The Game (a narrative from 1993)

Dear Bro,

The following is a narrative I wrote back in 93 about a visit to a pre-season game between the Cincinnati Bearcats and a visiting foreign team. Note that Melody is referred to as "fiancé " and not "wife", not to mention the out-dated Robocop reference.....

The Game

The usher was dressed in typical school colors. He threw us a broad smile as he quickly scanned our ticket stubs to verify we had tracked down our seats. “Row 12 on the left,” He loudly barked. “Enjoy the game.” I was impressed with his enthusiasm considering he was at least forty years removed from his university days. I suppose he was still friendly as the game was over an hour away and the majority of the crowd had not yet reached the auditorium. Subsequently he had not yet been bulldozed by runaway miniature freight trains commonly referred to as children or been odorized with ‘l’eau de Miller Lite’ courtesy of an overzealous patron trying to complete the beer run without missing any of the game. The more I thought about it the more firmly I became entrenched in a firm vow that I would stick to watching the TV at the Golden Years o’ Splendor Retirement Home then brave life and limb corralling the masses soon to be crushing in through this rather slim entry way.

The arena was definitely new. Scanning my surroundings I could nay see a hint of dirt in the place. The main grandstand’s generic flexible plastic seats did not have the telltale ‘perma-bend’ caused by the siege of overweight season ticket holders over a period of years. Looking up and behind I noticed the student section, so far back and above that it reminded me of a wedding reception, the friends of the bride and groom shoved in a hole in the back while Uncle Ivan from Cherry Orchard, Montana sits up front smiling at a nephew he has only met once at a family reunion twelve years previous. The floor of the court was a shiny oak-like substance coated with a plastic about as thick as Tammy Fae’s base coat. Even the new style floor bolted basketball hoops with their T-Rex stature looming at both end of the courts reminded me more of RoboCop than Hoosiers.

I was pleased to find myself mid-court twelve rows back. The vice president of the company that allows me to loiter and remarkably pays for the privilege assured me that they were excellent seats. My evening event beneficiary and I disagree on many subject matters pertaining to the company, but I must admit on this occasion I fully concurred with his opinion. All the action for this event would be within a stone’s throw of my location. I looked forward to settling back and soaking up the atmosphere.

The local university team was playing an exhibition game against a team from an unpronounceable Eastern European country. The arena was still sparsely populated when the national team of this country came trotting on the court for their warm-up session. I instantly felt sorry for them. They appeared bewildered under the glowing lights that permeated every inch of the court. They were tall, as most basketball teams tend toward, but seemed gaunt and pale, as if they had just stepped off a twenty-hour flight and their first American meal was not agreeing with their respective digestive systems. They stared around appearing lost and hoping to see a familiar or friendly face staring back at them from the growing crowd. Slowly they began their routine of lay-ups and jump shots so as to prepare for the evenings contest. After a brief period they sat on the hardwood in a pre-designated pattern and began warm-up exercises with one of their assistant coaches shouting out instructions for each new routine. I noticed all of their heads collectively turn as one just as the now moderately sized crowd began to release a large yell. From the blind side of the grandstand where I was seated came the home team, young and athletic, jogging around the outside of the court. Outnumbering them and running in the lead was the cheer leading squad.

They too could only be described as young and athletic with glistening white teeth and smiles the envy of any Cheshire Cat the looking glass could provide. The European team gaped at the muscular squad that slowly filed past. Then, one by one, they seemed to realize they were staring too intently and went back to exercising, daring only to glance in snatches.

The game was already decided during the warm-ups. The university team was the picture of confidence, executing picturesque lay-ups and dunks occasionally varied by a long arching three point shot that sailed past the rim, leaving a trail of envy among those of us who couldn’t even remove the funny bone in Milton Bradley’s Operation. As if a well-oiled machine they continued for approximately fifteen minutes, then suddenly broke off in step and headed back for the locker room, disappearing as quickly as they had appeared into a blacken hallway.

The European team hustled to their bench area at the beckoning of their coach. For the first time I took a good look at their warm-up uniforms. Unlike the home teams black and red designer patterns, the opponents wore green. Accept for the thirst quenching drink clearly labeled on the front of the warm-up jackets there was nothing remarkable about them, they were just green. Their shoes were all white but of different brands, except for the tallest player who had on a pair of black hi-tops. On reflection I thought about this and decided that he had the biggest feet on the team and his size was unavailable in white in his country. The starting players removed their warm-up suits to reveal their playing uniforms. Again, the uniforms were a simple green with numbers on the back and the name of their sponsor on the front in their native tongue.

The arena is now very crowded. People have filtered in all around me and are greeting each other as season ticket holders often do. My fiancé and I begin to feel like crashers at a cocktail party as the salutations continue. I hear someone behind me ask where the hell this team’s country was. A booming voice relied “somewhere around Yugoslavia and they’re probably glad to be here and not being shot at”. I looked again at the team in their green uniforms as they stooped around their coach. He was dressed in an ill-fitting short-sleeved white shirt with a non-remarkable tie and slacks. He appeared very intense, as he would stare at each of them in turn as he made a collective pep talk.

