EL BLOG ILUSORIO DE RUDY

Easily Does It

2011-06-24T19:42:00.000-07:00

Beneath the warmth of Mallorca’s summer orb, it would be easy to languish in idle-otry. Yet I diligently persist in improvements to my skill settings!

Por ejemplo, I was recently involved in a “pick-me-up” basketball match. The opposing squads were comprised of German tourists, local fishermen, some street urchins, and even our local priest, Father Delarojas.

As we arranged ourselves for the bounding in of the ball, a pickpocket from the other team asked, “¡Dios mio! You have a priest in your midst?”

“When you play basketball as we do, it helps to have God on your side,” I joked.

Words of augury! We lost the match 21-19, and the final point scored when the good Father tangled the ball in his vestments, leading to an unholy turnover.

Though it was a friendly game (I took part in my flip-floppers, after all), it still hurt like an Andrew Bynum elbow to the fuselage.

“This is a tragedy!” I cried, thrusting my fists heavenwards, then casting an accusatory glare at the holy man.

“Father Delarojas did his best, Rudy,” demurred one of my opponents.

“And yet we lost,” I lamented. Is it my fate to lose ALL matches, from pavilion’s playoffs to the playground’s pettiness?

But such self-pity is only cause for shame! Thus, I chastised myself and swore (gently!) to do what it takes to become worthy of joining a basketball champion.

And now, I find that I am a member of the Dallas Mavericks.

That was easy!

Top foto from here,

bottom from the Oregonian.

"¿Qué Coño?" is Spanish for "What the Fernandez?"

2011-04-11T13:02:00.000-07:00

At this siting is a survey of the people for the "¿Qué coño?" (or in English, the less graceful "WTF?") Play of the Year. My entrance to this match was enabled by the following outrage against the gods of the parquet:

What I find most odd is that I do not recall the pavilion playing this organ-grinding music. But no matter— Cast, toss, or otherwise sling a vote today. And remember, a vote for me is a vote for yo mismo!

(And gracias for the levity, Dave.)

Fly Like a Spanish Eagle!

2011-04-02T09:17:00.000-07:00

As I swoop through the ether, behold who shrinks from my unspeakable velocity . . . my own mate, Marcus Camby!

How I Made Nic Batum a Man!

2011-03-26T10:11:00.000-07:00

De aquí.

Amid the great excitements of last glorious match against the Spurs of San Antonio, a near-miracle happened.

Before viewing evidence of this below, let me first state this:

I deserve —and seize— all credits for Nic Batum’s coolnesses under pressurization!

And now, the explainings: Acting on my invitation, Batum visited my home isle of Mallorca this past summer.

After a pleasant day spent on beaches and fishing crafts, I sensed that Batum was slightly unimpressed with the sights. Upon my inquiry, Batum responded, “Mallorca is great! But I weesh for something more . . . wild and colorful.”

Nodding, I later made arrangements for the two of us to dine at a tavern where Mallorca’s scarred and sea-toughened fishermen gather. While tapas were being served at our rough oaken table, I winked at the waiter. He silently laid a gigantic, razor-sharp dagger beside Nic’s plate and departed.

The Frenchman’s eyes widened. “What does this mean?” he asked, testing the blade of the dagger gingerly.

“Observe,” I replied. “These fishermen have been drinking, as is their wont. But now they quarrel over the matter of who is the finer author: Miguel de Cervantes or Alexandre Dumas. I can only pray they will not attempt to settle their dispute here.”

“But of course, it is Dumas—” Batum began.

“Silence!” I hissed, pointing. “And look!”

Seeing my cue, a swarthy seaman leapt to his feet. Wielding a medieval-looking mace, he cried, “Whoever says that Don Quixote written by Cervantes is not superior in every respect to the tripe written by Alexandre Dumas —e.g., The Three Musketeers— is a liar and a thief!”

You should have cast eyes upon Batum’s face! Seizing the moment, I thrust the dagger into his hand and whispered, “Prepare to defend yourself!”

And with that, I slunk from the astounded Batum and exited the tavern before my restrained laughter suffocated me!

And THAT, mi amigos, is how the prodigiously lanky Nic Batum was properly shriven and became a man. (Those who are still chary of my contributions, please view this taping at the 1:50 point!)

Gracias, animart1!

Spanish Basketball is mildly exciting.

2011-03-21T16:20:00.001-07:00

Beware of My Lasers!

2011-03-18T09:06:00.001-07:00

Hell = A Spaniard with a Basketball

2011-03-16T16:30:00.000-07:00

De aquí.

In the cut-and-thrust of a match, basketball players conduct themselves in varied fashions. Some mutter oaths, complaints, and blasphemies; others mumble prayers, kiss medallions, or make the sign of the cross.

But some wax loquacious!

Por ejemplo, the always truculent Tyson Chandler. In last night’s match, the Dallas Maverick proved himself a faulty theoretician and a trippingly fast speaker.

You see, time was nearly elapsed at the ending of el primer período!

De aquí.

I hoisted the basketball with care even as Chandler cried, out, “You’ll miss! For a ball must move either in the place where it is or in the place where it is not. Now, a ball cannot be in motion in the place where it is stationary, and cannot be in motion in the place where it is not. Therefore, you have not shot the ball at all!”

“Perhaps,” I responded, even as I coaxed the ball toward the hoop with elegant bodily linguistics. “But watch! Even as the basketball soars away, it will magically land in your diabolical visage. I say this knowing full well that the spheroid cannot be in a place in which it is not, and yet—”

¡PUM! The basket was made, the goal was counted, and the masses surged in their ecstasies!

De aquí.

“—and yet it is now most assuredly in your face!” I shouted at Chandler’s departing form. Ah, how his shoulders slumped, mi amigos!

And as he departed, Chandler cried out, “All it takes to create Hell on the court is a Spaniard and a basketball.”

Even now, I do not know if my opponent viewed my philosophical point with clear eyes. If not, he might choose to don three-goggles. As the Wall Street Journal, I am their procreator! (After Nate McMillan said, "they must be bifocals, because guys are blowing past us" perhaps I should not be so proud!)

In any event, I cannot prescribe tres puntos gafas for Tyson Chandler. Peering down myopically, his eyes fogged with pride and fear, the three-point goggles are beyond his range.

Fotos from the Oregonian,

bottom fotografía from the WSJ.

¡Champú en la ropa interior!

2011-02-27T10:50:00.000-08:00

In all immodesty, I must share that my lanky frame has always been blessed with a measure of coordinations. Por ejemplo, there is the occasion of my first attempt playing at golf.

On my home island of Mallorca, golf is thought of as a womanly sport (and rightly so!) by the scarred and weatherbeaten fishermen. So it was not until my adult years that I swung a club not intended to batter a fish’s brain matter. I remember being led onto a course by a comely golf instructor tightly clad in the synthetic fibers.

She instructed, “You see that green area about 400 yards from here? Try hitting the ball onto it.”

I did so. After trudging to the green area, I inquired, “Now what?”

Here eyebrows lifted. “Now you hit the ball into that hole.”

¡Santo vaca! I laughed in surprise, gesturing back to where I had struck the ball. “Why didn’t you tell me that back there?”

Perhaps she had assumed that because I am a Spaniard, time-efficiency is of disinterest to me. So I hope the mujer de golf viewed my time-efficient heroics in our recent match against the most reviled Denver Nuggets.

As you can see in the película, the sands of time were slipping away when I catapulted the ball of destiny skywards.

¡Pum— tres puntero!

And after Brandon Roy hoisted his own heroic deed, we entered overtiming, and emerged victorious-ing!

These moments of conquest are almost enough to wash away a recent, bitter memory of mine. No, not the departure of Joel Pryzbilla, although that gritty giant is already missed. Nor the arrival of the silent ebon colossus known as Gerald Wallace. No mi amigo, I refer to the incident following our winnings against the New Orleans Hornets.

In a fit of excitement following the match, Patty Mills committed an act most felonious. While I showered the grimes of competetition from my torso, the antipodean dwarf filled my underwear with shampoo. Shampoo!

