Ahli Club. They had beaten us first round by 2 points. Things didn’t look rosy for us this time, as the day before the game our star local player, who averages over 20 points per game, sprained his ankle and is out for couple of weeks. Then on game day another valuable veteran got very sick; and so we were drastically shorthanded.
I started two little guys who are still also on the club Youth team, and a third on that team also played a key role, as we managed to squeak out a 4-point win. Lamond had a sub-par offensive game, 21 points, but one of the kids chipped in the same number and another youngster made bunch of key defensive plays. For the second time this season there was some joy in the post game locker room.
There had been a big noisy crowd and after the final buzzer there was dancing, by our fans, in the gym to the pounding drum beat. That spilled over into our locker room and I was even coerced into Arab-style dancing. Believe it or not, I’m not a very good dancer…Arab or anything else. For some reason I didn’t get no rhythm. So everyone had fun laughing at me. But guess who was a really good dancer! My rascally assistant coach, Ahmed. That little rolly-polly guy was quite graceful and adept.
I will begin Arab dancing (it’s mainly about the shoulders and hips) lessons later this week.
Avoid incarceration until next we meet,
Coach Pat
Which is maybe why temporary roommate Rick hatched his plan. Remember when I told you how I recently went with him to pick up a tux that he had had made for himself (he was getting ready to attend a charity ball, and not alone)? Well, that’s not all he picked up. We also went into a jeweler’s and he asked to see rings. So this Indian showed him a parcel of them. While Rick pondered and pondered, I waited and waited and waited. Finally he made a decision. At least ten seconds had passed. Now could a girl have done that? Of course not.
So Rick now had a ring. And he told me his plan regarding Jennifer. I may have mentioned that he’d been cyber dating this girl from North Carolina for a few weeks and things had gotten pretty serious, despite the fact that they’d never met face to face. They had talked for hours and hours on Skype while viewing each other via webcam, however. Then arrangements were made for her to fly here.
Rick told me, “When I meet her at the airport I’ll have a big bouquet and this ring. I’ll have a photographer and a video man (Rick works for a production company so has guys like these hanging around). Then, when she clears customs and we come face to face, I’m going to take a knee and say, ‘Jennifer, will you marry me?’ So those will be the first words she ever hears from me in person.”
The night arrived three days ago and Rick was prepared. Amid a waiting-area crowd estimated at 500 milling people of every nationality, Jen appeared. Rick fell to a knee and carried out his threat. Severely jet-lagged, Jen screamed…and then sort of collapsed (fortunately she was caught by a certain gentleman from Kerala, named Baboo). No, she could have done that, and Baboo could have done that, but that’s not what came to pass. Instead, she nodded her head up and down. She agreed to terms.
I’ll let you know how chapter 2 comes out.
**********
The next night, while Rick and Jen were at the fancy ball, Darren (furious, because he hadn’t had the foresight to have a tux made for himself so that he could hobnob with the Rich and Famous) countered by having a dinner party at his house. And I was invited. The other guests were two South African couples and a teacher gal from Texas named Lynette. One of the South Africans was Henry, who you will remember as being the guy that showed Darren and I around the new island that was being dredged from the sea. Henry was also featured for having sailed a boat from Maryland to Capetown…remember?
During the excellent dinner that Darren served up (forcing me to retract many of the bad things I had previously said about him) we talked about another couple of yacht races that Henry was involved in. Once, he and his wife spearheaded an effort to fund and train a group of high school students to be the crew for a Capetown to Punta del Este (Uruguay) race. It turned out to be a glowing success.
But dare I mention Punta del Este to you without mentioning the short chapter in my life that revolved around that locale? I guess not. When I was at the American School in Rio de Janeiro (I wish you could hear me pronounce that name with my glorious Carioca accent—folks from Rio are Cariocas, those from Sao Paulo, Paulistas) in 1972, I took a nice trip to Uruguay and Argentina during holiday break. On one leg, I took a bus to Punta del Este, which is 140 miles from Montevideo.
It was one of the nicest surprises ever. Pine forests that came down to golden sand beaches, and almost no one on them. There were decent waves and some surfers were enjoying a slice of paradise. I found that Punta was the hub of international yacht races owing to the fact of its geographical locale—something about longitude or latitude, and maybe even degrees. Or perhaps the Equator.
At some point before lunch I rented a motor scooter and rode along between the water and the sweet-smelling pines until I came to a little fishing village. I sat outdoors at a little fish restaurant on a jetty and had a wonderful, really cheap, meal. Perfect weather. Got back on my scooter and headed back but, totally without warning, the scooter had the temerity to break down on me. I asked it: “How have I offended thee?” No answer. Of course I can’t replace the twist-on cap on a bottle, much less fix a complicated apparatus. What to do?
Say “Gracias,” that’s what. Because some guy driving by (there was very little traffic) was so struck by the combination of perplexity and woe on my face that he stopped and fixed the bike for me. I wish I had his address right now, so that I could send him five bucks. He was a good guy.
I got back to town and immediately checked into a beer garden. This was back in my beer-drinking days. And since it was day and there was beer available, I sat and drank a goodly portion. Then I notice the sun going down and decided I’d better catch the shuttle bus back to Maldonado. That was the name of the little town about ten miles away where I’d taken a hotel room. Much cheaper than in Punta.
As I rode along in the little bus something bad started to happen. And with every minute it got worse. It is a scientific fact that large portions of beer will eventually seek an outlet, and this was the painful case. Could I possibly make it back to my hotel before exploding? I was in dire straits.
The bus stopped and I hustled off, looking for a likely place to find relief. Nothing was apparent. I was on a sidewalk in town and I passed a cinema, practically running (can’t remember if I was holding myself or not). Look! A little alley! I made a sharp left, and was soon feeling my soul flood with relief. But my relief vanished as I finished and headed back to the sidewalk.
There was a man. With a woman. They were part of the movie crowd that was just exiting. The man looked at me balefully. He spoke to me (gruffly) in Spanish and showed me his badge. I had the feeling that he had taken a dim view of what he and his wife or date (he never explained the relationship with the woman to me, nor even why he had joined the police) had encountered when they saw me down the alley. He promptly walked me to the local jail, which was on a corner of the same plaza where my hotel was located.
At the jail they took my belt away. Honestly, I wasn’t contemplated hanging myself, drastic as the situation was. I was put in a cell. With another guy—no doubt a hardened criminal—as a cellmate. He asked me, in Spanish, what I was in for. I think he was hoping to hear “Multiple rape and pillaging,” but all he got was my bad Espanol, explaining that “I made water in the street.” He greeted that news with an immediate answer: “Veinte y quatro horas.” Obviously a veteran of the penal system, he knew exactly how long each transgression deserved. He himself was in for fighting, he said proudly. I think he had double my penalty, 48 hours.
Sure enough, in exactly 24 hours I was released and, I feel, rehabilitated, and no longer a threat to society. But look how I have digressed! I must get back to the dinner party next time, but now I must relate something else.
**********
Last nite we had our big showdown game with Ahli Club. They had beaten us first round by 2 points. Things didn’t look rosy for us this time, as the day before the game our star local player, who averages over 20 points per game, sprained his ankle and is out for couple of weeks. Then on game day another valuable veteran got very sick; and so we were drastically shorthanded.
I started two little guys who are still also on the club Youth team, and a third on that team also played a key role, as we managed to squeak out a 4-point win. Lamond had a sub-par offensive game, 21 points, but one of the kids chipped in the same number and another youngster made bunch of key defensive plays. For the second time this season there was some joy in the post game locker room.
There had been a big noisy crowd and after the final buzzer there was dancing, by our fans, in the gym to the pounding drum beat. That spilled over into our locker room and I was even coerced into Arab-style dancing. Believe it or not, I’m not a very good dancer…Arab or anything else. For some reason I didn’t get no rhythm. So everyone had fun laughing at me. But guess who was a really good dancer! My rascally assistant coach, Ahmed. That little rolly-polly guy was quite graceful and adept.
I will begin Arab dancing (it’s mainly about the shoulders and hips) lessons later this week.
