Forever Young

There is one seemingly beneficial part to being a professional athlete and it’s not the free shoes, or the money or the glory, or even getting to exercise for a living. The real benefit is getting ridiculous amounts of credit for doing normal everyday things, like taking two seconds to be nice to a little kid, or donating some money to charity, or being able to read as well as write. The bar is set pretty low. Being cordial to people or speaking in complete sentences, or staying out of jail is enough to get crowned a true role model. They’ll practically organize a parade in your honor.

‘It is really nice and sensitive of me to sign an autograph for a kid in a wheelchair,’ I could think to myself and someone would probably agree. Yet it is kind of insulting to get praise for really basic things. It’s like high fiving a kid with Down syndrome when they bounce a ball successfully; the kid doesn’t realize that the applause isn’t because they are good at dribbling; the applause is because they are disabled. That’s kind of how I feel about athletes getting credit for not being assholes.

The funny thing is, though I know people appreciate that I can talk about something other than shooting percentages and zone defense, all they really want to talk about is just that. Men especially. I should probably write a book about this: if they really want attention from men, women should spend less time on their hair and makeup and more time understanding sports. I can count on one hand the times I’ve told men what I do and didn’t get challenged to a game of one on one. If we are watching a game, they’ll want to talk about why the team is switching the ball screens, and mismatches and ball rotation. I mean its fine with me, its just amusing that they’ll want to talk incessantly about my job; details about the European leagues, and how agents and contracts and players work within the system is endlessly fascinating to them. Then they want to tell me how good they were at (enter sport) until they hurt their knee or had a bad coach or stopped growing. I resist telling them barriers aren’t unique to them.

They also really enjoy discussing how terrible Shaq is at free throws, making themselves feel superior to him in one arena. ‘If I someone was paying me that much money, I’d be good at it,” as if getting money for something ever made someone better at it. I try not to bring up the fact that there is probably one part of their job that they suck at too, some things are just too obvious to point out.

And I won’t bring up the fact that Shaq graduated from college either. Because, well graduating is what you are supposed to do, especially when someone is paying for your education. Shock and awe went through the sports world because an athlete actually valued education enough to study. I mean I get it; he’s a billionaire and doesn’t need the degree; it is kind of cool. But honestly, let’s not throw him a parade.

But I digress. Sometimes I feel like playing sports is just an excuse to live a life of extended adolescence. It’s this odd dichotomy of expectations; we want athletes to perform heroically on the court, but off the court, God forbid they get any real responsibilities. This of course isn’t a phenomenon limited to sports: after all we send young men and women to fight our wars, to defend our country, to bear the responsibility of keeping us all safe. These same people we might be reluctant to let baby sit our children or balance our checkbook. I guess if you really get down to it though, I doubt my ophthalmologist would make a good backcourt mate; I probably wouldn’t draft my dentist first in a game of dodge ball. Maybe singular focus really is better.

In college, they really did want us to be singularly focused. That’s why they did most everything for us: for four years I didn’t do laundry or cook, I didn’t set up doctor’s appointments or even drive to them, I didn’t buy my books or wait in line to get my books. I did do my own homework though, which is probably more than some athletes can say. It was really nice to have the help, since juggling school and basketball felt like two full time jobs. Now? I juggle basketball with going for coffee, shopping for food, meditating, reading and playing poker with other athletes.

Most basketball players living abroad have very few real responsibilities off the court. This is partly because of the language barriers, partly because we can move teams every year, every half year, or even more regularly that that, and partly because we are entitled little shits who have had everything done for us for so long, we forget that its not normal. If my electricity goes out, I call someone to call an electrician, if I get a bill for utilities, I pass it on to my manager, if I need a bank account, I have someone come to hold my hand, if I break out in hives, its someone else’s responsibility to find me a specialist.

I’m wondering if at some point, the real world is going to be a shock.

Sometimes I finish practice and I think to myself never in my life would I have thought that at 28 years old, my workday would consist of 2 hours of playing basketball; then I go take a nap.