Most worse, the substance was some vile Australian cleanser that rendered my undergarment useless. (But even as I drove homewards without it, I smiled at Patty’s defense of the move: “No worries, mate… I was just trying to put some roo in your ’do!”)

Top foto from Yardbarker.com,

Brandon Roy by Rick Bowmer for AP.

Lascivious Seating Arrangements

2011-02-02T17:43:00.000-08:00

As a child lounging on Mallorca's sun-kissed sands, I received a fine education. Por ejemplo, I oft overheard grizzled fishermen tell the tale of Bernadino de Mendoza’s ambassadorial appointment to England.

It was the late 1500s, and Mendoza was shocked to attend an English church where women and men sat together in the pews. After the Spaniard vented his outrage to an English nobleman, the Englishman retorted:

“Such an seating arrangement would only be unthinkable in Spain. For there, men cannot rid themselves of lascivious thoughts even in the holiest of places!”

Ah, how the fishermen chortled!

For my part, I sometimes wonder how we players must carefully attend to a diagramming while choreographed undulations of the most intriguing sorts play out on the parquet. Is it unseemly to do the sidelong glancing? Perhaps.

Naturalamente, my mates and I are prohibited from interluding with these whirling sylphs. So why do they bat their lashes and call my name? Why, one non-ingenuous ingenue even chucked me under my bestubbled chin!

But chuck me not, Sirens of the hardwood. For there are countless tales warning of the danger of our heart’s desires.

Has no Blazer Dancer heard of Tithonus? He was a Trojan prince who the goddess Eos fell in love with. Besotted by the handsome youth, Eos begged Zeus to give Tithonus eternal life.

Her wish granted, Eos realized the error— she had failed to ask for eternal YOUTH as well! And so over the years, Tithonus transformed into an increasingly decrepit hobgoblin until the gods finally took pity on him.

Adición: I asked two Blazer Dancers if they knew of Tithonus. They stared in wonderment, until one of them spoke: “Isn’t that something? He still can’t speak English!”

In which Michael Holton gives me "adversity"!

2011-01-23T12:27:00.001-08:00

Stroking My War-Beard, I Throw Another Clipper into the Blaze!

2011-01-21T14:25:00.000-08:00

As the horn of victory was blown, I surveyed the scene. Fetid smoke rose from the Los Angeles Clippers’ bench, and airborne cinders of destruction danced in the spotlights.

Oh, how the mighty beard of Baron Davis dripped with its owners bitter tears! Nearby, Eric Gordon’s globular head, a near-perfect reflection of a basketball’s outline, suffered partial deflation. And the ginger citadel known as Blake Griffin was caked with remorse ... and some of those brightly-colored streamers that descend from the pavilion’s rafters after a foe is vanquished!

Thus did I behold my handiworkings and fiercely smile a fearsome smile. Patty Mills approached deferentially, bowing and whispering, “The carnage is complete. There is no further insult you can lay upon them. See how even now they drag bodies from the parquet? And among those who live and breathe, none dare meet your gaze.”

“SILENCIO!” I bellowed as the pint-sized native of Oceania cowered. “‘There is no further insult’ possible? Dios mio, have you never heard of replays of the instant?”

“No worries, mate!” Patty brightly responded.

Foto from the Oregonian.

Loosen the Hamstrings of Your Gullibility

2011-01-15T15:02:00.000-08:00

The following image may strain your credulousness, so please stretch it out before reading further.

Finished? Then I say to you that this foto is transmitted unto you by a most respectable correspondent; that is, a correspondent who is far from credulous himself, and who has no interest in deceiving others, to wit:

Myself!

That said, behold the the fate of a backboarding that foolishly stood in my path during a match for team España!

It is my most fervent desire to replicate this accomplishment in tonight’s match against the Nets of New Jersey.

And if THIS individual is residing beneath the shards of falling plexiglass . . . ah, life would be sweet, ¿no?

Foto via.

Plural Nouns and Houston Fans

2011-01-05T21:28:00.000-08:00

Upon my arrival in Portland two years past, LaMarcus Aldridge took me on a motor-coach tour of the region. Already homesick, the cockles of my Mallorcan heart were warmed upon spying a host of water vessels anchored on the Willamette River.

“Look, LaMarcus,” I cried. “A school of ships!”

LaMarcus smiled indulgently, and informed me that a grouping of ships was called a “fleet.”

Sensing he was pulling wool over my orbs, I asked, “Then what is a fleet of sheep called?”

“A flock,” he replied.

“And a flock of attractive women?”

LaMarcus paused. “A bevy!” he exclaimed. He continued on, relating that a bevy of wolves is a pack, but that a pack of cards is not a bevy. Further, he said that a pack of thieves (or sports agents) is called a gang, and a gang of angels is called a host, while a host of porpoises is termed a shoal. A host of cows is a herd, and a herd of children is called a troop, and a troop of partridges is termed a covey, and a covey of stars is called a galaxy, and a galaxy of ruffians is called a horde, and a horde of rubbish is called a heap, and a heap of bulls is called a drove, and a drove of drunks is called a mob, and a mob of whales is called a school (“Back to school?” I wondered), and a school of worship is called a congregation, and a congregation of engineers is called a corps, and a corps of robbers is called a band, and a band of locusts is called a crowd, and a crowd of NBA players is called an elite.

“Ah, finally a word I recognize!” I cried in relief.

But I could not resist one more question. “And what is a grouping of fans from Houston be called?”

“IDIOTS!” LaMarcus responded, driving onwards.

A tip of the beret to
Charles William Bardeen.
Top foto from

I Am a Trail Blazer Fan.

On the Propriety of Manhandling

2011-01-03T16:47:00.000-08:00

Fans of American-style basketballings are under the influence of the most violent, most insane, most delusive, and most transient of passions. As a Spaniard, I respect this!

I have heard these enthusiasts swear that they will remain in that excited, abnormal, and exhausting condition continuously until death do them part. And again, this I applaud.

Foto from the Oregonian

But I prefer NOT to hear these words while my exotic regions are in their clutches!

A note to mi amigo, Patty Mills

2010-12-31T15:52:00.000-08:00

From El Oregonian

That's not how you do it.

J.R. Smith is all that exists (to J.R. Smith!)

2010-12-29T16:22:00.000-08:00

"I see . . . me!"

During the blow-outing that the Denver Nuggets meted out to us last evening, J.R. Smith made a most unwelcome gesture to our bench.

Yes, after his successful launching at the distant basket, he donned the three-goggles.

Blasphemy? Perhaps. But my cogitation is that J.R. is misunderstood. You see, he is an armchair philosopher, though the armchair in question is threadbare. As J.R. is clearly centered around his own self, I once asked him if he was a solipsist during warm-ups.

J.R. nodded uncertainly to my query. To make the Nugget more at ease, I identified myself as a solipsist as well.

“I’ve been a solipsist all my life,” J.R. responded. “I’m surprised there aren’t more of us.”

Foto from the Oregonian.

Looking Glasses and Three-Goggles

2010-12-22T13:47:00.000-08:00

In my childhood home in Mallorca, my bedchamber was wallpapered with mirrors. I would stand between the looking glasses and shoot the basketballs of Nerf. Doing so, I could see an infinite number of Rudys shooting as one!

This led to issues of profundity. Which Rudy through the looking glass was the real one? Was I me? Or was I the me who was once-reflected? Or thrice-reflected?

This was my first confrontation with the deep nature of existence.

It was also my last. I have better uses of my time! And with these much-ballyhooed “three goggles”, I see reality for what it is!

To be sure, not all of my mates agree. While Patty Mills is also an enthusiastic wearer of three-goggles, he still enjoys discussions on the layers of reality. In fact, he phoned me today to engage in just such a debate. But I made a pre-emptive thrust of the sword.

“Patty, are you at home?” I asked.

“Yes, I am, mate. Why?” said the antipodean point guard.

“Because I am also at home. And that means that this argument cannot be resolved. We are arguing from two different premises!”