Avoid incarceration until next we meet,
Coach Pat
Monday, 8 February 2010
Color Guys and Gals
Dear Mostly North Americans,
Some of you will remember that a couple of years ago I was the color guy for West Liberty University (in Wild ‘n Wonderful West Virginia) basketball, doing radio/TV broadcasts. So I know a little about what I’m going to share with you. And let me say…I’m disgusted.
A couple of days ago I watched a telecast of my adoped school’s women’s team in action against Alderson-Broaddus College. Reid Amos (known everywhere as “The Fastest Gun in the Mountain State) is the play-by-play man and has some idea of what he’s doing. But he’s currently burdened by a heavy albatross around his neck. I refer to the fact that he has a girl colorman.
Her name is Leigh, she says, and the first thing to tip you off as to how bright her bulb burns is the little matter that she doesn’t even know how to spell that name. Like if someone asked, “Would you rather have a pair of Levis, Jordaches, or Leighs? Duh. But that’s only the start. Let’s take her appearance.
First, she’s wearing these meaningless hoop earrings. When I was doing games viewers saw one pricey diamond stud and one heavy pendant (to this day one of my earlobes is longer than the other) engraved with: Save the Seals. So she says nuthin; I let people understand how classy I am with one ear, and how socially proactive I am with the other.
Then she’s wearing this fancy girlie necklace of some kind. I simply went with a love-bead choker, indicating to the viewer that this broadcaster still had that peace ‘n love hippie spirit goin' for him! Like, totally cool. Seeya at Woodstock!
Her hair was all coifed and perfectly in place, as if she’d just stepped out of a beauty salon, which she no doubt had. Sissy stuff. Her eyes were all wide and alert, probably hoping to send the signal that there was something other than Barbie Dolls behind them, and she looked like she’d just brushed her sparkly white teeth for an hour. Plus, her clothes weren’t even disheveled. Borrrrrrrring.
Contrast that with the look that I offered viewers: long, wild, windswept hair going every which way, conveying that I was a wild ‘n crazy guy…someone you’d like to be trapped in a car with if you were frozen in during a blizzard. I kept my eyes sorta squinty to convey that I was thinkin’ hard and really into what I was sayin’, and I barely opened my mouth when I talked; not so much to cover the slightly yellow caste (not at all unattractive) of my choppers, but because it made me look mysterious…and dangerous. Sorta like a gangster. This is what the public wants in a colorman. Plus a buckskin fringe jacket…little bit rumpled. Cowboy string tie. With a fairly large (though smaller than the state of Rhode Island) turquoise stone to set it off. Gettin’ the picture?
And the things poor Reid’s colorperson talked about: this shooting percentage, and if we can hold down the turnovers to that number, and if the ball gets inside, and yadda yadda yadda. When were we going to hear something colorful? Like, I used to make a habit of calling things out to folks when they were in camera view, and this had a twofold purpose: first, to scorn and humiliate the guests; second, to hopefully incite the home crowd to riot. Aren’t we watchin’ this game to have some fun?
Let’s talk about opportunities missed. Consider. How many times did she make fun of the opposing coach when he was on camera? What would have been wrong with, “Hey, Bozo Boy!…great lookin’ orange shirt yer wearin’—makes you look like a skinny tangerine! But at least it’s long-sleeved and covers up your wimpy little arms!” Might that have worked?
And the other team, Alderson-Broaddus, has a player named Tori Charley. Would it have been a crime to comment: “Wow! Wonder why ole Tori Charley there has two boys’ first names and no girl or last name at all? Maybe her parents were hoping for twin boys.” And then they have a player from New Zealand who transferred in from Siskiyous, Calif., Junior College. How bout hollering when she ran by: “Hey, Kiwi Face…betcha couldn’t get no guys at Siskiyous to KISSKI-YOUS!”
One of the visitor’s players, a sophomore named Amber, is listed as hailing from Junior, West Virginia. Would it have been so dreary to have asked: “Hey, Reid, how can we be sure she’s a sophomore from Junior and not a junior from Sophomore? Or even a senior from Freshman?” Well, I never heard those insightful questions. Thereby leaving me in a state of anticipation…where I remain.
Then there was the fact that every single A-B starter wore a ponytail (while a mere four West Lib players did so). Might it not have helped home fan morale to have heard this colorful call to their bench: “Hey, cottonpickers (their school’s in a pretty rural area)! Those are some really ugly uniforms yer wearin’…looks like they’re made from the gunny sacks that you rode up here in! Of course you wasted most of your budget on rubber bands to hold up those beautiful dos that yer wearin’, didn’t ya?”
And there's the name of the school itself, commemerating Bobby Jim Alderson and Margie Bea Broaddus. Might it have livened things up a bit to have “accidentally” pronounced that “B” name a little bit differently ? After all, it’s common knowledge that she sported a monumental posterior.
**********
Last nite we took on 5th place Isa Town. We jumped up to a pretty good lead early but refs kept whistling fouls against our ex-NBA player (nearly 13 seasons) Lamond Murray. He got his third personal early in 2nd quarter and had to come out. Our defense was less than stellar. Our players like to brag around town: “Our defense is less than stellar.” We were down two points at halftime. Their American player had probably 20 points at the break and was greatly enjoying himself.
Lamond was able to play all of the second half, however, and was very productive, and we won 96-88. Three of our local players took a turn guarding Jesus Town’s Yank and all did a pretty good job.
Mohsen, usually our first big guy sub off the bench hasn’t been with us for a week due to the fact that he went to big Shia pilgrimage at Karballah, Iraq. In several attacks (presumably by Sunnis) about 50 pilgrims have been killed and couple hundred wounded. So I wouldn’t call his adventure absolutely totally safe.
**********
Couple of nights ago I went with Rick to the souk (marketplace), as he had to pick up a tuxedo he’d decided he needed to have made. En route, he was drinking, as he always is, Diet Coke. Wanting to be helpful, I mentioned to him that diet soda would rot his guts and kill him…and probably within a couple of days. Maybe hours or minutes.
He responded that he’d recently seen a study that showed that artificial sweeteners do two things to users. First, they seem to attack short-term memory. Second, they seem to attack short-term memory.
He admitted that this was a joke that he thank up hisself.
Yours in Good Clean Competition,
Coach Pat
Some of you will remember that a couple of years ago I was the color guy for West Liberty University (in Wild ‘n Wonderful West Virginia) basketball, doing radio/TV broadcasts. So I know a little about what I’m going to share with you. And let me say…I’m disgusted.
A couple of days ago I watched a telecast of my adoped school’s women’s team in action against Alderson-Broaddus College. Reid Amos (known everywhere as “The Fastest Gun in the Mountain State) is the play-by-play man and has some idea of what he’s doing. But he’s currently burdened by a heavy albatross around his neck. I refer to the fact that he has a girl colorman.
Her name is Leigh, she says, and the first thing to tip you off as to how bright her bulb burns is the little matter that she doesn’t even know how to spell that name. Like if someone asked, “Would you rather have a pair of Levis, Jordaches, or Leighs? Duh. But that’s only the start. Let’s take her appearance.
First, she’s wearing these meaningless hoop earrings. When I was doing games viewers saw one pricey diamond stud and one heavy pendant (to this day one of my earlobes is longer than the other) engraved with: Save the Seals. So she says nuthin; I let people understand how classy I am with one ear, and how socially proactive I am with the other.
Then she’s wearing this fancy girlie necklace of some kind. I simply went with a love-bead choker, indicating to the viewer that this broadcaster still had that peace ‘n love hippie spirit goin' for him! Like, totally cool. Seeya at Woodstock!
Her hair was all coifed and perfectly in place, as if she’d just stepped out of a beauty salon, which she no doubt had. Sissy stuff. Her eyes were all wide and alert, probably hoping to send the signal that there was something other than Barbie Dolls behind them, and she looked like she’d just brushed her sparkly white teeth for an hour. Plus, her clothes weren’t even disheveled. Borrrrrrrring.
