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