Top photo from TruthAboutIt.net,

Rudy by Brittany Davidson.

¡Cogito, Ergo Sum Fantastico!

2010-11-10T15:43:00.000-08:00

How many years does it take to become a man? At 22, Alexander the Great had crushed the Illyrians, razed Thebes, and kicked Darius and his immense Persian Empire in the nether regions.

At 23 tender years, René Descartes shocked the world of philosophy with his revolutionary thoughts. And when Napoleon possessed only 24 annums, he overthrew the enemies of the French Republic!

But Brandon Roy is now a venerable 26. And he claims to have voyaged over the hill!

So it is written, so it shall be. Roy is an hombre viejo, gray of beard and creaky of limb. And this opens the minutes of playing time for me? Then with the vast capacities of youthfulness that being a year younger than Roy endow me with, I will show fans fine play...and even finer chalupa shots!

Top foto by Steve Evans.

Culturally Shocked

2010-10-31T16:38:00.000-07:00

Paul Pierce from here.

As an amateur herpetologist, I possess two queries:

1.) Can anyone describe the antecedents of "Halloween"?
2.) What exactly is its relationship to amphibians?

A Colloquial Conundrum

2010-10-29T11:17:00.000-07:00

The Oregonian

Our Coach McMillan frequently instructs me to “milk the clock.” Yet try as I might, I see no glándulas mamarias upon the timekeeping device!

(Yet if I could find them, what strange leche would they produce?)

El Momento de la Verdad

2010-10-26T15:09:00.000-07:00

In mere moments, my mates and I begin our season with a tip-off against the Phoenix Suns and their noted assassin, Goran Dragic.

The Slovenian's dread (yet oddly luminous) presence helps me put my memories of my ill-considered summer comments behind me. If I remember how much easier it is to remember what I would rather forget than remember, than remember what I would rather remember than forget, then I can’t forget how much easier it is to forget what I would rather remember than forget, than forget what I would rather forget than remember.

I hope that is clear.

From the Oregonian

For now, my spirits are high! You may think this is partially because we have now signed fellow Spanish speaker Fabricio Oberto? If so, you’re growing warm!

Is it because I now have a fellow brother-in-stubble? Now you are growing in your hotness!

Is it because my bestubbled, Spanish-speaking mate owns his own winery? Ah, now the heat should burn like syrah in the eyes, mi amigo!

Tricks of the Devil & Womanish Surrender

2010-10-24T11:40:00.000-07:00

As my preseasonings have progressed, I have let my play do my speaking for me. And to be sure, my estadísticas have been most articulate!

As for myself, I don’t wish to prattle further about my earlier stated wish to return to España.

Yes, I dream of Barcelona, Madrid, and Mallorca nightly. Yes, I sometimes sit bolt-upright in bed speaking Catalan. But the trademark of a professional athlete is that he then returns to slumber without calling his agent and insisting on a trade.

So for the last time, I don’t want to talk about it!

But if I were to do so, I would say that it is not my task to inform the media of my every emotions. In the history of men, it is glorious action that provides all lessons for posterity. Do we need to know how El Cid felt when his conquest of Valencia was complete? Would it magnify the glory of Caesar to have a record of his sentiments when the assassins’ knives pierced his body?

Actually, that might be of interest! Nonetheless, emotions are but tricks of the devil, sent to tempt us into doubt. No man of sense (por ejemplo, Andre Miller) pays them heed, for they are a surrender to womanish sentiment that should be concealed from the media if they cannot be suppressed in the heart.

For I say, it is the task of every athlete —El Machetero included— to overcome our passions, not to trot them out in all their intensities for others to comment upon!

P.S. Mamá, how I miss you!

Bottom two fotos from the Oregonian.

In Which I Remove an Albatross (from my neck) and a Primate (from my backside) at the Same Moment!

2010-10-10T17:37:00.000-07:00

Americans are sometimes surprised to learn that the Communist Party is the third largest political party in Spain. Thus, I know many Communists! In fact, in Mallorca this summer, I chatted amiably with a local Communist while sunning at the beach.

“Rudy,” he asked me, “have you read Marx?”

To this I nodded and replied, “Yes, and I think it’s from the wicker chairs that the beach-goers sit upon.”

Photo by Ben Golliver

This brings to mind some of my other off-court shenanigans this summer. As is known, I have variously:

1.) Requested a release from the Portland Trail Blazers.

2.) Demanded a trade from the selfsame team.

3.) Been fined $75,000 by the NBA.

To explain myself, let me give an overview: In performing on the basketball courts, I play a function of vitality: I remake reality — embellishing or diminishing it— through the magic of my movements.

So it is OFF the parquets as well. The contradictions I pose are not mere gratuities — I purposely perform them to fill in the insufficiencies of life!

You see, when life is full and absolute, and citizens are committed to their destinies with an all-consuming faith, an athlete performs no real service at all.

But when the faith if the peoples is shattered by crisis, it is necessary to believe in SOMETHING. This season and last, I saw people grow uncertain about the world (and afterworld!) they inhabit. Thus, my mercurial actions were designed to unite Portland in one absolute and trusting vision together once again: Namely, that I am an untrustworthy rapscallion!

Where did I come by such a wayward notion? It is well you ask. I was enlisted to this cause by a player who is so Machiavellian, so diabolical, he makes Iago resemble a leader of the pre-schoolers. (Gaze upon his visage if you dare!)

And now that I have explained myself to you, can someone explain to ME why Pau Gasol and his mate Kobe Bryant were used to promote the FIBA World Championship?

Rudy glowering foto by Ben Golliver.

Do not do the weeping for Argentina (they won!)

2010-09-13T11:40:00.001-07:00

O Canada!

2010-09-02T10:40:00.000-07:00

We defeated you 89-67.

Bucket Busting

2010-09-01T13:31:00.000-07:00

In my native Mallorca, we have an idiom that translates as "busting the bucket." It has to do with both death and scatology...that is to say, a fatal movement of the bowels!

This unfortunate turning of phrase was brought to mind by my interview stylings over at the estimable Bust-a-Bucket website. Please to enjoy!

Lithuania y un Faltado el Respeto

2010-09-01T10:18:00.000-07:00

Ah, my mates and I on the Spanish National Team are in straits most dire! Following defeats at the hands of France and Lithuania, we, who are the champions of Europe, are in danger of being scuppered from the tournament.

And worse, ever since I was a young player, I dreamed of dunking in every attack. Apparently, I was not alone in my airborne ambitions!

Existencialismo & Dunking

2010-08-29T14:18:00.000-07:00

What is the importance of a dunk? There is none. Or perhaps, there an importance of meager proportions. Even as I soared like an Iberian condor against New Zealand, I knew that it will never matter to the world that I dunked individually. But by acknowledging the weaknesses of the dunk, perhaps my meager faith in it becomes all the more potent.

The implicit question is why, in the face of the possible futility of all human endeavoring, I dunk at all?

My answer: Dunking is a means to more dunking. And scoring against an adversary is a good first step toward illuminating one’s manhood! Further, dunking may not offer solutions, but poses good entertainments. And while, following losses to both France and the U.S., I am tempted to say that perhaps this is ALL that dunking really does, we must wait and see how we fare in further World Championship matches first!

In Which Team USA Plays Into My Strategy!

2010-08-23T14:02:00.000-07:00

You have perhaps heard the wise cliché? “Losses build character.” Behold me: I am a character! You see, life itself is a series of losses…we lose our looks, our memory, our ability to dribble in traffic, our friends and coaches. And the sport of basketball lends us an assist in confronting such sorrows!

So the despair my mates and I and our fans felt in the exhibition match against the USA team was merely grief-in-training for our real-life defeats to come.

And the USA is now unencumbered with grief. They are unshriven! Kevin Durant and companies have run no gauntlets and been found wanting! Thus, they will be pickings of an easy nature when the tournament matches count. (Or so my current theory holds!)

Why Do I Prefer Playing in Europe?

2010-08-19T15:22:00.001-07:00

Because it's more civilized!