The lights dimmed. Most of the seats in the arena at this point were full, but were quickly vacated as the numerous fans stood one and all to cheer on the ‘official entrance’ of the home team. The male portion of the cheer leading squad came charging out of the locker room tunnel carrying huge banners displaying one letter each, when grouped collectively spelt the name of the home city. Behind them came the female cheerleaders, to be followed by more females dressed in satin tights, which we surmised to be some type of pep squad, followed finally by the home basketball team. The noise was deafening as the combination of the band and the crowd pushed the sound level to earsplitting proportions. The visiting internationals stared around the arena as the noise continued. It was quite obvious by their inexperience with the American version of home team introductions that they didn’t have a clue why the place had erupted into a cauldron of screaming frenzied supporters except the possibility that everyone was scared of the dark.

After several minutes of the band blowing its’ horns and athletic types running in circles the whole process came to a halt as the arena announcer introduced himself and welcomed us to tonight’s event. The lights were brought back up for the pre-game festivities. The spectators were cheering so loud that each time the announcer completed a sentence that the visiting team was in all probability looking toward the locker room to catch a glimpse of when the lions were going to be released. I watched them; sensing that they had heard many stories about America and at this point was wondering which ones to believe. Only the tallest one in his black hi-top sneakers seemed calm. He and the coaches were walking around the team and patting them on the back trying to shout encouraging remarks to them over the tumultuous mob. They each meekly smiled and nodded as their turn came in this small gesture of camaraderie. From somewhere behind me I heard voices again. “Nah! they don’t gotta chance against our boys!” drifted from above along with the comment: “What you expect from a bunch of ex commies? They’ll steal all the toilet paper and towels from the locker room before their gone!” I felt myself becoming a little angry at this obvious lack of respect for the visitors, but told myself that the comments were made by the cold war generation. After all, my fiancé and I were the closest thing to a student aged spectator in the whole section, unless you counted the middle-aged balding gentleman three rows in front whose wife or girlfriend was at least twenty years his junior (I pointed out to my fiancé that they could be father and daughter. She commented that most fathers wouldn’t slip their daughter the tongue as she had just observed).

The two teams began to stroll to separate ends of the court, each member carrying some small gift to be given to the opponent at center court. Both teams seemed wary of each other as they approached to now polite applause from the crowd. It appeared almost comical as the visitors in their ill-fitting generic green uniforms briskly shook hands with the flashy dressed home team. They tried to appear undaunted as they exchanged the gifts and then turned to walk back to their end of the court, but there was little confidence in their step. For the first time I began to realize how awed they really were. Here they were in a foreign country with a seemingly hostile crowd that spoke an unfamiliar language and never seemed to stop yelling, not knowing whether they are being encouraged, ignored, or insulted.

The player introductions came next. The announcer started with the visiting team nodding to one of the assistant coaches who spoke English. At a prearranged signal he stood behind each player as his name was about to be called to remind him to step forward, acknowledge the crowd, and then step back. The announcer was very impressive with his pronunciations of the players’ names, obviously having rehearsed them earlier in the day so as not to offend the visitors. Even though it sounded fluid and natural to me I watched the team as some players grimace and chuckle as their teammates’ names were called off. It occurred to me that the crowd had gotten quieter, applauding as each name was called off, loud enough to be heard over the numerous conversations popping up all around us but not loud enough to be confused with any form of enthusiasm. It was almost as if everyone didn’t clap their parents, whether still alive or not, would scold them when they got home and send them to bed without any dinner.

The announcer finally finished with the bench players and announced the first of the visiting team’s starting five. I was beginning to feel more comfortable with the reception the visitors were receiving. As an expatriate in France during my high school years I was very familiar with the feeling of a stranger in a strange land. We weren’t the friendliest spectators they had ever seen but indifferent enough that if per some minor miracle they won this contest their heads would still be attached to their shoulders once they boarded the bus to leave.

Then it happened.

As soon as the burly announcer in his plaid jacket called out the name of the first starting forward for the East Europeans the sprinkling of polite applause began again. However directly behind where the visitors were standing a student in the band held up a large white handwritten sign that stated “So What!”, which was chanted by the whole band section sitting around him. With the introduction of the next player came a new sign: “Who Cares!”. This time the crowd started to pick up on the chant and responded. The visiting team had picked up on the change in greetings but was still not aware of the mature activities of the school band going on behind them. The next introduction came followed by the next card: “Big Deal”. People were laughing around me now as they pointed out to their friends and family exactly from where the origin of the incantation was. The fourth announcement was made. The visitors could still sense a change but it was very evident they did not speak English, as they looked among each other in a bewildered fashion. Again the card came up. “Go Home” as a roar went up. One of the players had turned around and saw the card being held up. I looked at his reaction. He knew what the card meant.

So did I.