Why North America Needs ¡Olé!

Let me describe for you a typical evening from my Mallorcan childhood: Taking a basketball, I dribble warily on the cobblestone streets to the local gymnasium, which hosts open tournaments in the evening. Music drifts in the air of each narrow street. As I open the gym’s portal, cigarette smoke, loud flamenco music, and lusty cries of “¡Olé!” emerge from inside.

Yes, we Mallorcans have a great passion for music. And perched as we are on the Mediterranean, rhythms and instruments from Muslims, Gypsies, Jews, the Portuguese, and even the odd Cossack have reached Mallorca and combined there into a rich, crimson sauce.

What effect has flamenco music had on my island’s people? Let me describe my pre-school teacher to you. Flamenco music played constantly in her classroom.

She was a slender woman in a long ruffled dress, clicking castanets, twirling her shawl, and stamping the filigreed heels of her boots as she drilled us on the alphabet! How her eyes flashed as she stoked our fires of outrage and tutored us with such passion, many masterpieces of clay and fingerpainting were produced... ah, the memories.

At home, too, I was constantly exposed to the international musics. And even the most mundane of activities —learning about men’s fashion or finding the ideal way to pass a basketball between an opponent’s legs— was accompanied by clapping, finger snapping, and a music that, while savage, was a soothing poultice to my soul.

And now for ¡Olé! For we Spaniards, a quiet audience is a dead one. When an athlete or flamenco performer takes a risk or touches our soul, we must express appreciation! Stamp your feet, make some noise… ¡Anda jaleo! Cry ¡olé!

Given all this, you can imagine my excitement upon arriving in the United States. Here is such a great variety of musicalities! So picture how I shuddered in revulsion at the harmonic travesties that my mates Martell Webster and Jerryd Bayless have tried to impose upon me.

Cry oy vey!

Rudy foto from Fotoglif.

Heroic Archetypes & Texas Trollops

My posting of Andre Miller’s 52 puntos match led a reader named Joe to inquire:

So when you hit your first over-50-point game, how will you react? 
I’m thinking one hand with five fingers up, the other in the shape of "0." 

Maybe with Pau crying in amazement as he walks off court, too.

Ah, Joe, I enjoy your mental workings! Further, this made me reflect on how my mates punctuate their heroic deeds on the court in their own inimitable fashions. Take the making of a three-pointer, por ejemplo. At least three archetypes respond to this occasion:

1.) The Rock of Gibraltar: This imperturbable contestant has equal measures of testosterone and chilled sangria coursing in his capillaries. Overt displays of emotion are unmanly and louche, so after the sinking of a key shot, the Rock lopes downcourt in a dignified manner. (One clenched fist is allowable.) Post-shot gaze: The rafters. Internal dialogue: “Yesss.” Team examples: Brandon Roy, Nic Batum, Steve Blake, Andre Miller

2.) The Conquistador: This alpha player harkens back to the primordial basketball matches that our distant ancestors engaged in. Fiery rage burns through the Conquistador’s cardio-vascular system, and one senses that beneath the thin veneer of civilization lurks a berserker yearning to don armor and swing a largish axe. Post-shot gaze: Angrily directed at opposing player, opposing team mascot, and/or opposing referee. Internal dialogue: “In your @#$! face!” “Take THAT!” “I proved them ALL wrong!” Team example: Jerryd Bayless

3.) The Matador: Some players wish to dominate, but others are performance artists who simply enjoy the stage. Thus the Matador would happily throw roses into the crowd after delivery of a distant heave. Post-shot gaze: The applauding crowd at home games, one's benchmates when away. Internal dialogue: “I do this for you!” Team example: Do not make me be coy!

Nota adicional: The Matador may find that a peril of pleasing the crowd is that its members may join your team huddle, as happened this week in Dallas! Two women came onto the floor during a time-out, and one wrapped her arms around me. "Rudy, I love you, nice to meet you. Good game," she said huskily. While I was taken aback, rest assured that Cristina was NOT amused. (She called the two "unvarnished trollops"!)