Caged Match

2010-08-19T11:33:00.000-07:00

"The prisoner running as the guards shoot at him, believes for a moment that he is free."

As an athlete whose game has been shackled this season past, I have gently let it be known that I have a slight preference to not re-join the Portland Trail Blazers. While my discourse has been most civil and reasonable, this has led to the harshest recriminations…including a column from one journalist who advises I be left to rot! (This is an unlikely eventuality; as a sun-wizened Mallorcan, my flesh has the consistency of Iberian jerky.)

For any confusions regarding my status activations, I blame the English tongue! To wit, view this interchange between Coach Nate McMillan and myself.

Myself: With all due respectiveness, I would like to engage in more activities on the parquet.

Coach McMillan: I’ll do my best to give you more court time.

But in the endless convolutions of legal scholars and basketball coaches, THIS is what the coach actually meant:

“As a conveyance of our oral agreement, I will give you due consideration regarding the right, title and claim, for playing time including the attached privileges of dribbling, shooting, passing, and seeking steals from the opposition along with your entitlement's full power to turn the ball over to the opposition, suck, and ogle opposing cheerleaders all within the context of my existing offensive schematics which will rarely utilize the skills you feel you possess to the greatest advantage, the opinions of you and/or your agent to the contrary notwithstanding.”

Court cage by Jake Stangel,

fallen matador by REUTERS.

How I Spend My Summer Vacationings

2010-08-07T17:48:00.001-07:00

Passing the Trade Winds

2010-07-29T16:50:00.000-07:00

Marc Gasol: Oyes, Rudy, I have a question.

Myself: Why have I made request for a trade to New York, Boston, or Chicago?

Marc: What? No! I was going to tell a joke about why the beard of a Spaniard can only grow to the length of a centimeter. Is this trade you speak of truth?

Myself: Sí.

Marc: So while you relocate to a world-class city with excellent air travel to España, I will continue to labor in the perdition known as—

Myself: Memphis. But what of your joke, mi amigo?

Marc: There is no joke.

Foto from aquí.

Are You Ready for This?

2010-07-12T08:19:00.001-07:00

¡España Está en el Campeonato de la Copa del Mundo!

2010-07-07T13:40:00.000-07:00

¡Pum! Just this season, I formulated a prediction to my Blazer mates that Spain's fútball team would make a fine performance at the World Cup. And nobody was believing myself at that time!

But for the usual American basketball player, soccer occupies the same level of interest as Estonian literature. Ah well... even so, the Dutch soccer squad had best bring its unique courage to the championship match. ¡Enhorabuena a España!

¿El Machetero en la Gran Manzana?

2010-06-23T10:23:00.000-07:00

I find myself amidst a swirl of trade rumors placing me in a New York Knicks costume! Can it be? I recall playing at Madison Square Garden for the first time two years ago. I suffered mild disappointments, as its court is actually rectangular, but the volume of Spanish fans there was most encouraging.

Even so, will I reside and compete in an arena of another's choosing? Is this free will free? On Palma de Mallorca, the tale is told of the folk hero Jorge Preguntos. Walking along a deserted beach one evening, Jorge noted a group of horsemen riding toward him.

Filled with terror that these were ruffians or cutthroats, Jorge leapt over a nearby wall and laid next to it, quivering with fear.

The horsemen, who were simple travelers, were fascinated by this odd reaction, and so they rode to the wall and spied Jorge lying down on the other side.

“Can we be of assistance?” they asked. Jorge shook his head. The riders then asked, “What are you doing here?”

Jorge responded, “It’s a complicated situation. You see, I am here because of you. Yet you are here because of me!”

And so we see how the actions of men with free will collide in uncertain ways, and create a scenario that neither party willed at all! Thus is the dilemma of destiny constantly defined...along with an even weightier question: What in el mundo IS a Knickerbocker?

Snowfall on the Parquets

2010-06-22T10:39:00.000-07:00

To see my amigo, Pau Gasol, luxuriate in the successes of his NBA championships puts me in two minds regarding fame and fortune. On the one frontal lobe, it seems an act of madness for a man to pursue fame and fortune when he could be sitting in the sunshine reading a book.

But on the other frontal lobe, I cannot deny the flaming syrups of ambition that boil through my veins! As an illustration, years ago, Pau and I were part of a touring basketball club.

In one of our squad’s excursions, we came to a small village in the Basque mountain country. There we stopped to refuel the team bus and dine.

It was a most miserable place! The town was tiny, and yet underpopulated.

Looking about, Pau spoke in wonderment: “Rudy, you know, even here there are men attempting to advance, to gain higher offices and competing fiercely with bitter rivals over who will be most eminent.”

My answer? “I would rather be the first man here than the second in Madrid.” And at that moment, I believed it!

A Basque proverb springs to the fore: “The snow falls not to cover the mountain, but so that a man may leave his tracks in it.”

And the same is true of the snow that falls on the basketball court. ¡Pum!

Of Tennis, Norse Gods and Leo Tolstoy

2010-06-09T18:42:00.000-07:00

In the off seasonings, I make points of attending the Madrid Tennis Open. Is this because I have always loved tennis? No— I once harbored a revulsion for the sport! It seemed a pastime for social climbers and the insincere.

To explain my attitudes, let me ask: Have you have read Anna Karenina? In this massive tale, Leo Tolstoy writes of characters named Vronsky and Anna. Poised on the fringes of their own moral abysses, the two of them play tennis by swatting futiley at the passing ball.

“Such is the foolishness of bourgeois sport!” Tolstoy seems to say. Yet when he wrote the scene, the great Russian had never PLAYED tennis! And when, at the age of 68, Tolstoy DID learn tennis, he was hooked, lined, and sinkered. Tolstoy suffered from a tennisonian addiction for the rest of his days!

For an entire summer, Tolstoy played tennis for three hours or more each day. And while he lost individual matches, none could stand against him for those hours…and so houseguests, relatives, and children would rotate in to try to return the volleys of the greatest Russian novelist!

In this fashion, I related to Tolstoy but instead of playing tennis, I watch it in marathon bouts each summer at the Madrid Tennis Open. You see, Rafa Nadal is from Mallorca! And he hammered the tennis ball with the abandon of a Norse god on his way to victory...ah, the champagne flowed in Trimalchian quantities!

This puts me in mind of a Norse joke. It seems that Thor, the god of thunder, found himself stranded overnight in Midgard, the realm of the humans.

Seeking lodging at an isolated farm, Thor disguised himself with a massive cloak and asked the farmer for lodging. Reluctantly, the man let the god in and silently pointed to a room, which Thor happily occupied.

That night, the farmer's daughter paid Thor a visit, and the results of their meeting followed the usual pattern of these types of tales.

In the morning, the young woman unceremoniously left the god's bed and made to leave. Outraged, the thunder-bolt hurler said, “You depart without even a fare-thee-well? How dare you? I am Thor!”

“I am thore too,” the farmer's daughter replied. “But it wath fun anyway!”

Rudy fotos from his Facebooking page,
Samuel Dalembert from the SI Vault.

Standing on the Shoals of Bethlehem with Autumn in My Heart

2010-06-03T16:42:00.000-07:00

Peering from an elevation some centimeters in excess of six feet, I am accustomed to the tactics shorter folk use to address me. Most lean back, craning their neck to goggle upwards while straightening the shoulders. But I prefer those who simply gaze up with their eyes, refusing an obseisance of posture…as if it were I, not they, who were the more laughable eminence. It shows a most admirable pluck!

But then there are a few individuals with egg white in their veins and malice in their arteries who refuse to make eye contact at all, instead choosing to mutter insults under their breath from a safe distance. Such a fellow is this sports journalist whose name is comprised of initials most meaningful. Said rogue has a long-standing enmity against me, which I have long turned a deaf eye to…but now he claims that I defile the basketball gods? It is to laugh!

But while there are a plenitude of rejections I could apply to this scoundrel, it would only serve to dignify his crippled assertions. Virtue is the truest nobility, and doing good to base fellows is like throwing water into the sea.