Contrast that with the look that I offered viewers: long, wild, windswept hair going every which way, conveying that I was a wild ‘n crazy guy…someone you’d like to be trapped in a car with if you were frozen in during a blizzard. I kept my eyes sorta squinty to convey that I was thinkin’ hard and really into what I was sayin’, and I barely opened my mouth when I talked; not so much to cover the slightly yellow caste (not at all unattractive) of my choppers, but because it made me look mysterious…and dangerous. Sorta like a gangster. This is what the public wants in a colorman. Plus a buckskin fringe jacket…little bit rumpled. Cowboy string tie. With a fairly large (though smaller than the state of Rhode Island) turquoise stone to set it off. Gettin’ the picture?
And the things poor Reid’s colorperson talked about: this shooting percentage, and if we can hold down the turnovers to that number, and if the ball gets inside, and yadda yadda yadda. When were we going to hear something colorful? Like, I used to make a habit of calling things out to folks when they were in camera view, and this had a twofold purpose: first, to scorn and humiliate the guests; second, to hopefully incite the home crowd to riot. Aren’t we watchin’ this game to have some fun?
Let’s talk about opportunities missed. Consider. How many times did she make fun of the opposing coach when he was on camera? What would have been wrong with, “Hey, Bozo Boy!…great lookin’ orange shirt yer wearin’—makes you look like a skinny tangerine! But at least it’s long-sleeved and covers up your wimpy little arms!” Might that have worked?
And the other team, Alderson-Broaddus, has a player named Tori Charley. Would it have been a crime to comment: “Wow! Wonder why ole Tori Charley there has two boys’ first names and no girl or last name at all? Maybe her parents were hoping for twin boys.” And then they have a player from New Zealand who transferred in from Siskiyous, Calif., Junior College. How bout hollering when she ran by: “Hey, Kiwi Face…betcha couldn’t get no guys at Siskiyous to KISSKI-YOUS!”
One of the visitor’s players, a sophomore named Amber, is listed as hailing from Junior, West Virginia. Would it have been so dreary to have asked: “Hey, Reid, how can we be sure she’s a sophomore from Junior and not a junior from Sophomore? Or even a senior from Freshman?” Well, I never heard those insightful questions. Thereby leaving me in a state of anticipation…where I remain.
Then there was the fact that every single A-B starter wore a ponytail (while a mere four West Lib players did so). Might it not have helped home fan morale to have heard this colorful call to their bench: “Hey, cottonpickers (their school’s in a pretty rural area)! Those are some really ugly uniforms yer wearin’…looks like they’re made from the gunny sacks that you rode up here in! Of course you wasted most of your budget on rubber bands to hold up those beautiful dos that yer wearin’, didn’t ya?”
And there's the name of the school itself, commemerating Bobby Jim Alderson and Margie Bea Broaddus. Might it have livened things up a bit to have “accidentally” pronounced that “B” name a little bit differently ? After all, it’s common knowledge that she sported a monumental posterior.
**********
Last nite we took on 5th place Isa Town. We jumped up to a pretty good lead early but refs kept whistling fouls against our ex-NBA player (nearly 13 seasons) Lamond Murray. He got his third personal early in 2nd quarter and had to come out. Our defense was less than stellar. Our players like to brag around town: “Our defense is less than stellar.” We were down two points at halftime. Their American player had probably 20 points at the break and was greatly enjoying himself.
Lamond was able to play all of the second half, however, and was very productive, and we won 96-88. Three of our local players took a turn guarding Jesus Town’s Yank and all did a pretty good job.
Mohsen, usually our first big guy sub off the bench hasn’t been with us for a week due to the fact that he went to big Shia pilgrimage at Karballah, Iraq. In several attacks (presumably by Sunnis) about 50 pilgrims have been killed and couple hundred wounded. So I wouldn’t call his adventure absolutely totally safe.
**********
Couple of nights ago I went with Rick to the souk (marketplace), as he had to pick up a tuxedo he’d decided he needed to have made. En route, he was drinking, as he always is, Diet Coke. Wanting to be helpful, I mentioned to him that diet soda would rot his guts and kill him…and probably within a couple of days. Maybe hours or minutes.
He responded that he’d recently seen a study that showed that artificial sweeteners do two things to users. First, they seem to attack short-term memory. Second, they seem to attack short-term memory.
He admitted that this was a joke that he thank up hisself.
Yours in Good Clean Competition,
Coach Pat
Saturday, 6 February 2010
Cinnamon, Honey, Cummin
From Oct. 28-09
Dear Health Fanatics,
I think most of you saw the Forward about the incredible number of cures that can be effected by consuming cinnamon and honey. After I read it I raced to City Centre and went into the huge Carrefour market (sort of a French Wal-Mart). In less than half an hour I had located the spices and stood studying them. Did you know that there are a lot of spices? I found the cinnamon and they had a couple of brands. I selected one. But wait! Right next to that one there's another container, bigger and cheaper! So I made the exchange, checked out and drove home.
That night it was time for my first cinnamon and honey drink. I added the ingredients to the hot water, and in so doing noticed that the cinnamon smelled a bit funny. When I tasted the concoction it also tasted a little funny. I looked at the jar: Cummin. Darn! Almost the same color! Not my fault! I'm not even sure what you use cummin in. Meatloaf? Anyway, since I paid for it, I drank it down. Honestly, it may not make the menu at Starbucks.
I've now tried again for cinnamon and have succeeded and drink it down regularly. And it works...the first thing I noticed was no outbreaks of acne! Also, I'm starting to get some feeling below my knees. You better get started on it.
I had told you that our first league game, with Najma, was coming right up...if they showed up for the game. Well, they didn't have to show up. They just called the Fed and the Fed in turned called us. The message: Najma is not ready to play yet. So the game is postponed. I find this an interesting option for a team to have when they feel they are not up to par.
Sunday nite we did in fact have a game, taking on Isa Town. We won but played lousy. I can't get my players to move, beg though I may. Last nite at practice I made a lot of threats and this succeeded into frightening them enough to start stirring around a wee bit. We play Nuwaidrat on Saturday. You may remember that our club had signed two of their players from last year. That made them mad and they wouldn't release one of them, Ibrahim, even tho they had no valid grounds to refuse signing the papers. The battle waged for a couple of weeks and in the end they blackmailed us into having to give the other player back in order to get Ibrahim. So we will play against our former squad member next game.
Games are usually played on Saturdays, Sundays, and Mondays. The fans, for big games, are rabid. I'm told that for important matchess people show up at 4:00 so they can get into the gym for a 7:45 game. Scammers even sell counterfeit tickets. Finally, nearly 2000 squeeze in but we could easily draw 5000 if we had a bigger building. In fact, there is a big new building here and I was told that Bahrain will use it to host the Arab Club Games in April if they win the bid. We will play in that competition. If it's not here I'm told that Dubai also wants it. While in Beirut, Mgr. Hussain managed to wrangle us an invitation to Morocco, also in May. A competition in Casa Blanca, which is supposed to be nice place. It's an 8-9 hour plane ride from here. I've never been to Morocco, so look forward to that. I also look forward to my daily hot drink to soon vanquish baldness. And I believe it will. It's miraculous. And I think cummin may very well also work.
I've seen all ten league teams play now and 9 of them are capable of winning on a given nite. I saw Bahrain Club two nites ago, a team that hasn't won a game in 3 years. They didn't win this nite either but I was still pleased to witness the competition, because of the BC coach. Quite a hefty young fellow, with extra girth around the middle, it was obvious he had put some thought into what he would wear for the game. I feel that his selections were a fashion triumph. He wore very baggy red gym shorts and for a top simply went with a dark blue Chicago Bears football jersey. Written on the back, in orange, was: SINGLETARY. That would be Mike Singletary, now coach of the SF 49ers. I feel that he may have been sending some sort of covert statement through his wardrobe. I continue to ponder, with admiration, his cunning. His foreign player is an old tallish Iraqi. They may not taste victory again this season either, unless Coach's secret messages mess with the other teams' psyches or something like that.
