The Greyhound
Matt Kiebus
Issue date: 2/26/08 Section: Sports
ROME -- If you are a middle-of-the-road pick-up basketball player with limited high school experience, a vertical leap of two centimeters and looking for a self-esteem boost, consider playing against some Italians.
Now, to clarify, by "Italians" I mean "Romans," who dribble a lot better with their feet than their hands.
Everywhere you go in the United States you can find a basketball court, especially in a city. In fact, the game is so diverse in the States you can find various levels of competition suitable to your skill level and experience.
There are the up-tempo games with young, athletic, good players, to half-court games with middle-aged balding guys. And for the novices out there, there's always a "jungle-juice" court with a little bit of everything: skill level, gender, age, color, creed. (This is normally a favorite court because of the satisfaction people receive from swatting an 8-year-old girl's shot into the street where a car proceeds to run the ball over. True story.)
But I digress.
It is impossible to find a public court inside the city walls of Rome. A few days ago I strolled through my neighborhood for over two hours looking for a place to shoot around. I walked the streets with my new European outdoor basketball and the Space Jam soundtrack thumping on my iPod. I was so ready, and so American. I might as well have been wearing the stars and stripes as a cape.
Jogging and dribbling around the neighborhood resulted in confused glares from the natives.
A couple Italian teens actually took my basketball to demonstrate their "Ronaldino-like football skills." Basically, they played "keep away from the American" then proceeded to punt the ball 30 yards - - wait, 27.1 meters. We then exchanged pleasantries, meaning I introduced them to a few of my favorite English words. We all had a good chuckle.
I even considered telling them soccer was stupid.
All of a sudden -- my useless movie knowledge kicking in -- I was reminded of Canadian Bacon: The scene at the hockey game during the Canadian national anthem when John Candy's friend remarks that Canadian beer sucks, and then everything stops and an entire nation starts fighting with four Americans.
Now, to clarify, by "Italians" I mean "Romans," who dribble a lot better with their feet than their hands.
Everywhere you go in the United States you can find a basketball court, especially in a city. In fact, the game is so diverse in the States you can find various levels of competition suitable to your skill level and experience.
There are the up-tempo games with young, athletic, good players, to half-court games with middle-aged balding guys. And for the novices out there, there's always a "jungle-juice" court with a little bit of everything: skill level, gender, age, color, creed. (This is normally a favorite court because of the satisfaction people receive from swatting an 8-year-old girl's shot into the street where a car proceeds to run the ball over. True story.)
But I digress.
It is impossible to find a public court inside the city walls of Rome. A few days ago I strolled through my neighborhood for over two hours looking for a place to shoot around. I walked the streets with my new European outdoor basketball and the Space Jam soundtrack thumping on my iPod. I was so ready, and so American. I might as well have been wearing the stars and stripes as a cape.
Jogging and dribbling around the neighborhood resulted in confused glares from the natives.
A couple Italian teens actually took my basketball to demonstrate their "Ronaldino-like football skills." Basically, they played "keep away from the American" then proceeded to punt the ball 30 yards - - wait, 27.1 meters. We then exchanged pleasantries, meaning I introduced them to a few of my favorite English words. We all had a good chuckle.
I even considered telling them soccer was stupid.
All of a sudden -- my useless movie knowledge kicking in -- I was reminded of Canadian Bacon: The scene at the hockey game during the Canadian national anthem when John Candy's friend remarks that Canadian beer sucks, and then everything stops and an entire nation starts fighting with four Americans.
I pictured everyone from little children to old Italian grandmothers coming in droves from houses, buildings and cars to attack me for disgracing their favorite pastime.
The scene wouldn't have been pretty, so I bit my tongue and continued my unsuccessful search for a few feet of concrete and a hoop. I found nothing.
Isn't this the same city that gave rise to the recent No. 1 pick in the NBA draft, Andrea Bargnani? Where did he learn to play? European basketball is all over TV, a place where former college stars reign supreme.
In the last month-and-a-half I have seen Allen Ray of Villanova, Scoonie Penn of Ohio State, Andre Hudson of Michigan State and Travis Best of the Spike Lee joint, He Got Game. Our very own Andre Collins is averaging 19.3 points per game for Carife Ferrara, which is currently No. 1 in their division.
Of course, the games are sometimes played with the intensity of a bad pick-up game. The younger Americans play with blank expressions, seemingly befuddled by where their dream brought them as they suit up for teams named after sponsors instead of cities. Their vision is always beyond Italy, a dream of donning the Lakers' purple and gold or the Celtics' green. It's a goal very few will ever reach.
Now, I have been able to play basketball a couple times since arriving in Rome with some locals (who speak better English than I do). We played at their college in the hills of northeast Rome, where the outdoor court was separated at half court by a volleyball net.
It was a little two-on-two action, Italians versus Americans. My teammate was some girl from Catholic University, who had not played basketball since eighth grade. It didn't matter. Let's just say we didn't keep score for their sake, because it would have been embarrassing.
It was like the old Saturday Night Live skit of Bill Schwartzky's "Superfans" -- "prediction Dictka, 312, 'da other team, 2."
Nevertheless, the entertainment value was high, and my self-esteem got a brief boost before deflating in Italian class that afternoon.
As we left the court -- wearing shorts and a T-shirt in February - my Italian companions left me with a few choice words: "Next time we play soccer. Then we see who is embarrassed."
The scene wouldn't have been pretty, so I bit my tongue and continued my unsuccessful search for a few feet of concrete and a hoop. I found nothing.
Isn't this the same city that gave rise to the recent No. 1 pick in the NBA draft, Andrea Bargnani? Where did he learn to play? European basketball is all over TV, a place where former college stars reign supreme.
In the last month-and-a-half I have seen Allen Ray of Villanova, Scoonie Penn of Ohio State, Andre Hudson of Michigan State and Travis Best of the Spike Lee joint, He Got Game. Our very own Andre Collins is averaging 19.3 points per game for Carife Ferrara, which is currently No. 1 in their division.
Of course, the games are sometimes played with the intensity of a bad pick-up game. The younger Americans play with blank expressions, seemingly befuddled by where their dream brought them as they suit up for teams named after sponsors instead of cities. Their vision is always beyond Italy, a dream of donning the Lakers' purple and gold or the Celtics' green. It's a goal very few will ever reach.
Now, I have been able to play basketball a couple times since arriving in Rome with some locals (who speak better English than I do). We played at their college in the hills of northeast Rome, where the outdoor court was separated at half court by a volleyball net.
It was a little two-on-two action, Italians versus Americans. My teammate was some girl from Catholic University, who had not played basketball since eighth grade. It didn't matter. Let's just say we didn't keep score for their sake, because it would have been embarrassing.
It was like the old Saturday Night Live skit of Bill Schwartzky's "Superfans" -- "prediction Dictka, 312, 'da other team, 2."
Nevertheless, the entertainment value was high, and my self-esteem got a brief boost before deflating in Italian class that afternoon.
As we left the court -- wearing shorts and a T-shirt in February - my Italian companions left me with a few choice words: "Next time we play soccer. Then we see who is embarrassed."
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