So to the aptly titled B.S., I state that private sin is not so prejudicial in this world as a public indecency. My pride is wounded, and I stand here, looking down at you with a basketball in my hand and autumn in my heart. May fungal spores multiply upon your foodstuffs! Good day.

Adición: Oh, and I found the remainder of your piece most entertaining!

Rudy foto from his selfsame Facebook page,

Guatemalan sinkhole by Luis Echeverria for AP,

Juan Carmichael going enloquecido from the SI Vault.

Working Out & Knocking Oneself Up

2010-05-23T19:31:00.000-07:00

Amid the locker chamber’s anthology of body odors, Greg Oden addressed me: “Spaniard, let’s go hoist dumbbells and yank pulleys in the weight room.”

“Knock yourself up,” I demurred. (In this fashion, I have managed to fend off many of his persuasive attempts this season!)

But this time, the ebon geriatric was not so easily put off. The expression is ‘knock yourself OUT’,” Greg answered. “To ‘knock myself up’ has an entirely different, biologically impossible expression.”

“I never let biological impossibilities stand in my way, whether on the parquet...or in the boudoir!” I proclaimed, while slyly exiting the chamber. When will it be known that weightlifting is not part of the Spanish paradigm?

Making my escape, this puts me in mind of other linguistic oddities. Per ejemplo, do you know why the French are reluctant to embrace American business models? It is because they don't have a word for “entrepreneur”!

And have I ever related news of the two Uzbek mates on my Badalona team in España? Their conversational gambits were most interesting. You see, it is customary for Uzbeks greeting each other to shout off a rapid series of questions. Meanwhile, his companion will do the same, all the while gesticulating wildly.

The bombardment might go thusly:

“Are you tired?”

“Is your work good?”

“How is your mother?”

“How do your free throws progress?”

“Do you like hot weather?”

These questions will serve as rhetorical devices…and as soon as one party actually ANSWERS a question, the conversation either commences or the two promptly bid adios.

Ah, a reminder to the self: I must try this gambit the next time Greg or a physicality trainer tries to lure me to the weights room!

Hand-Eye Coordination on the Glassy Seas

2010-05-19T20:42:00.000-07:00

Engaging in basketball is like navigating a skiff on the blue waters of Mediterranean: One moment you use your oars, and then the sail…before you ran before the wind, but now you tack into it…once you caught the tide, and now you drain a three-pointer into some hapless soul’s grill!

But one aspect of my sailing skills that could utilize improvement is the ball handling. And I have just the program to commence!

Suavity. Debonairnessness. Polenta.

2010-05-17T20:38:00.000-07:00

Being back on my sun-kissed isle of Palma de Mallorca, I have waxed philosophical on the seasoning past. My conclusion: Adversity is an unavoidable part of life…though not one I recommend!

I am now afforded opportunities to view Pau Gasol and his Laker-mates march to the Finals. Seeing Pau’s smooth operator-finesse on the parquet, it is perhaps no shock for my readers to know of his suavity in other realms of endeavor. For the centaur-like Barcelonan is both musically inclined...and epicurean in his tastes!

This puts me in mind of the fine composer, Gioachino Rossini. The Italian supposedly wept only three times in his life: First, when Rossini heard a singer strangling one of his arias. Second, after the premier of his then-new project, Il barbiere di Siviglia, or "The Barber of Seville." (This opera was a bigger flop than one of Manu Ginobili and Anderson Varejao masterpieces.)

The third time Rossini wept was when he saw a truffled chicken accidentally fall into a river. Truly, he was a man committed to the gustatory. As to this, Pau may be a dedicated gourmand, but I believe he has simpler tastes!

Gasol foto from the Blowtorch.

"Tener Duende": The Passion of Flamenco and Profanity!

2010-05-13T08:21:00.000-07:00

Upon cleaning out my effects from the locker chamber in Portland’s pavilion, I saw something that Jerryd Bayless had scrawled on the white board. In a fit of angry passion over our final loss, he had written, “Sh**! Piss! F***!!!”

“My friend,” I exclaimed, “you must be exhausted!”

But rest assured that I spoke in the admiration. For Jerryd had epitomized what we Spaniards call tener duende. It is a notion that has to do with the emotions and authenticity. For an American, tener duende might have the meaning as having soul. It is what gives your body a chilling reaction to the expressiveness of an artistic, athletic, or even profane expression!

When a three-point shooter has fires hot enough to burn, he has tener duende. When a flamenco dancer closes her eyes and her twirling litheness gives way to a deeper concentration, then does the elusive force of tener duende take possession of her form even as she captivates us all!

Not that I am paying particularly close attention.

How can tener duende be found? There is no map, there are no exercises, there is no one you can ask. Tener duende works on a basketball court the way that the hot winds blowing from Africa shape the sand dunes of the Spanish coast…and I thought that I saw tener duende at work here, in the unlikely form of these literary T-shirts. Behold, a delectable lady models a garment honoring Don Quixote himself!

“But is there a literary figure who models my número de cinco?” I wondered.

Sadly, there was…this sack of sadness modeling the number five for author Kurt Vonnegut!

I am not here to pass literary fashion judgment…but at first glance, it does not seem likely that either the model OR the writer possesses tener duende!

Jerryd Bayless from Basketbawful,

T-shirts from Novel-T.

On Ostracism

2010-05-09T18:50:00.000-07:00

The question is floated: Shall I make return to the Portland Trail Blazers next annum? There are many views among the learned scribes, but for the best analysis of sport, we must visit the democracy of ancient Athens! For it was there that the system of ostracism had beginnings.

Imagine the Athenians had to decide between two politicians for an office. If the citizens wished it so, the election could be an “ostracism” —that is, after the vote, one politician was chosen for office, while the other was exiled from the city!

To be accomplishing this, the Athenians scratched the name of the politician they wanted to be rid of on a piece of pottery called an “ostrakon.” If more than 6000 citizens cast ostrakons for a candidate, he went into “honorable exile” from Athens for a decade. (Of course, given what is happening in Athens today, an ostracism might be a welcome fate!)

It is no secret that Brandon Roy plays in front of me. And it is known that I am not Brandon Roy. If there were a vote for ostracism, I have no doubt I would be sent packaging. But there is also a third party at shooting guard, Martell Webster…so is our water hopelessly muddied?

The answer can be found in Grecian pasts! In 415 BCE, an excellent Athenian politician named Hyperbolus entered an ostracism match with TWO candidates, namely Alcibiades and Nicias. But though Hyperbolus was in a superior position, Alcibiades and Nicias pooled their political fortunes. In doing so, they managed to exile Hyperbolus!

I mention this as a veiled offer to Martell Webster: Together, there is MUCH we can accomplish, mi amigo!

Fotos from the Oregonian.

Of Faux Hidalgos & Sergio's Power Ranking

2010-05-06T08:30:00.000-07:00

A flash of the news— Amare Stoudemire is a scholar of the classics! Behold his support of those who speak Latin:

Upon thoughts of a second nature, there seems to be some confusion. Stoudemire’s conflation of Jews, Latins, and Latinos made me sorely aware of some lack of my own education. Thus, I have searched the Internet’s most unimpeachable source on such matters, namely ESPN’s Latino Power Rankings. (Incidentally, I am ranked woefully low thereon!)

Yet the Latino Power Rankings reveal no word on these matters! Neither is there a power ranking for Jewish players (e.g. Omri Casspi) nor Latin ones (Andrea Bargnani). Thus, Stoudamire is engaged in a political statement of some kind here, one in which the Sun hopes we can divine his meaning. Such a statesman!

Thus, I began analyzing the subtext of the cryptic tweet. My theory is that Stoudemire may be expressing solidarity with Mexicans in Arizona, who feel oppressed by the area’s new immigration laws. So if you will indulge me, here is an illustrative (and true!) parable on the matter:
James Reavis was a magnificent forger of the late 18th century. Reavis’s claim to counterfeit fame came from his invention of a Spanish nobleman named Miguel de Peralta. The imaginary Spaniard was given an elaborate family tree and Reavis concocted documents for him that claimed 10 million acres in what is now Arizona for the don’s descendants.