**********
Remember when I went out few weeks ago to Amwaj Island...where I was somewhat frightened by a building disguised as a dragon? Well, I've been back there twice. In one tract, called Tala, you leave your ID with the gate guys and can go in to where there's a Costa's Coffee and a Dairy Queen among the residences. So what I do is power walk for about 40 minutes, taking in the sights, and then I help myself to one of their nice big round swimming pools. The pools sit right next to a lagoon and yesterday I did some saltwater swimming there as well. Which is funny. Because before I started taking honey and cinnamon I didn't even know how to swim. I also had a cheeseburger and a blizzard (Snickers) at DQ. The place is quiet and serene and it's a nice outing.
**********
When I first got here I thought it was easy to drive around...not so much traffic. But, unfortunately, I was tricked by the fact that it was Ramadan and most of the drivers were home sleeping (while they fasted). Now I find that traffic is a big problem, mostly because the system is designed with almost no side streets. So every major intersection has incredibly long lines. Can easily sit through 3 (long)red lights before finally moving along. Another factor in the long waits is that the traffic engineers don't dare to let lanes from opposing sides of the street make left-hand turns at the same time. The result would be chaos and mayhem, neither of which are welcome here in the friendly kingdom.
**********
Yesterday I went with my new friend, Ozell, a Dominican-American who coaches Ittihad, to lunch at Nando's (a Portuguese chain...good food) and then across the street to The Second Cup, where I enjoyed a caramel moccachino. One waitress was quite brassy and kept talking to us. So I asked where she was from. She said something I didn't understand. I asked again, she said again. On the third try I realized she was saying she was from "Mount Everest." And she smiled as she said it. Turns out she's from Nepal. She told us how a Mexican kid from the U.S. military base very close by, has been coming in to see her for a week now. She thinks he likes her. So she asked us all these questions about Mexico. I advised her to focus on the musical question, "Mamacita, donde esta Santa Claus?" I feel that's good advice until this very minute.
Eventually we paid and left. But here's what you have to remember about the money: the denominations come in different colors. The 20s (about $55) are sort of aqua; the 10s are green; the 5s are blue; the ones are red (but watch out...they have two different sizes of these); and both the one-halfs and one-quarters are brownish. What?! You don't have any half dollar or one-quarter dollar bills in your wallet? Well, they're needful here, where each dinar is worth $2.70 and you need smaller denominations. Still always end up with tons of change. When I have enough of this change I will send it to poor kids so that they can take the cinnamon/honey cure. It's miraculous.
Young Coach G.P.(and getting younger by the minute; it also cures aging)
Dear Health Fanatics,
I think most of you saw the Forward about the incredible number of cures that can be effected by consuming cinnamon and honey. After I read it I raced to City Centre and went into the huge Carrefour market (sort of a French Wal-Mart). In less than half an hour I had located the spices and stood studying them. Did you know that there are a lot of spices? I found the cinnamon and they had a couple of brands. I selected one. But wait! Right next to that one there's another container, bigger and cheaper! So I made the exchange, checked out and drove home.
That night it was time for my first cinnamon and honey drink. I added the ingredients to the hot water, and in so doing noticed that the cinnamon smelled a bit funny. When I tasted the concoction it also tasted a little funny. I looked at the jar: Cummin. Darn! Almost the same color! Not my fault! I'm not even sure what you use cummin in. Meatloaf? Anyway, since I paid for it, I drank it down. Honestly, it may not make the menu at Starbucks.
I've now tried again for cinnamon and have succeeded and drink it down regularly. And it works...the first thing I noticed was no outbreaks of acne! Also, I'm starting to get some feeling below my knees. You better get started on it.
I had told you that our first league game, with Najma, was coming right up...if they showed up for the game. Well, they didn't have to show up. They just called the Fed and the Fed in turned called us. The message: Najma is not ready to play yet. So the game is postponed. I find this an interesting option for a team to have when they feel they are not up to par.
Sunday nite we did in fact have a game, taking on Isa Town. We won but played lousy. I can't get my players to move, beg though I may. Last nite at practice I made a lot of threats and this succeeded into frightening them enough to start stirring around a wee bit. We play Nuwaidrat on Saturday. You may remember that our club had signed two of their players from last year. That made them mad and they wouldn't release one of them, Ibrahim, even tho they had no valid grounds to refuse signing the papers. The battle waged for a couple of weeks and in the end they blackmailed us into having to give the other player back in order to get Ibrahim. So we will play against our former squad member next game.
Games are usually played on Saturdays, Sundays, and Mondays. The fans, for big games, are rabid. I'm told that for important matchess people show up at 4:00 so they can get into the gym for a 7:45 game. Scammers even sell counterfeit tickets. Finally, nearly 2000 squeeze in but we could easily draw 5000 if we had a bigger building. In fact, there is a big new building here and I was told that Bahrain will use it to host the Arab Club Games in April if they win the bid. We will play in that competition. If it's not here I'm told that Dubai also wants it. While in Beirut, Mgr. Hussain managed to wrangle us an invitation to Morocco, also in May. A competition in Casa Blanca, which is supposed to be nice place. It's an 8-9 hour plane ride from here. I've never been to Morocco, so look forward to that. I also look forward to my daily hot drink to soon vanquish baldness. And I believe it will. It's miraculous. And I think cummin may very well also work.
I've seen all ten league teams play now and 9 of them are capable of winning on a given nite. I saw Bahrain Club two nites ago, a team that hasn't won a game in 3 years. They didn't win this nite either but I was still pleased to witness the competition, because of the BC coach. Quite a hefty young fellow, with extra girth around the middle, it was obvious he had put some thought into what he would wear for the game. I feel that his selections were a fashion triumph. He wore very baggy red gym shorts and for a top simply went with a dark blue Chicago Bears football jersey. Written on the back, in orange, was: SINGLETARY. That would be Mike Singletary, now coach of the SF 49ers. I feel that he may have been sending some sort of covert statement through his wardrobe. I continue to ponder, with admiration, his cunning. His foreign player is an old tallish Iraqi. They may not taste victory again this season either, unless Coach's secret messages mess with the other teams' psyches or something like that.
**********
Remember when I went out few weeks ago to Amwaj Island...where I was somewhat frightened by a building disguised as a dragon? Well, I've been back there twice. In one tract, called Tala, you leave your ID with the gate guys and can go in to where there's a Costa's Coffee and a Dairy Queen among the residences. So what I do is power walk for about 40 minutes, taking in the sights, and then I help myself to one of their nice big round swimming pools. The pools sit right next to a lagoon and yesterday I did some saltwater swimming there as well. Which is funny. Because before I started taking honey and cinnamon I didn't even know how to swim. I also had a cheeseburger and a blizzard (Snickers) at DQ. The place is quiet and serene and it's a nice outing.
**********
When I first got here I thought it was easy to drive around...not so much traffic. But, unfortunately, I was tricked by the fact that it was Ramadan and most of the drivers were home sleeping (while they fasted). Now I find that traffic is a big problem, mostly because the system is designed with almost no side streets. So every major intersection has incredibly long lines. Can easily sit through 3 (long)red lights before finally moving along. Another factor in the long waits is that the traffic engineers don't dare to let lanes from opposing sides of the street make left-hand turns at the same time. The result would be chaos and mayhem, neither of which are welcome here in the friendly kingdom.
**********
Yesterday I went with my new friend, Ozell, a Dominican-American who coaches Ittihad, to lunch at Nando's (a Portuguese chain...good food) and then across the street to The Second Cup, where I enjoyed a caramel moccachino. One waitress was quite brassy and kept talking to us. So I asked where she was from. She said something I didn't understand. I asked again, she said again. On the third try I realized she was saying she was from "Mount Everest." And she smiled as she said it. Turns out she's from Nepal. She told us how a Mexican kid from the U.S. military base very close by, has been coming in to see her for a week now. She thinks he likes her. So she asked us all these questions about Mexico. I advised her to focus on the musical question, "Mamacita, donde esta Santa Claus?" I feel that's good advice until this very minute.
Eventually we paid and left. But here's what you have to remember about the money: the denominations come in different colors. The 20s (about $55) are sort of aqua; the 10s are green; the 5s are blue; the ones are red (but watch out...they have two different sizes of these); and both the one-halfs and one-quarters are brownish. What?! You don't have any half dollar or one-quarter dollar bills in your wallet? Well, they're needful here, where each dinar is worth $2.70 and you need smaller denominations. Still always end up with tons of change. When I have enough of this change I will send it to poor kids so that they can take the cinnamon/honey cure. It's miraculous.