(Astute readers will note that I have not included Martell Webster in a category. That is because, like Proteus, Martell’s various moods dictate which class he belongs to.)

Fotos from the Oregonian, Der Spiegel's account of the El Colacho baby-jumping festival, and With Leather.

Human Flight of an International Flavor

Shellings from Afar

Today, I slip out of my role as international basketball player to be an international investigative journalist. Devotional readers of these bloggings may recall the Ukrainian armed forces commercial Sergio showed me last annum:

And now I rip off the tank lid from the recruitment efforts of the Austrian army. Watch this most shameless exploitation of the Ukrainian effort; it is emulated shot-by-shot. (Oh, "shot-by-shot" is an English pun— ¡Pum!)

And finally, let me lob my own bombshell; a Portland newscast that describes me as "enigmatic"!

Andre Miller: ¡Usted, Mi Amigo, Debe Celebrar!

After scoring the science-fictional estadística of 52 points on the Mavericks in Dallas, Andre Miller entered our locker chamber with a spirit of matter-of-factness. Despite repeated entreaties to celebrate or even smile about the matter, Andre insisted merely, "We won."

I tried to speak reason to him: "Will you really take all your conquests, glories, triumphs, and spoils and shrink them to this tiny measure?"

Silence overcame the room as the Stranger considered my words. And then he danced a shuffling jig as we cheered! (And later, Nic Batum noted that —just as during the match— at no time did both of Andre's feet leave the floor.)

Miller foto from here.

Putting One's Shot on the Block

Few basketball matters are more dispiriting than the shot blockings. It is that moment when a defender dismisses his competitor as inadequate...in front of a crowd of thousands!

The other side of this coin is the satisfaction of rebuffing a noted rejector of shots, as I do here with Andrei Kirilenko. (Martell Webster calls the Russian "Lankenstein," a reference that Mary Shelley might enjoy!)

But as with so many matters, avoiding a shot-blockage is simple: The shooter simply needs to leap high enough so that his defender is unable to extend to the same point. As Michael Jordan displays here, once the technique is mastered, anyone can perform it! (Gimlet-eyed observer Robert Runyon, Esquire, notes Jordan's unusual zapatos: Converse!)

Of course, this same method works close to the rim as well!

Rudy foto from here, MJ from here.

In Which I Cry Out Against the Fates

As is known, we have suffered three defeats in our last four matches. Yes, we have fought nobly in many of these, but we have been vanquished nonetheless. To avoid future blowings outward, it is time for the team to pull together and stimulate the whole organism.

I have ransacked my memory to find that one moment that the fickle fingers of the Fates singled us out for misfortune. What misdeed was committed? What outrage to the gods was performed? Speak to me, oh Lords of Destiny!

Aiee, I have it.

We may have to sacrifice a goat to make amends for this.

Fotos from here.

Dramatic Forms: In Flagrante Delicto

Each basketball match is a tale composed of four chapters that invariably culminate in a tragedy for someone! And the interludes yield all the histrionics humans are capable of… namely, comedy, passion, and incessant complaining to the officials.

Along these lines, my mates and I recently played the Pistons and Hornets. Although we were victorious in the former, and vanquished in the latter, both matches had a similarity.

In Detroit, I was subjected to a strangely roundabout flagrant foul from Charlie Villanueva. It struck me as a little strange that the hairless Piston chose to crush the only other Spanish speaker on the court! But I took this in stride, as Villanueva has been known to attack a variety of individuals… including fans!

The following match against the Hornets saw me catching, in short order:

—A blow from David West’s elbow to my face as I rounded a corner...

—A crushing blast from Emeka Okafor’s thorax upon my visage...

—An elbow thrown in flagrante delicto from Marcus Thornton upon my countenance...now my face was as red as a pepper!

While the last stroke was deemed flagrant (the second such foul inflicted upon me in as many matches!), it was Okafor's blow that left me with the vision to the left. (I still hit my bonus shots, though!)

But for all this, I count my lucky stars… which is easy, as they are still floating about in my peripheral eyesightings. You see, we also had a recent match against the Celtics, and I counted myself fortunate that my reedy frame suffered no death-blows from the NBA’s true enforcer: Brian Scalabrine. (That would have been a true tragedy!)