Reavis then went from library to archive to library in Mexico and Spain, where he planted his false wills, deeds, and mortgages. In 1881, Reavis then approached the U.S. surveyor general. By virtue of the documents, Reavis claimed the territories as a descendant of de Peralta. It was a land grabbing of a mammoth degree! Astoundingly, Reavis then began to TAX the residents of his millions of acres!

As the tax revenues poured in, the faux-hidalgo Reavis became a very wealthy man, with mansions in four cities and two countries. But after nine years, a Spaniard unmasked the forgeries. Reavis was arrested, and after serving prison time, he ended his days homeless on the streets of Santa Fe.

Thus did a former land baron become what Americans call a “hobo.” One of the richest land barons in Arizona, and soon he’d bought mansions in New York, Washington, St. Louis, and Mexico. Ah, how the years sweep us on like leaves before the gale!

What does this have to do with Stoudemire’s oracular pronouncement? I do not know! But let me close with news that is both pleasant and easy to deciper: Please note El Chacho's Latino Power Ranking relative to mine own!

Rudy foto from the Oregonian,

Richard Nixon by David Kennerly.

Kobe of Arabia

2010-05-03T09:03:00.000-07:00

As I rest for international play, rest assured I still keep Pau’s team in my purview. And seeing my friend’s Lakers mate dressed in these alabaster travesties, my orbs bugged!

Clearly, Bryant needed to consult the fashion expertise of a more cosmopolitan player.

So I penned a quick note: “My dearest Kobe,” it read, “please consider Pau's advice when creating ensembles.”

I soon received a reply from the muslin-clad one:

“Spaniard, let me correct either your grammar or your morals. You address me, ‘My dearest Kobe.’ Am I to believe you have OTHER dear Kobes? I thought not. And now I must excuse myself to adjust my burnoose.”

Touché! And please to enjoy your adventures in the sands of Arabia.

As Hopes Are Fulfilled, the Jester Smiles

2010-05-01T14:24:00.000-07:00

Last week near Madrid, the poet José Emilio Pacheco received the Cervantes Prize for literature from Spain’s own King Juan Carlos. The ceremony was both well-deserved and ill-fitting, as just before its start, the esteemed poet’s trousers fell down!

Ah, how Cervantes would have laughed! As for Pacheco, he took his pratfall in shortened stride, saying, “Not having suspenders is a very good argument against vanity.”

With the perspective born of the end of our Trail Blazers’ seasonings, I can see that infinite jest awaits ALL of us who climb into the public’s eye. My dream of playing in the NBA has come true, yet my ambition is baulked! But a finer matter bears consideration: Do the same pitfalls await both the poet AND the point guard?

Sport cannot be conducted without guts, sweat, and toil, so it follows that athletes must labor harder than men of letters who —in tranquil peace— compose their poems. Where the poet cuts-and-pastes, the athlete must cut-and-thrust. Further, we basketball players are publicly buffeted by fortune and flagrantly fouled by scoundrels. Why, there are times when we are wretched, ragged, and louse-ridden!

Well, we do get tired at practice, anyway.

And if some of us, by the strength of our arms and spring in our steppings, become millionaires, rest assured it costs us dearly in blood, sweat, and the ratio of our incomes siphoned by agents!

And as for the public exposure of our shortcomings, por favor! Our every mistake is pored over and amplified...to the point that there have been occasions when I yearned for suspenders on MY gym shorts!

(More thoughts on the year’s end follow.)

Fotos from Reuters

and from an extraordinary

series of shots at the Oregonian.

Allow Me My Small Pleasures

2010-04-29T15:22:00.000-07:00

During one of my brief sojourns on the parquet in these playoffings, I witnessed an energetic dunkage by Amare Stoudamire.

The Sun followed suit with an inchoate bellow at his home crowd.

They politely applauded.

Turning to me, the tattooed basilisk cried, “This is MY house!”

“My compliments on the décor!” I said warmly.

As Stoudamire gave me an uncomprehending stare and turned to run downcourt, I added, “Though your draperies leave much to be desired.”

Foto by the AP,

photo below by britty_d

Distant Dreams and the Brains of Pharaohs

2010-04-26T22:29:00.000-07:00

As I commenced to address this season, I looked back upon our 2008-2009 campaign with condescension. To be sure, Sergio and I had a fine year, but I considered it a mere preparation for NOW.

And here I am months later, a mere afterglow of myself! It is sweet mercy granted by Providencia that I was ignorant of my future. My defense is so bad, my countryman from the Toronto Raptors has volunteered his name to me, so that I might be called Jose Calderowned.

And my offense! It is to weep tears of blood.

Imagine if we knew the outcomes of all our de tres puntos attempts and elaborate parquet schemes…how ruined our lives would be!

Instead we trot up and down the basketball court of life unaware of life outside the pavilion, as happy as any dumb animal...that also happens to play basketball.

What is next? Who knows it? If we were to possess a herald of the future on the team, it would have to be Andre Miller. While he may not be an oracle, I am told that in his youth, Andre performed antic routines. Perhaps!

Yet I think of him as an rough uncle, complete with irascible habits, unstoppable reminiscences, and a form from the three-point line that causes shooting coaches to quail and avert their eyes.

Here is Andre’s high-pitched post-match comment after this evening’s drubbing in Phoenix: “Rudy, do you know how the ancient Egyptians prepared the Pharaoh’s body for the afterlife?”

I replied that I was unaware of their methods.

“They pulled the Pharaoh’s brain out of his skull through his nose with a hook. And that ain’t nothin’ compared to what the Suns just did to us out there tonight!”

Matador foto from Reuters,
Rudy graphic by Brandon Mitchell.

WARNING: Even the Stalwart Val Kilmer Would Avert His Gaze from This Debacle

2010-04-22T15:16:00.000-07:00

A difficult week. My poor play in the playoffings has resulted in attempted character assassinations here, here, and here. And here...and even my post-practice heaves are subject to barbs! This has resulted in something most unwelcome— yes, a decrease in “Ru-dy” chants, but more importantly, a decline in blog visitations!

Matters grew so dire, I utilized technologies to locate my sole remaining reader. Whoever this individual was, he or she visited my site daily and diligently. Such loyalty! So I decided to pay a visit! Sitemeters and Google mappings provided the needed coordinates.

Ascending the walkway to an attractive cottage in Lake Oswego, I imagined who my sole remaining supporter might be. Perhaps a comely Oregonian answering the portal in a Rudy jersey? Perhaps not, but no matter! The encounter would doubtless leave my reinvigorated for our next match!

Instead, I got one of the region’s ubiquitous doughy, bald fellows.

“So you are the one who has been reading!” I said undeterred. “I thank you for the support.”

The door-dweller's eyes flashed in recognition, but he cocked his head skeptically.

“My bloggings!” I prompted with a knowing smile.

“Ah!” the man shook his head in demurral. “No, I’m a Nuggets fan. My wife set our browser’s homepage to your blog to tease me.”

Further words were exchanged. I do not recall them.

Retreating to my auto, I felt two centimeters shorter. If only I could avert my eyes from my own situation! I was thus reminded of the travails of the Earl of Uxbridge at Waterloo. After his ninth steed was shot from under him, the Earl’s luck changed...for the worse! A load of grapeshot smashed into his right knee and the Earl cried out, “By God, sir, I've lost my leg!”

His companion removed a telescope from his eye and said, “By God, sir, so you have.”

Fotos from Getty Images and Tara Jane.

Curfews? Gesundheit!

2010-04-20T14:35:00.000-07:00

As a callow (but tanned!) youth on Mallorca, I once remained at a poetry recital on the beach until an hour of the night most unseemly. My father chided me upon my return with a familiar line. “When I was your age, my father would not allow me to go out of the house after midnight.”

“Your father’s curfew,” I replied, “seems hardly born of wisdom.”