Young Coach G.P.(and getting younger by the minute; it also cures aging)
Manama Game
From Nov. 10-09
I shave my head twice a week. Try it.
I never shave my eyebrows though. It’s probably something, however, that I should consider.
Earlier, I told you Bahrain means “Two Islands.” Well, I lied. It means “Two Seas.” I read it in a magazine at Dairy Queen. And some phenomenon occurs where these two seas meet, and that’s the fact that fresh-water springs bubble up from the depths and combine with the salt water. There is speculation that this combination is what gives Bahraini pearls the luster that makes them conspicuously wonderful. Bahrain’s early commerce was built around the pearl trade.
Bahrain was the first Gulf state in which oil was discovered, maybe in 1918 or thereabouts. But it is the Gulf state with the least oil. There are 1.2 million people walking around the island (tho not all at the same time nor in the same place), 700,000 of them are locals. The island is 30 miles by 20 miles. So 600 million square miles.
The other day I was doing my power-walking routine (that occurs before my swim; that occurs before DQ) at Amwaj Island and I was walking thru a section where the abodes all sit on waterways, giving things a pleasing Venice-like look. I saw a yard sale in progress, and was attracted to a bunch of books. The gal selling them (I took five) is from Florida but has recently been in Southern California. I told her that, conversely, I’m from Southern California but have recently been in Florida! In the ensuing eerie silence the sounds of both our jaws dropping was clearly audible. Loud clicking.
The result is that I now have five new books and can stop reading the book on the history of the Balkans that Dr. Kevin gave me when I left Miami. The history of the Balkans, by the way, is mostly one of mayhem, hatred and carnage and the teams committing these are too numerous to tell apart. Who cares who gets Macedonia?
We had our first big game, vs. Manama, Saturday nite. The gym was packed (one side all Manama, the other side one-third us, one-third VIPs, and one-third people in general). It was so loud that my players could hear nothing I tried to yell at them. At time-outs I had to shout to be heard, over all the drums and noise. We got off to a terrible start. While they were scoring fast break layups, we were turning the ball over just about every time. The general rule on turnovers: good at bakery shops, bad in basketball.
We were quickly down 12 or 14, to the glee of the crowd in blue. Had I been watching the game, I would have asked, “What in the world does the coach of the red team do at practice?” A very valid question regarding yours truly. We were awful in every phase. Somehow, despite 13 turnovers, we pecked away and were only down two at the break.
The second half see-sawed, but we were mostly behind by around five or six. With 28 seconds left we were down one and Manama had the ball. We had to foul four times to get them to the free throw line (because of the team-fouls situation) and when one of their players finally got there only ten seconds remained. He missed one of his two shots and our point guard somehow managed to wend his way thru traffic and take the ball to the other end where he scored a difficult layup. Overtime.
We trailed the first three minutes then finally got a lead and it stood up, for a final score win, 88-84. A truly ugly win, but preferable to a truly ugly loss. A year from now I’ll be talking about spiffy we were that game. Lamond had 27 points and 21 rebounds and a timely block near the end, but also 7 turnovers. We finished with 21 TOs, after having 5 the game before. After the game: relief; while our players sang and danced Arab-style before our drum-pounding supporters.
You probably think my asst., Ahmed, was a shrinking violet this game. But you would be wrong in thinking that. During the game he was on his feet screaming at the refs a good deal and we kept getting warnings that if he didn’t sit down we’d get a technical foul. You’re now certain that he thereafter behaved. Wrong again. In a short while he was up, leaping and gesticulating wildly. We got a tech, and they made free throw and got possession (else the game wouldn’t have gone overtime).
I was told that this protest was because league rules say that if a team’s fans pelt the floor/opponents with objects then the refs have to call a technical foul. Manama fans kept pelting, but only warnings ensued. So he got ballistic. Then, right after the game, as he and players were exulting, Manama fans peppered our proceedings with a pair of very loud cherry bombs. Soon, Ahmed had raced across the floor to the fence and was screaming at the Manama fans there. They were trying with all their might to get over the barrier and at him but were foiled when the police escorted him, kicking and hollering, out of harm’s way.
I watched couple of games the next nite and once again saw the girlfriend of the Hala player. She hasn’t left here because her agent can’t firm up a decent job offer. He told her that import numbers and salaries are way down because of world recession. Lots of leagues have dropped from, say, 12 teams to eight, etc.
Tomorrow night we play against Najmah, the team that “wasn’t ready” when we were supposed to play them first game of the season. And then on Sunday we get winless Bahrain Club, led by their style-setting coach—who last game once more wore his Chi Bears Singletary jersey. I’m told he also has a Ronnie Lott and a Lawrence Taylor. So there’s some versatility in the boy’s wardrobe.
Who’ll kill me first: my players or Ahmed?
Coach G
I shave my head twice a week. Try it.
I never shave my eyebrows though. It’s probably something, however, that I should consider.
Earlier, I told you Bahrain means “Two Islands.” Well, I lied. It means “Two Seas.” I read it in a magazine at Dairy Queen. And some phenomenon occurs where these two seas meet, and that’s the fact that fresh-water springs bubble up from the depths and combine with the salt water. There is speculation that this combination is what gives Bahraini pearls the luster that makes them conspicuously wonderful. Bahrain’s early commerce was built around the pearl trade.
Bahrain was the first Gulf state in which oil was discovered, maybe in 1918 or thereabouts. But it is the Gulf state with the least oil. There are 1.2 million people walking around the island (tho not all at the same time nor in the same place), 700,000 of them are locals. The island is 30 miles by 20 miles. So 600 million square miles.
The other day I was doing my power-walking routine (that occurs before my swim; that occurs before DQ) at Amwaj Island and I was walking thru a section where the abodes all sit on waterways, giving things a pleasing Venice-like look. I saw a yard sale in progress, and was attracted to a bunch of books. The gal selling them (I took five) is from Florida but has recently been in Southern California. I told her that, conversely, I’m from Southern California but have recently been in Florida! In the ensuing eerie silence the sounds of both our jaws dropping was clearly audible. Loud clicking.
The result is that I now have five new books and can stop reading the book on the history of the Balkans that Dr. Kevin gave me when I left Miami. The history of the Balkans, by the way, is mostly one of mayhem, hatred and carnage and the teams committing these are too numerous to tell apart. Who cares who gets Macedonia?
We had our first big game, vs. Manama, Saturday nite. The gym was packed (one side all Manama, the other side one-third us, one-third VIPs, and one-third people in general). It was so loud that my players could hear nothing I tried to yell at them. At time-outs I had to shout to be heard, over all the drums and noise. We got off to a terrible start. While they were scoring fast break layups, we were turning the ball over just about every time. The general rule on turnovers: good at bakery shops, bad in basketball.
We were quickly down 12 or 14, to the glee of the crowd in blue. Had I been watching the game, I would have asked, “What in the world does the coach of the red team do at practice?” A very valid question regarding yours truly. We were awful in every phase. Somehow, despite 13 turnovers, we pecked away and were only down two at the break.
The second half see-sawed, but we were mostly behind by around five or six. With 28 seconds left we were down one and Manama had the ball. We had to foul four times to get them to the free throw line (because of the team-fouls situation) and when one of their players finally got there only ten seconds remained. He missed one of his two shots and our point guard somehow managed to wend his way thru traffic and take the ball to the other end where he scored a difficult layup. Overtime.
We trailed the first three minutes then finally got a lead and it stood up, for a final score win, 88-84. A truly ugly win, but preferable to a truly ugly loss. A year from now I’ll be talking about spiffy we were that game. Lamond had 27 points and 21 rebounds and a timely block near the end, but also 7 turnovers. We finished with 21 TOs, after having 5 the game before. After the game: relief; while our players sang and danced Arab-style before our drum-pounding supporters.