Athletics is all or nothing I guess. Because my job is intense, you can’t do it all day. So, we have a lot of down time. Way more than adults are really supposed to have. Once again, it’s adolescence all over again. When we are on the court, we are fully there, we aren’t procrastinating with online shopping, or sneaking looks at facebook, text messaging during meetings or any of the things I imagine make up an 8-hour workday. Our job might be only 4 hours on the court, but it gets every part of us. And yet when practice is over, we fall back into this life that most of us are really too old to be living.

Let me put it like this: if I had American television, I could literally sit around half the day and watch ‘Days of our Lives’, then ‘Jerry Springer’, then ‘Oprah’. Then I’d go to ‘work again’ and come home in time to watch prime time. Its not that I do this, or would do this, its that I have enough time to do this. Sometimes I find it difficult to believe that I have a schedule that would allow me to be engrossed daily with ‘As the World Turns.’

It should be noted, however that I am writing all this after two wins. The same entry written after two losses might read a little different. The title would probably be something along the lines of ‘why would anyone willingly chose athletics as a profession?’ Then I’d go on to explain how torturous it is to have free time when all you have to think about is a loss, or I’d elaborate on how I either have a screw loose or masochist tendencies to continue with this lifestyle. But today is a good day, so I’m writing from a happy place.

I make fun of the ridiculous side of this life and yet professional athletes have developed some extraordinary skills. The discipline required to play a sport is pretty difficult to match. Some people think we have a limited amount of discipline available to us; if we use it up in one area of our lives, it often runs out in other parts. I don’t know if I believe this totally but looking at athletes, it sure would explain a lot. Athletes deal with a tremendous amount of pressure. The discipline just to stay in shape, to push your body, to rest your body, to fuel your body, to ice and stretch and get through days when even muscle in your body is screaming at you to stop. The stress is acute at times: when its game day and all your psychic energy is focused on 40 minutes. Or the stress is more underlying when you have two practices and weight lifting and to get through the day you do nothing else but eat, drink and sleep. Its probably why most athletes have a juvenile side to them; they play video games or go to the clubs or spend more time downloading music than any grown person should admit to.

This is not to mention the extreme adaptability and flexibility that is required to make this job into a career. All players are one mercurial team owner away, or one injury away, or one loss away from not having a job. There is also the annual summer unemployment waiting game, the hope that some team in some part of the world will want to pay you to throw a ball around a court. Its not like we can really go down to the state unemployment office if it doesn’t work out. We gave up that right the moment we signed our first contract.

But assuming these things are taken care of: you have a job, you are healthy, your team is paying, the life of a professional athlete isn’t that different from that of a teenager. It’s just a team in charge instead of your parents. In exchange for housing, transportation, money, and a group of people that are supposed to help me navigate my way through a foreign culture I am required to show up for practice, do what my coach wants, and win basketball games. I’m not kidding when I say my team could give me a curfew, put me on restriction, ground me on the bench, or take away my allowance. I’m at the mercy of my team; I don’t have the freedom of a set schedule, practice times change on a whim, We aren’t given warning for interviews or photo shoots or doctor’s appointments, days off are few and far between and never set in stone. It’s difficult to feel like an adult sometimes.

These are the things I think about in between practices and naps. Living this life as an adult athlete has developed some characteristics in me that I am grateful for. I’ve learned more about myself and life in general the past few years than any formal education could ever teach me. I’m thankful that I’ve been able to play the sport I love and make a living and I really truly believe athletics has the capacity to develop wonderful things in a person. But then there is this other side of sports I hate: the atrophied expectations for behavior and responsibility. Most athletes are caught up in a world of black and white. On the court, we have more responsibility and pressure than most people might think is healthy. Off the court, society allows us the privilege of low expectations that we all too often accept. I mean really, let’s not get all excited when athletes act like productive members of society.

PS.Here are some pics of me being a productive member of society :) or maybe just playing poker and hanging with my teammates at a taverna.

Items may have shifted....

It wasn’t so many days ago that I was sitting in my apartment in Seattle, seriously hating the idea of packing up my life again. I think one of these days I might really leave the country with only my passport, a book and the clothes on my back. Everyone around me seemed ten times more excited than me about my imminent seven months in Greece. It felt so routine. Another year, another 15 hour flight.