Rudy foto from AP,

Villanueva from the Sports Hernia,

woodcut by John Buckland-Wright, for the poem "Endymion" by Keats.

A Pond Full of Ghoti & Other Perverse Words

A reader has contacted me to ask about my writing stylings. But a warning of fairness: Asking me to talk about words is like taking Nic Batum to a Mallorcan beach party. You will not be leaving anytime soon!

English is a most challenging tongue. And Bret, my kiwi doppelgänger, shares this sentiment! Take the English spellings. We have no spelling bees in Spain, for Spanish words are spelled sensibly. Thus, unlike last year’s most unfair dunking contest, no one would ever be eliminated!

Por ejemplo, to my orbs, the English word “fish” could be spelled “ghoti.” Simply take the “gh” from “enough,” the “o” from “women” and the “t” from “lotion.” And there it is! (As an aside, I have yet to make sense of the fearsome "Blouargh!" that Brandon Roy emitted after his match-winning shot last year. It is a celebratory call?)

As for Spanish, it truly is our nation’s treasure, though I think others judge my writings as a most heavy cartload of beautiful baggage. It is because of my Spanish background that I engage in long sentences and melodious long nouns that carry a richness in feeling and texture. Tell me, must these be cruelly chopped up into dwarf sentences composed of perverse spellings?

But enough; when you greet a swordsman, meet him with a sword. (Or long fingernails!) Do not offer a poem to anyone but a poet. And I will not use words to justify my own words. Instead, I will close by hoping that in our next match, the three-pointers will rain down like a hearty spring shower upon a pond full of ghoti!

Renaissance of a Spanish Trope

In our loss today in the American capital, I went 1-7 from the parquets. But I gave it my all, which perhaps explains Nate McMillan’s statement to me as I returned to the bench 0 for 4 from behind the three-point arc.

“You’re playing hard,” he said, adding as I passed, “You’re killing us.”

But we have a saying in Mallorca: “A near miss rubs the bad fortune away.” And as my misses have been breeding like Iberian hares, my next match should be filled with the luck!

Rudy graphic by zaruga.

Aquila Adalberti and the Art of Living

I have been asked how it feels to be back on the parquets again. I reply in this fashion:

Behold, the Spanish imperial eagle (Aquila adalberti)! These noble animals pass their days in a state of high excitement that humans cannot comprehend. To be sure, it is in some ways unenviable. If the bird does not succeed in catching prey, it dies. Further, the proud beasts must be infinitely perplexed by modern distractions like automobiles, airplanes, and the type of execrable Spanish hip-hop that El Chacho insists on blaring.

Yet even so, the imperial eagle is infinitely more ALIVE than we can imagine! That is, take your very finest feeling… perhaps you drank an espresso, purchased new zapatos, and then spent a sublime time with a loved one. Your every fiber is aware, each nerve tingles, the world is infinitely fascinating… and that is how the Spanish imperial eagle feels EVERY moment of its life.

This also describes my sensations when I slam-dunked on Dwight Howard. ¡Pum!

Spanish imperial eagle from here.

My Highlights... and Innovation!

It has been so long since I set foot onto hard wood, I feel as if my rookie seasoning has started anew.

And as these basketball highlights reveal, I am most anxious for my flip-flop back to regular play!

1.) Executing a missed lay-up on Dante Cunningham in practice.

2.) Stealing the ball from an inattentive Brandon Roy. (Admittedly, the ball was not in play at the time!)

3.) Keeping a wary eye on the Blazer Dancers during Rose Garden matches. (LaMarcus Aldridge has informed me that these lithe dryads may try to steal our plays —and hearts!— during team time-outs.)

But there is one good thing that has come from my free timings. I have been able to engage in innovations long on the backburner. Take my modular shoe! Designed for the Mallorcan hoopster, it allows engagement in pick-me-up games, followed by romantic strolls on sandy shores!

Rudy card from All Your Base Cards, shoe foto from here.