You probably think my asst., Ahmed, was a shrinking violet this game. But you would be wrong in thinking that. During the game he was on his feet screaming at the refs a good deal and we kept getting warnings that if he didn’t sit down we’d get a technical foul. You’re now certain that he thereafter behaved. Wrong again. In a short while he was up, leaping and gesticulating wildly. We got a tech, and they made free throw and got possession (else the game wouldn’t have gone overtime).
I was told that this protest was because league rules say that if a team’s fans pelt the floor/opponents with objects then the refs have to call a technical foul. Manama fans kept pelting, but only warnings ensued. So he got ballistic. Then, right after the game, as he and players were exulting, Manama fans peppered our proceedings with a pair of very loud cherry bombs. Soon, Ahmed had raced across the floor to the fence and was screaming at the Manama fans there. They were trying with all their might to get over the barrier and at him but were foiled when the police escorted him, kicking and hollering, out of harm’s way.
I watched couple of games the next nite and once again saw the girlfriend of the Hala player. She hasn’t left here because her agent can’t firm up a decent job offer. He told her that import numbers and salaries are way down because of world recession. Lots of leagues have dropped from, say, 12 teams to eight, etc.
Tomorrow night we play against Najmah, the team that “wasn’t ready” when we were supposed to play them first game of the season. And then on Sunday we get winless Bahrain Club, led by their style-setting coach—who last game once more wore his Chi Bears Singletary jersey. I’m told he also has a Ronnie Lott and a Lawrence Taylor. So there’s some versatility in the boy’s wardrobe.
Who’ll kill me first: my players or Ahmed?
Coach G
Friday, 5 February 2010
Fools' Names and Fools' Faces
Dear Noodlers,
Okay, we’re back up on the incline of the bridge, and I told you that I was in high spirits—largely owing to the fact that I had just solved a riddle as difficult as that posed by the Sphinx itself. (see last post: Calculating the Unknown) I told you I felt like whistling, but was unable to do so owing to the circumstance that there was a persimmon in my mouth. “Well, I’ll fix that,” I said, and quickly ate the fruit’s remaining flesh. I tossed the core over the hedges and guard rails out onto the highway, some twenty yards distant. I began to whistle merrily.
I’d also told you that I had seen fishermen ahead of me. About ten of them were fishing from a pretty good height, two more were walking toward me. They were Filipinos and my heart warmed when I saw that they’d given up and were empty-handed. When they got near, I stopped whistling and said, “Hey, guys! Where’s all your fish?” As I’d hoped, their countenances drooped and shame filled their faces. With eyes down, they mumbled something and kept trudging along. My mood lifted even higher. I don’t like to fish and so I don’t see why anyone else should get any enjoyment from it either.
I walked on but my attention was soon diverted by the honking of horns and the screeching of brakes not far behind me. Then the sound of metal on metal. I looked behind me and saw that the two colliding parties had leaped from their cars and were arguing and shouting vigorously at each other. A lot of threatening arm-waving. Arabs are so demonstrative! I laughed to myself and said, “The persimmon core.”
Walking on, I studied the pathway I was on. It was seven yards wide. The middle five yards were red brick and the edging on each side was comprised of gold bricks. Gold bricks. My computer-like mind began to race. And soon stopped. I’d achieved brain-lock! A pop song! By Elton John! “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road,” a number I knew well! I decided to sing and so opened up my mouth and blared out lustily, “So goodbye yellow brick road—“ and then I stopped. Inexplicably, that’s all I remembered. No matter. What a great day.
I passed the fishermen whose poles rested atop the bridge railing. Some Indians and a few locals. Happily, no one was catching anything. Except me. I was catchin’ good vibes, and plenty of them.
I walked on, the sun shining warmly. Now, near the summit, the walkway expanded into a sort of plaza and I saw that benches had been placed around for people to sit on and enjoy the seaview.
But then my heart stopped.
In less than a nanosecond my mood had plummeted from elation to violent rage. All because of what I saw before me. Graffiti. Graffiti! Some dirtbag had used a black marker all over the bench before me! In Arabic! Steam rose from the pate of my shaven head. I was boiling at the inconsideration of the imbecile that had done this! But his foul example of subhuman action wouldn’t go unanswered! No!!
I whipped out my penknife and got to work (they’re called PENknives because you can use them, obviously, for both cutting and writing). Thinking black thoughts, I began to carve. I wrote:
“You scumsucker. You piece of maggoty vomit. Did it ever occur to your tiny brain that maybe decent people have absolutely no desire to see examples of your moronic idiocy? Of course it didn’t. And that’s why you deserve to undergo China’s 1000 tortures…until you take your last putrid breath…as pins and needles fill your eyes, wild animals tear at your flesh, and vampires suckle at your throat.”
I closed my knife and read what I’d written. Not bad. But then I remembered a pithy little saying that my Uncle Ken had taught me when I was but a whippersnapper. I opened the knife again and bent to the carving. Soon I saw the result:
“Fools’ names and fools’ faces
Are always seen in public places.”
“Let ‘im mull that over,” I thought to myself, as I again folded the knife and began to walk away. I was sure that the culprit had signed his evil name. But then, thinking of Uncle Ken, my mood gradually began to lift again. I was remembering the times that he would let me ride astride the hood of the little gray Ford tractor (remember that Ford tractors are always gray, Farmalls and McCormack Internationals are always red, and John Deeres are always green; those are the rules) as he did some plowing on my grandparents’ little Oklahoma farm.
What a thrill it was to be sitting there in front of my uncle, just watching the furrows in the red dirt go by while he planted something…probably cotton. Then I thought of something that had never occurred to me before. How was he so certain I couldn’t fall from my perch (I was about four) and be sown too? That was sort of a disturbing thought.
So there I was. Walking along with my emotions yo-yoing; not unlike my team’s performances on the hardwoods.
As you can see, power-walking will test the limits of your emotions. But keep the course.
Former Whippersnapper
Okay, we’re back up on the incline of the bridge, and I told you that I was in high spirits—largely owing to the fact that I had just solved a riddle as difficult as that posed by the Sphinx itself. (see last post: Calculating the Unknown) I told you I felt like whistling, but was unable to do so owing to the circumstance that there was a persimmon in my mouth. “Well, I’ll fix that,” I said, and quickly ate the fruit’s remaining flesh. I tossed the core over the hedges and guard rails out onto the highway, some twenty yards distant. I began to whistle merrily.
I’d also told you that I had seen fishermen ahead of me. About ten of them were fishing from a pretty good height, two more were walking toward me. They were Filipinos and my heart warmed when I saw that they’d given up and were empty-handed. When they got near, I stopped whistling and said, “Hey, guys! Where’s all your fish?” As I’d hoped, their countenances drooped and shame filled their faces. With eyes down, they mumbled something and kept trudging along. My mood lifted even higher. I don’t like to fish and so I don’t see why anyone else should get any enjoyment from it either.
I walked on but my attention was soon diverted by the honking of horns and the screeching of brakes not far behind me. Then the sound of metal on metal. I looked behind me and saw that the two colliding parties had leaped from their cars and were arguing and shouting vigorously at each other. A lot of threatening arm-waving. Arabs are so demonstrative! I laughed to myself and said, “The persimmon core.”
Walking on, I studied the pathway I was on. It was seven yards wide. The middle five yards were red brick and the edging on each side was comprised of gold bricks. Gold bricks. My computer-like mind began to race. And soon stopped. I’d achieved brain-lock! A pop song! By Elton John! “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road,” a number I knew well! I decided to sing and so opened up my mouth and blared out lustily, “So goodbye yellow brick road—“ and then I stopped. Inexplicably, that’s all I remembered. No matter. What a great day.
I passed the fishermen whose poles rested atop the bridge railing. Some Indians and a few locals. Happily, no one was catching anything. Except me. I was catchin’ good vibes, and plenty of them.
I walked on, the sun shining warmly. Now, near the summit, the walkway expanded into a sort of plaza and I saw that benches had been placed around for people to sit on and enjoy the seaview.
But then my heart stopped.