The upside of leaving for the airport at four am. Is that your body gets a preview of how shitty you are going to feel for the next week. About five hours into flying I was still asleep, about six hours in I would have paid a lot of money for a shower, and about ten hours in I was an international currency dealer, fiddeling through coins in euros, litas and liras, exchanging a single dollar for a euro with the Greek next to me who needed a dollar to complete his duty free Bombay Saphhire Gin purchase. Probably the only time I got the better end of an exchange with a Greek.

The only real significant part of leaving America for Greece again was that it wasn’t significant at all. I had no anticipation, no nerves, no excitement, no dread, I was totally apathetic and it probably wasn’t until halfway over the Atlantic that it really dawned on me that I’d just left my life back there.

The highlight of the flight, however, was at the very end. A man in front of me was removing his bag from the overhead bin, I was just about to reach up and help him when I decided against it. Opening jars and throwing around luggage seem to be written into the man code and I try not to emasculate men except when given the opportunity on the basketball court. Clearly I should have helped him as his bag dropped directly onto my face. My glasses went flying two rows up ahead as I stood there too shocked to be mad. In fact, for some reason I found the situation to be amusing, probably because I somehow avoided needing stitches.

As usual, I walked through customs with my baggage, hoping someone would be there to pick me up but realizing it was 8 in the morning in Greece and the designated person might not have had their coffee and cigarette yet. I thought I might be sitting and reading for awhile. Much to my surprise, I walked out to meet couple of fans and a journalist.

I’m playing for the biggest and most popular sports club in Greece, which might explain why fans picked me up at the airport and why any journalist knew or cared about my arrival. People go crazy for Panathinaikos Unfortunately for me, they also wanted to take pictures and I wished I’d gone diva style and wore sunglasses. Nothing like a photo shoot after a cross Atlantic flight. I never checked but I really hope those photos didn’t make the paper.

Speaking of photo shoots, we had the first of what will be multiple modeling sessions for our club magazine. Two days into practice and I get directions for the next day: ‘be here at one o’clock, bring stilettos.’ Seeing as this is Europe, I wasn’t at all surprised but also seeing how this is Europe, I was a little nervous. So far the wardrobe for the shoot consisted of high heels, and nothing else. This was going to be interesting.

The next day I sponged on globs of makeup and actually blow dried my hair for once. Teammates had gone to the salon and gotten done up by the professionals so everyone was photo shoot ready. Our coach was running around like a little kid on Christmas morning, completely overwhelmed that his dream had come true: he had the hottest women’s team in Greece. I was just happy there was going to be clothes involved.

The designer had brought bags of dresses, most of which I would have laughed at if I’d seen them on a rack. The first option was a piece that looked like grandma’s afghan, okay in a guest bedroom but not paired with stilettos. Finally I found a dress that was classy chic, a black and white retro double breasted buttoned dress. It didn’t at all go with my shoes but I figured it would work and I wouldn’t be showing anything that would compromise running for political office sometime in the future.

As luck would have it I went second, which meant I followed up my Serbian teammate who has the longest legs I’ve ever seen and actually has modeling experience. This girl was posing like Heidi Klum; I was wondering how long I had to keep on the transvestite looking makeup.

The photographer decided to get funky with me though and I found myself holding onto the long curtain of nets that protects the stands from errant volleyballs. I was supposed to be looking sexy and mysterious; I felt like a fish. My teammates called me a mermaid which sounds better so I’m going with that. By the end, I was certain the pictures were either going to be sexy or utterly ridiculous and I’d put my money on the latter.

Then it was time to join the others and watch as each player got embarrassed. We were there to boost people’s confidence and/or make fun of them, and be the crotch police, ensuring that camera angles didn’t include a little extra visual. Finally it was time for the group shot. The theme of the photo shoot was ‘Charlie’s (Giannis’) Angels’ so we all had to crowd around our coach like groupies while he stood front and center trying to look tough but really being the happiest guy in the world. Us girls basically had to hump each other in order to get in the picture. Fun times.