At this, my padre exclaimed, “He was a far better father than the one you have, you rapscallion!”

There was a pause, and then gales of laughter swept our darkened home. And so, here in the sun-baked perdition of Phoenix, I have restricted myself with my own curfew. I watch tape, take notes, and look to improve on my play in the first match of our playoff series.

And I also write verse! For instance, take note of this recent stanza:

The Phoenix Suns’ frenetic play

Takes on an orange-tinted haze

And on the court, their tattooed ass

Brays and brays and brays.

Rudy foto by Teresa Roca Ramia.

Beware the Fumes of Eyjafjallajokull!

2010-04-16T16:26:00.000-07:00

Even as an ash cloud erupts from the volcano beneath Iceland's Eyjafjallajokull glacier, so do the simmering passions of my mates prepare to burst forth against the Phoenix Suns in the playoffs. The opposing team is comprised, almost to a man, of true gentlemen and hidalgos. Nonetheless, let the following serve as a manifesto, or perhaps a mission statement, to these selfsame Suns, and in particular, their exasperating centerpiece, Amar’e Stoudemire:

We will come, you tattooed basilisk of the desert, to test the issue of who is more battle-hardened. You contemplate others from your heights like a pitiless Nero, riding roughshod in your arrogance over fine fellows like Dante Cunningham. This will not do!

Not to overstate the case, but the courtside cruelties we will inflict upon you will cause your balky retinas to spout blood. Swaggering, you will enter the match, staggering, you will depart. In the end, we will gloat over your vanquished barbarity and truly annoying mannerisms, treating you like a luckless corpse... albeit one that happens to have an impressive vertical leap.

And perhaps we can win a match in Phoenix in the processing!

What follows are my further thoughts on the matter (my further disdain for Stoudemire is expressed here):

The Fine Line Between Approbation and Probation

2010-04-15T09:29:00.000-07:00

The post-seasonings commence shortly, so now is a good time to salute our basketball enthusiasts!

Admittedly, some fans can wax OVERLY enthusiastic. (Even for someone christened "the Electric Spaniard" they can be frightening!)

But I believe that MOST Trail Blazers zealots know how to balance the fine line between admiration and pathology.

Never mind.

Fotos by Bruce Ely for the Oregonian;

see a magnificent gallery of his work here.

For Whom the Chanting Roars

2010-04-13T09:37:00.000-07:00

Naturalamente, I have heard it chanted in pavilions in a deep “Ru-dy! Ru-dy!” roar. But in last evening’s match against the Thunder, my ears were treated to a new experience: The assembled enthusiasts in the sold-out arena paid tribute to the superlative Marcus Camby by chanting (go and figure!) “Mar-cus! Cam-by! Mar-cus! Cam-by!”

Did this engender jealousy among players who have been with the team longer? (Namely, everyone.) I cannot analyze the minds of colleagues, so I cannot say!

To be sure, there is a pleasing rhythm to names comprised of two syllables, which is why players with surnames like "Pendergraph" should not anticipate moments like this. And how fortunate that no descendant of Madrid financier Don Juan Nepomuceno de Burionagonatotorecagageazcoecha plays for the team. (Chanting his name would result in arrested cardiovascular systems!)

As is known, we may now be pitted against the Denver Nuggets in the playoffs. This is well and good, although I share Lionel Hollins assessment of their court stylings.

Foto by the Oregonian but not the basketball graphic.
Oh, and modesty cannot prevent my sharing a personal highlight from Camby's curtain-callings!

This Flagrant Foul Is Joined in Process

2010-04-10T08:58:00.000-07:00

As Erik Dampier raised his gigantic arm, he seemed ready to threaten the very heavens, earth, and watery abysses! The wrathful Maverick then delivered his blow with such force and fury, if his hand had not twisted in the course of the descent, the stroke would have put an end to my mortal coil and to all of my adventures.

But fortune has better things in store for me, and as the behemoth's engorged digits struck, all the damage they did was to carry off a large part of my face (together with my left ear), all of which tumbled to the hard woods in a hideous ruin.

Or so it felt! And to add insult to mortal injury, no foul was called! Yet I was assessed a technical for not immediately passing the ball to the referee? (Or was it for being overly Spanish?) Surely, it is a tipsy-turvy world we live in!

Fotos from the Oregonian and Reuters.

Of Perspective and Iberian Trolls

2010-04-08T10:54:00.000-07:00

In my postings herein, I must think my thoughts in Spanish. Then, I translate to the English! But translating my own cogitations is an impure process. Thus, as I read myself here, it is as if I were viewing a Flemish tapestry from the wrong side; I can make out the figures, but they are obscured. It is a matter of perspective!

This is a misfortune, as anyone who has beheld the splendor of Flemish tapestries —or my writings in Spanish— can attest.

Nor am I alone! Many have viewed with concern my statements in a Portland newspaper suggesting that I may flee after this season concludes. Yes, it is true that my play has lacked the highlightings that marked my days with Sergio. And yes, in spots, my efforts have been spotty. (Yet when I have been hot, I have not been haughty!) It seems that this season, I have walked on eggshells…and they have cracked! But rest assured that my meaning was not that I am primed to bolt.

But reading the article from the wrong side of the tapestry, I discern that it might make sense for me to do so. In this way, I can misconstrue my own meanings! But consider: Is Nate McMillan reeling me in? Would I be better where I’d be Real-ing Madrid instead?

And finally, why is Pau Gasol lurking under a bridge like a gigantic Iberian troll?

Fotos from SI Vault.

The Proper Trilling of "Rs" in Español

2010-04-07T09:04:00.000-07:00

Singed Beards and Blackened Eyes

2010-04-05T13:26:00.000-07:00

I find that it is impossible to carry the torch of wisdom through a crowd without singeing someone’s soul patch.

And now that Jeff Pendergraph’s eye has taken a shining, we have a corollary: It is impossible to impede the progress of a Jerryd Bayless drive without taking an elbow to the orb!

While Jeff valiantly continued practice, his bravery shrinks in comparison to the equanimity mi amigo Pau Gasol displayed. Even as the earth quaked beneath three of the United States and Mexico, his interview answers babble forth! (Observe the hangers swing to the right.)

And to think that Pau's toughishness was ever given a question! It is to laugh.

Foto by pdxtrailblazer.

Spheres of Activity & Buttered Popcorn

2010-04-02T19:28:00.000-07:00

A difficult day. I just concluded a conversation with my paramour in which Cristina shared that she grows tired of my year-round basketballing.

Why? She claims it is a bore.

To which I replied, “Boring? But basketball is life on the wing! What other sphere of human activity calls forth all that is most noble in men’s souls, and all that is most base? Or has such excitement? Or more vividly exposes our strengths and weaknesses? Boring? You might as well say that life itself is boring!”

There was no response, and I am not sure how much of my speech she heard. (Which is most unfortunate, as I was most pleased with the “sphere of human activity” line!)

Adición: When word reached our locker chamber of the April Fools prank played on Kenyon Martin, there were some smiles. A member of J.R. Smith’s entourage filled Martin’s auto with buttered popcorn. This was an unfortunate choice, as the car’s interior was white!

Martin was so enraged, Martell Webster said he “threatened to get Orville Redenbacher on someone’s ass”!

The Melancholy Passage of Time

2010-04-02T13:02:00.001-07:00

I have heard tell that "I'm sorry" are the most difficult words in the English tongue.

Not so! As someone who celebrated his birthday with family and friends in an empty mansion via Skype, I can tell you that the most difficult English words are feliz cumpleaños.

To alleviate the pain, a thoughtful team of Blazer enthusiasts created this gift to me:

Pardon! This is the correct video:

El Machetero thanks you, mi amigos. If every man is a child of his own deeds, then you have very fine parents!

El Chacho in the Big Apple

2010-04-01T15:10:00.000-07:00

Somewhere in Lake Oswego, in a place whose name I do not care to remember, is a Spanish restaurant. It was the favored dining location for the dinners Sergio and I shared last year.