In less than a nanosecond my mood had plummeted from elation to violent rage. All because of what I saw before me. Graffiti. Graffiti! Some dirtbag had used a black marker all over the bench before me! In Arabic! Steam rose from the pate of my shaven head. I was boiling at the inconsideration of the imbecile that had done this! But his foul example of subhuman action wouldn’t go unanswered! No!!
I whipped out my penknife and got to work (they’re called PENknives because you can use them, obviously, for both cutting and writing). Thinking black thoughts, I began to carve. I wrote:
“You scumsucker. You piece of maggoty vomit. Did it ever occur to your tiny brain that maybe decent people have absolutely no desire to see examples of your moronic idiocy? Of course it didn’t. And that’s why you deserve to undergo China’s 1000 tortures…until you take your last putrid breath…as pins and needles fill your eyes, wild animals tear at your flesh, and vampires suckle at your throat.”
I closed my knife and read what I’d written. Not bad. But then I remembered a pithy little saying that my Uncle Ken had taught me when I was but a whippersnapper. I opened the knife again and bent to the carving. Soon I saw the result:
“Fools’ names and fools’ faces
Are always seen in public places.”
“Let ‘im mull that over,” I thought to myself, as I again folded the knife and began to walk away. I was sure that the culprit had signed his evil name. But then, thinking of Uncle Ken, my mood gradually began to lift again. I was remembering the times that he would let me ride astride the hood of the little gray Ford tractor (remember that Ford tractors are always gray, Farmalls and McCormack Internationals are always red, and John Deeres are always green; those are the rules) as he did some plowing on my grandparents’ little Oklahoma farm.
What a thrill it was to be sitting there in front of my uncle, just watching the furrows in the red dirt go by while he planted something…probably cotton. Then I thought of something that had never occurred to me before. How was he so certain I couldn’t fall from my perch (I was about four) and be sown too? That was sort of a disturbing thought.
So there I was. Walking along with my emotions yo-yoing; not unlike my team’s performances on the hardwoods.
As you can see, power-walking will test the limits of your emotions. But keep the course.
Former Whippersnapper
Tuesday, 2 February 2010
Various Kinds of Heads
from Nov. 6-09
Folkses,
I only wish you could have seen my housekeeping zeal yesterday morning. I vacuumed AND mopped. It was incredible. I even thought of cleaning the toilets! But tell me this: do you share in my belief that sheets should probably not be washed more than once a month? I have a fairly strong hunch that to subject linens more frequently to the rigors of the washer and dryer might very well result in harming the integrity of their fabric.
Saturday nite we played Nuwaidrat. The first half wasn't pleasing to watch, as they hardly bothered missing any shots...they must have shot 75% from the field. Our goal is to keep opponents under 40%. We led at halftime 55-51 and ended up getting all 12 players into the game in a 106-90 win.
The next nite I witnessed Hameed's Manama squad barely survive a tilt with Hala. They needed help from the officials, who are always influenced by Manama's large, rabid, and very noisy crowd. One side of the gym was filled with their supporters and drums were pounding. I couldn't help but bob to the rhythmn.
Guess who was sitting right below me in the VIP section and was very disgusted with the officiating? A girl! When I first came in and sat down I noticed her near me and remarked to her, helpfully, "You can't be in here! You're a girl! Right?" She confirmed that she was. But she pointed out to me another pair of Western girls sitting in an adjacent section. She turned out to be Misty Bass, a post player who led Duke to the NCAA title about 4 years ago and just finished the WNBA season with the Chicago Sky. She was there to visit a boyfriend who plays for Hala and she will leave directly from here to a club in either China, Russia, or Spain...her agent attending to the details.
In a final attempt to be helpful I told her later that I had checked with the Name Police and found that her spelling of what should be "Missy" is unacceptable. Amazingly, she did not appear crushed. I was crushed that she was not crushed, because I had hoped to put her in her place.
Our troops had Sunday off and then bounced right back the next nite with maybe the worst practice I've ever given in my life. And this is with Manama coming up Saturday. Three guys who had played in the game sat "injured" in the bleachers, two more didn't show up, and the ones that were there weren't happy that they were there. I wasn't happy that I was there. There were a lot of unhappy people in the gym.
The next nite one of the players told me before training that most players are miffed because they haven't been paid in two months. Hussain called me in the morning and told me that Shaikh Mohammed would come to practice and assure the players that checks were in the mail. We had a pretty decent practice and he then reassured the troops. Following his little pow-wow with them the Shaikh, Hussain, Lamond and I took the next logical step: we went to a very fancy/expensive restaurant for dinner. And me in my practice shirt and shorts! Lamond showered at the gym and wore decent clothes.
The place we went to is called the Roma and is, as Hussain had assured me, a Class A joint. It was dark and a blonde lady was singing, sometimes in English, sometimes in Spanish. I scanned the menu and was frightened by the prices but tried not to show it, figuring the Shaikh would pick it up (he did). All the waiters knew Mohd by name and catered to him mightily. One of them was, of course, an Indian midget and when he appeared to do something or other, the Shaikh pointed out to him that should he try and guard Lamond there (pointing at him), that it would be quite "A mismatch." That was his word and the little guy couldn't deny that he would in fact have a tough time guarding the 6-7 Lamond.
We ordered. I went with hammour (local white fish) stuffed with shrimps in some sauce ($25), a salad ($9), and later, tiramisu ($11). It was all quite good. But, wait, what's wrong?! Hussain is unable to eat his stuffed mushrooms appetizer! He's dizzy! Now he's off to the restroom! Now he's back, but still unwell! Now his entree is canceled and he has gone home! The only ray of sunshine in this sorrowful scenario is the fact that I eat most of the mushrooms. But last nite Hussain was recovered and at practice, so don't worry about him.
**********
Last Friday I took Coach Ozell to church with me. Remember, it was reported in the newspapers over a week ago that he was fired by his club, but since they never mentioned it to him he continued to give practices. After the service we met an American named Rick, who is involved here with making films and doing related things. One thing is to fascillitate a "Comedy Night" at a hotel each Wed. nite. We invited him to go to lunch with us. He suggested JJ's Irish Pub, singing the praises of their colossal breakfasts.
We met him there and he told us he had called Art to also join us. Art turned out to be another film maker; he's from Harlem and is interesting and amusing. While eating (I had fish and chips; quite tasty), Rick told us that he comes to this place every Sunday evening for "Quiz Nite." He made us promise to come and join his team in the competition. So after the Manama x Hala game we met up, late, with Rick to lend our skills to the effort to win coveted prizes.
We were on a team that also included 3 Brit chix and a Brit guy, and a local named Tariq who is one of Rick's comedic guys. He had explained to us earlier that the comics were mostly local or Indian or Pakistani and that some of them were kind of funny...but to remember that the bar is set lower than in other places due to this fact.
Back to the competition: I quickly proved to be an incredibly valuable team addition as, in the "Name the Song Title and Artist" phase of things (the emcee played the beginnings of two songs each from the 50s, the 60s, the 70s, the 80s, and the 90s) I, and I alone, was able to identify the first as "Yakety Yak," by The Coasters; and the second as "The Banana Boat Song," by Harry Belafonte. It may be true that my star faded a little through the remaining tunes...until I heard the unmistakeable intro to "Spirit in the Sky" by Norman Greenbaum! But can you believe it? It's not Norman! It's some stupid later re-make!
Then we went back to the quiz questions, the team's answers written on a piece of paper and turned in at the end. The emcee asked questions like, "Which mammal sleeps less per day than any other? (Giraffe, 20 minutes) And "What is the only dog who can give admissable evidence in court? (bloodhounds); and a bunch of other unimportant questions--the correct answers of which were on the tip of my tongue but never managed to quite spill out. Finally he asked an important question: "Which mammal, with over 40,000 muscles, has the most muscles in the animal kingdom?" "The elephant!" I blurted out. My teammates told me, unkindly, to stop yelling...they didn't want the teams at neighboring tables to hear the answer. Pretty unreasonable of them, if you ask me.
In the end, our team won one of the prizes, which was a Scottish tam (hat) with a blonde wig coming out its back. I admit that I was a little resentful of the Brit that took it home. I could use one of those.