I have a time limit for wearing heels, makeup, or having my hair down and the time had long since passed. Soon we were all outside our gym having coffee, laughing about our crazy poses, and wiping foundation and purple eye makeup off our faces in anticipation of afternoon practice. It’s amazing how much makeup it takes just to look normal in a photo. I couldn’t wait to get in mesh shorts and a ponytail. So much for my modeling career.

Speaking of models. I’m surrounded by them. Models from all over the world are in Athens right now for the modeling season. Since they are living a similar transient life, the athletes and models all pass time together, sharing the same experiences in this unsettled life of ours. Our careers are more similar than we realize; all of us are mercenaries of our craft, traveling the world for resume building and paychecks. Basketball players just eat more carbs, and less cocaine.

The only reason I found the models is because a few male basketball players I know seem to find them easily, or the models find them. I’m not quite sure.. This of course is the one pet peeve of every six foot girl 180 lb girl I know….tall, athletic men going to waste by dating girls with the ass of a 12 year old Chinese boy.

To be fair, I don’t know the girls very well. They could be back at the hotel writing the next best American novel for all I know. Or German. Or Argentine. And I hope they are, because the whole modeling career sounds so very unfulfilling. I just see them out, a whole group of girls with a male promoter at the club, or smoking long cigarettes at the café or at the basketball games asking as many dumb questions as I would if thrown in a fashion show. They are young and living the life of drinking on an empty stomach, accessible drugs, eating disorders and European designers. At twenty years old in a foreign country, it’s difficult to avoid the no consequence lifestyle.


Like I said, I don’t really know the girls very well but after being around them for five minutes I concluded that the modeling industry seems like a bunch of really beautiful people with low self esteem. That being said, they do take really good photos. So, when they whip out the cameras to start taking pictures, I try to hide. Though I do maintain solid self confidence there is omething about standing next to 6 foot anorexics that makes me feel like a whale. I never knew a grown woman’s arms could be smaller than my ankles. Bench pressing any one of them wouldn’t have even been a workout.

Shockingly, I’m around girls enough in my ‘day job’ so I tend to gravitate towards the male models, some of which actually might be straight. So my perspective on the whole industry is really only from them but it sounds a lot like this.: the models all hustle around the world, their home base agent sends them to other agencies in various places for the designated ‘season’. They show up and then wait everyday for castings and jobs, running around foreign cities trying to get paid or waiting at the hotel, wasting the day away. Cafes and clubs and restaurants give them discounts or feed them for free so that their establishments are filled with beautiful people. They all quickly learn which photo shoot require gay guys because the girls are naked or which photographers or designers require sex to make you a success. If someone is seen on the side of a building in a Dolce and Gabbana ad for instance, everyone knows how they got there.

It sounds exhausting. They live in a hotel, moving around to different cities, waiting on faxes from their agency every morning. Sometimes they get the jobs, sometimes they don’t, sometimes they never even get a phone call. And so they wait. It makes me thankful for practice.

It also makes me thankful for a job that makes me feel better about myself and my abilities instead of worse. Sure there is a talent to modeling but a lot of it is about things you can’t control, how you look, having the look they want, whether the photographer or designer is dying to sleep with you, whether you ate bread the day before.

And so, if I ever thought modeling would be fun, I’m over that crazy notion. There is no part of me that wants to stand up in front of people and have them tell me to lose weight or that my eyes are too close together or my nose is too big; I can do all that in the comfort of my own home.

The funny thing is though, I do stand up in front of people and get criticized or praised, applauded or booed, told I’m good at this or bad at that. People like me for superficial reasons; I can be the star if I make four three pointers or the scapegoat if I make zero. In athletics there are extreme highs and extreme lows; its easy to base your self worth on external attention, success can inflate your ego, failure can make one feel worthless as a person.