Yesterday, after his team was smashed the nite before by defending league champs, Ahli, Ozell's club mustered the courage to tell him that he is no longer at the helm. But some other clubs here are interested in him so we'll see what will happen. On Sunday he and I had asked Art and his wife, who had just flown in from Holland, to join us for Thai at the Banana Leaf. They did, and his wife was a fiery redhead from Amsterdam! A nurse, she turned out to be a witty conversationalist and was pleased with me for making fun of her wooden shoes and calling her "Kaaskompf" (Cheesehead).
Remember, I once coached in Holland, and am able to make people feel at home in their native tongues. Her English, by the way, is only slightly better than mine. Nancy, our Thai waitress, has trouble with English. She had told me earlier that her cousin (flight attendant for Gulf Airlines) holds an Irish passport. Only she says, "Irlish." So I worked with her. I was able to get her to say "Ire" by itself, and "ish" by itself, but when I said "Now say Irish," she said "Irlish." I was disgusted with her and wished I knew how to call her Bananahead in Thai.
Coach Gee Pea
Folkses,
I only wish you could have seen my housekeeping zeal yesterday morning. I vacuumed AND mopped. It was incredible. I even thought of cleaning the toilets! But tell me this: do you share in my belief that sheets should probably not be washed more than once a month? I have a fairly strong hunch that to subject linens more frequently to the rigors of the washer and dryer might very well result in harming the integrity of their fabric.
Saturday nite we played Nuwaidrat. The first half wasn't pleasing to watch, as they hardly bothered missing any shots...they must have shot 75% from the field. Our goal is to keep opponents under 40%. We led at halftime 55-51 and ended up getting all 12 players into the game in a 106-90 win.
The next nite I witnessed Hameed's Manama squad barely survive a tilt with Hala. They needed help from the officials, who are always influenced by Manama's large, rabid, and very noisy crowd. One side of the gym was filled with their supporters and drums were pounding. I couldn't help but bob to the rhythmn.
Guess who was sitting right below me in the VIP section and was very disgusted with the officiating? A girl! When I first came in and sat down I noticed her near me and remarked to her, helpfully, "You can't be in here! You're a girl! Right?" She confirmed that she was. But she pointed out to me another pair of Western girls sitting in an adjacent section. She turned out to be Misty Bass, a post player who led Duke to the NCAA title about 4 years ago and just finished the WNBA season with the Chicago Sky. She was there to visit a boyfriend who plays for Hala and she will leave directly from here to a club in either China, Russia, or Spain...her agent attending to the details.
In a final attempt to be helpful I told her later that I had checked with the Name Police and found that her spelling of what should be "Missy" is unacceptable. Amazingly, she did not appear crushed. I was crushed that she was not crushed, because I had hoped to put her in her place.
Our troops had Sunday off and then bounced right back the next nite with maybe the worst practice I've ever given in my life. And this is with Manama coming up Saturday. Three guys who had played in the game sat "injured" in the bleachers, two more didn't show up, and the ones that were there weren't happy that they were there. I wasn't happy that I was there. There were a lot of unhappy people in the gym.
The next nite one of the players told me before training that most players are miffed because they haven't been paid in two months. Hussain called me in the morning and told me that Shaikh Mohammed would come to practice and assure the players that checks were in the mail. We had a pretty decent practice and he then reassured the troops. Following his little pow-wow with them the Shaikh, Hussain, Lamond and I took the next logical step: we went to a very fancy/expensive restaurant for dinner. And me in my practice shirt and shorts! Lamond showered at the gym and wore decent clothes.
The place we went to is called the Roma and is, as Hussain had assured me, a Class A joint. It was dark and a blonde lady was singing, sometimes in English, sometimes in Spanish. I scanned the menu and was frightened by the prices but tried not to show it, figuring the Shaikh would pick it up (he did). All the waiters knew Mohd by name and catered to him mightily. One of them was, of course, an Indian midget and when he appeared to do something or other, the Shaikh pointed out to him that should he try and guard Lamond there (pointing at him), that it would be quite "A mismatch." That was his word and the little guy couldn't deny that he would in fact have a tough time guarding the 6-7 Lamond.
We ordered. I went with hammour (local white fish) stuffed with shrimps in some sauce ($25), a salad ($9), and later, tiramisu ($11). It was all quite good. But, wait, what's wrong?! Hussain is unable to eat his stuffed mushrooms appetizer! He's dizzy! Now he's off to the restroom! Now he's back, but still unwell! Now his entree is canceled and he has gone home! The only ray of sunshine in this sorrowful scenario is the fact that I eat most of the mushrooms. But last nite Hussain was recovered and at practice, so don't worry about him.
**********
Last Friday I took Coach Ozell to church with me. Remember, it was reported in the newspapers over a week ago that he was fired by his club, but since they never mentioned it to him he continued to give practices. After the service we met an American named Rick, who is involved here with making films and doing related things. One thing is to fascillitate a "Comedy Night" at a hotel each Wed. nite. We invited him to go to lunch with us. He suggested JJ's Irish Pub, singing the praises of their colossal breakfasts.
We met him there and he told us he had called Art to also join us. Art turned out to be another film maker; he's from Harlem and is interesting and amusing. While eating (I had fish and chips; quite tasty), Rick told us that he comes to this place every Sunday evening for "Quiz Nite." He made us promise to come and join his team in the competition. So after the Manama x Hala game we met up, late, with Rick to lend our skills to the effort to win coveted prizes.
We were on a team that also included 3 Brit chix and a Brit guy, and a local named Tariq who is one of Rick's comedic guys. He had explained to us earlier that the comics were mostly local or Indian or Pakistani and that some of them were kind of funny...but to remember that the bar is set lower than in other places due to this fact.
Back to the competition: I quickly proved to be an incredibly valuable team addition as, in the "Name the Song Title and Artist" phase of things (the emcee played the beginnings of two songs each from the 50s, the 60s, the 70s, the 80s, and the 90s) I, and I alone, was able to identify the first as "Yakety Yak," by The Coasters; and the second as "The Banana Boat Song," by Harry Belafonte. It may be true that my star faded a little through the remaining tunes...until I heard the unmistakeable intro to "Spirit in the Sky" by Norman Greenbaum! But can you believe it? It's not Norman! It's some stupid later re-make!
Then we went back to the quiz questions, the team's answers written on a piece of paper and turned in at the end. The emcee asked questions like, "Which mammal sleeps less per day than any other? (Giraffe, 20 minutes) And "What is the only dog who can give admissable evidence in court? (bloodhounds); and a bunch of other unimportant questions--the correct answers of which were on the tip of my tongue but never managed to quite spill out. Finally he asked an important question: "Which mammal, with over 40,000 muscles, has the most muscles in the animal kingdom?" "The elephant!" I blurted out. My teammates told me, unkindly, to stop yelling...they didn't want the teams at neighboring tables to hear the answer. Pretty unreasonable of them, if you ask me.
In the end, our team won one of the prizes, which was a Scottish tam (hat) with a blonde wig coming out its back. I admit that I was a little resentful of the Brit that took it home. I could use one of those.
Yesterday, after his team was smashed the nite before by defending league champs, Ahli, Ozell's club mustered the courage to tell him that he is no longer at the helm. But some other clubs here are interested in him so we'll see what will happen. On Sunday he and I had asked Art and his wife, who had just flown in from Holland, to join us for Thai at the Banana Leaf. They did, and his wife was a fiery redhead from Amsterdam! A nurse, she turned out to be a witty conversationalist and was pleased with me for making fun of her wooden shoes and calling her "Kaaskompf" (Cheesehead).
Remember, I once coached in Holland, and am able to make people feel at home in their native tongues. Her English, by the way, is only slightly better than mine. Nancy, our Thai waitress, has trouble with English. She had told me earlier that her cousin (flight attendant for Gulf Airlines) holds an Irish passport. Only she says, "Irlish." So I worked with her. I was able to get her to say "Ire" by itself, and "ish" by itself, but when I said "Now say Irish," she said "Irlish." I was disgusted with her and wished I knew how to call her Bananahead in Thai.
Coach Gee Pea
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