Yikes! So what’s the difference between basing your self esteem on how you look, or basing it on your jump shot? I guess the obvious answer is that one you can actually do something about. But it’s more than that cause failure still feels like failure whether its based on genetics or not. For me, its all about perspective. I don’t necessarily mean that there are bigger problems in the world than a missed shot, though that’s part of it. I mean that I’m on a journey of self discovery through basketball. Makes and misses are all part of the process of becoming more of who I am. Not trying to be more, not striving to be more, but focusing on the present moment of being and playing in the fullness of who I am. A shift in thought brings about a shift in experience.

I’m going to be writing about this a lot…

Back in Athens.... again

Moving to Europe is no longer that big of a deal for me. Packing and planning can be done on autopilot, anxiety and worry have all but evaporated from the routine. The only thing that still takes some time is really settling into my new life. I don’t necessarily mean finding the nearest grocery store, learning maps, and figuring out practice times, though that certainly takes a few days. I’m talking more about finding myself.

Every time I move, I feel like my life gets stripped of routine, of comfort, even to some degree of the love and support around me. So I spend time meeting new people, doing new things, trying to figure out what really makes up my day to day life. And it takes some time, because one actually has to answer the big questions ‘what makes me happy’, ‘when everything else is taken away, what do I want to do with my days?’ I don’t have the constant distraction of the things we do to avoid ourselves; television, internet, a packed social life, a real job.

I am very much enjoying my life here though. I live in a middle class neighborhood in the center of Athens, very much a traditional Athenian burrough, with crazy drivers and erratic motorbikes honking. On Tuesday, I walk to practice early in the morning, while the street market vendors stack their tomatoes and oranges, dandelion greens and homemade honey. I’ve been trying to eat a plant based diet at home so I stock up on green beans and spinach, dried beans and curry powder.

My balcony is huge and I sit out there every afternoon, eating lunch with the sun on my back. I look out over balconies of foliage so I feel like I’m in a floating garden. The flats across from me are overflowing with plants and flowers and vines. People don’t use curtains for privacy or umbrellas for shade; their homes are covered and disguised with plants. My own plant collection has started and it brings me more pleasure that just about anything else; basil and peppers, wisteria and palms. I even bought some birds of paradise that sit in a corner looking at me as I type. Most days after morning practice, I cook vegetables and soy, or grains and rice with dried fruits and nuts. I open up my balcony and water my friends, soaking up the sun and absolutely loving my life.

Someone plays the piano in my apartment building. I have no idea who it is, which makes riding the elevator kind of mysterious and exciting. People get on and off as I ride, exchanging smiles and ‘gia sou’, while I imagine them sitting on a piano bench, their long fingers dancing over the keys. The playing is absolutely beautiful and the sound moves up through the building, a sporadic stream of loveliness that comes in and out of my life multiple times a day.

Waves of happiness hit me with the simple pleasures of life around me. The warmth of the sun, the taste of vinegar and olive oil with basil and black eyes peas, red vines glistening across the street, and that pleasant surprise of piano practice flickering up from the downstairs.

The only inclement weather we’ve had since I’ve been here has been a week of afternoon tropical downpours. Fat drops of cool water hit me as I walked down the sauna of the street. I feel like summer is in overtime these days and I look at the sweaters in my closet and wonder how I’ll ever be able to have such heat on my skin. The breeze in the shade is picking up here though, so I know the cool weather will follow. But for now, I’m drawn to the water every chance I get, the sparkling Aegean that waits for me and takes my breath away every time.

Yesterday after morning practice I went to a beach café. People lay around on palm tree dotted grass lawns with billowing sheets for shade, sipping iced coffees. We sit out on the deck or grab couches inside while the breeze flows through the long

shallow building. Later we move on to beach volleyball, dancing in and out of the lulling surf after erratic balls, the water cool and refreshing. We splash on just enough sunscreen to avoid a burn and start a game of four on four. I like any sport that requires sun screen and bikinis and wonder why I’ve never played till now. We play till the sun starts going down over the water, yellow then pink, not vast like watercolor, just the single color of the sun floating downwards as our game finishes. Afterwards, we were back to the deck, lounging on white cushions and eating in the candlelight and watching the moon cast a glow over the water and sand.

Its nice to be back….