Now that El Chacho in the Big Apple, I do not care to frequent this locale…anymore than I care for swimming in the bittersweet sentimentality of this video.

Well, perhaps just one more viewing. *sigh*

Garbled in Translation

2010-04-01T11:08:00.000-07:00

We NBA players of foreign tongues learn that language is like a cracked kettle on which we beat out tunes for the Blazer Dancers to caper to, even as we long to move the stars.
But that is still no excuse for misspelling Zaza Pachulia's jersey!

"El Manco de Lepanto" and Pain Resistance

2010-03-28T13:22:00.000-07:00

Those who saw my gimped gait in a recent match may wonder, "Does Rudy's left knee throb in unbearable pain?"

For an answer, we turn to the youthful years of Miguel de Cervantes. After engaging in a duel in 1570, he was obliged to leave Spain and travel to Rome. There, Cervantes had to prove himself a hidalgo, or a man of “clean” blood without Jewish, Arabic, or southern Californian ancestors. (Such foolish prejudices…in two of the three cases, anyway!)

Thus, a year later, Cervantes found himself aboard an Italian warship and in a naval battle against the Turks! The hidalgo engaged in hand-to-hand fighting, even after sustaining a harquebus blast to his left arm!

This left Spain’s greatest writer maimed for life, and earned him the sobriquet el manco de Lepanto, or the one-armed man from Lepanto. And while it was surely painful, Cervantes was so proud of his crippled arm, he boasted of it until his dying day.

So when you ask me if my left knee hurts, I can only reply in the spirit of Cervantes! Each throb of my knee is an affirmation of my red, Spanish blood and each faltering step is taken with off-kilter nobility! (Of course, I have an advantage that Cervantes was unable to employ: El Advilo.)

Rudy graphic by YikesItsCameron.

Questioning the Unquestioned

2010-03-26T09:11:00.000-07:00

A good match last evening! My leg gave me some pains, but no matter. The besieged Dallas Mavericks timed out, and as we took a respite from the match, Coach McMillan enthused:

"You've just reeled off 12 unanswered points!" he said. "Keep it up!"

"You mean 'unquestioned points', yes?" I responded. As all orbs in the huddle rotated to me, I added, "As the Mavericks are not challenging our baskets, that signifies they do not question our ability to score!"

A moment of silence. This was broken by Andre Miller crying in his high-pitched voice, "Let's go get them!"

"Without question!" I added. Then, just to be safe, "Or answers!"

For a view of my post-match attire, see below.

Foto from the Oregonian.

What Kind of Hair Product Do I Use?!

2010-03-24T19:18:00.000-07:00

A number of unexpected queries came about during an event known as "internal media day." This is distinguished from external media day by both its concavity and the fact that I field questions from people who are not present.

Matters proceeded well until notorious glamour hound Andre Miller elbowed into my interviewings. Will his quest for media attention never end?

Beware the Banderilla of Fire!

2010-03-22T13:33:00.000-07:00

Nursing my torn quadricep, I muse on how bullfighting is most similar to professional basketball. Both can be viewed as the noblest expression of a man’s soul…or as revolting spectacles involving crowds and blood!

In Spain, bullfights grew popular as a more humane entertainment than public executions. During the Inquisition, heretics were said to be “relaxed” into the arms of the Church as they burned at the stake. And with so many present to witness the deaths, who could be held responsible for the executions. Everyone? No one.

But with the Inquisition’s passing, jostling crowds were no longer able to seek entertainment at the auto-da-fé. So a ritualized drama that could replicate that horror became popular: Bull fighting! The manners in which the bull was dispatched were sometimes fantastical. (Take the banderilla of fire, a barbed harpoon loaded with lit firecrackers!)

After the matador gave the bull a final blow, the blood of the bull and whatever it represented (guilt? remorse? desire for ribs?) was symbolically washed off society’s hands. With so many present, who was really responsible for the bull’s death? Everyone. No one.

Now travel with me from the blood-soaked bull-fighting arenas of Barcelona to the blood-soaked pavilion called the Rose Garden here in Portland, Oregon. Our trusty general manager, Kevin Pritchard, may soon be fired for the heresy of choosing the oft-injured Greg Oden instead of Kevin Durant. Should this take place, Pritchard’s fate will be that of the bull: He will be relaxed into the arms of the crowd, a sacrificial symbol of failure.

Pritchard’s theoretical unemployment would thus be externalized as the fault of everyone…and no one. (But at least we will be grateful that the deed was committed without resorting to a banderilla of fire!)

Fotos from the AP, Getty Images, the Sporting News.

Philosophers Can Get You Fired

2010-03-17T09:14:00.000-07:00

My courtship with the Trail Blazers, began with an official calling me while I lay on Mallorca’s warm sands.

“Hola, Rudy? This is Tom Penn of the Portland Trail Blazers. Do you understand English?”

“Yes,” I replied, “I understand English perfectly, provided it is spoken with a Spanish accent.” This detonated a barrage of laughter and led to my joining my Portland mates.

So learning that Tom had been relieved of his duties was a surprise to me! None speak overtly of the matter. But apparently, Tom had “philosophical differences” with his colleages.

True, that is! Tom is a Socratic adherent, while most staff members are neo-Aristotleans. Further, Tom’s manners were substandard, and in the NBA, a place where courtliness is prized above all.

But in deference to Tom, I would rather have tapas at the beach without ado, than feed upon turkey at another man’s table where one is fain to sit mincing his meat an hour, and be always wiping his fingers and his chops, and never dare to sneeze or play Guitar Hero, though he has never so much a mind to it, nor do many things which a body may do freely by one’s self.

That is how Socrates rolled!

Rudy foto from I Am a Trail Blazers Fan.

In the Air Last Night

2010-03-15T11:12:00.000-07:00

How high can LaMarcus Aldridge leap? Behold!

But in matters of the air, my recent victory at the air hockey table may have been more impressive!

In Which the Spinal Columns of the Lakers Go “Pim! Pum! Pam!”

2010-03-11T18:56:00.000-08:00

When Rice Krispies are marketed in Spain, they make these sounds: “Pim! Pum! Pam!” Thus, I was surprised come to the States and be exposed to “Snap! Crackle! Pop!” Onomatopoeia is not the international language I thought it was!

Cereals aside, my mates and I will perhaps make the playoffs this seasoning. If so, our ranking ensure matches with the Lakers, Mavericks, or Nuggets. Of these, my preference is for Los Angeles, and in anticipation of our battling them, and inspired by lyricists like the anonymous Rice Krispies writer and Lord Byron, I have penned a prescient poem for this possible event. Behold:

They came down like wolves upon the fold,

These cohorts gleaming in purple and gold;

The sheen of their jerseys like stars rippling on the sea,

Oh, injustice should Ron Artest wear them triumphantly!

Like the leaves of the forest in Portland so green, 

Lakers fans in OUR pavilion —the Rose Garden— were seen. 

And like the leaves of the forest when Autumn has blown, 

Post-match, they lay withered, their team overthrown!

For Nic Batum spread his wings and rejected their blasts,

Andre Miller breathed in the faces of the foes he did pass; 

And the eyes of the Lakers waxed dead and then chill! 

And their hearts but once heaved, then forever grew still!

There lay Kobe Bryant, with his nostrils all wide, 

And through them he blows the last breaths of his pride. 

And the foam of his gasping lays white on the court, 

While Pau Gasol seeks for his Spanish passport.

And there goes Lamar Odom, with spirits now crashin’, 

Awaiting browbeatings from a nameless Kardashian! 

And the Laker fans are all silent, as they stand all alone, 

Their foam fingers unlifted, their noses unblown.

But the misguided blue and gold now grow loud in their wail, 

As we Trail Blazers revel, and Adam Morrison we impale! 

And mighty Greg Oden, who returned and smote like a sword, 

Bows deeply at half-court: Our gigantic matador, ungored!

My apologies to Adam Morrison. The magical verse overwhelmed my senses at the end!

Fotos from Reuters, Basketbawful. and Ball Don't Lie.

Bang Will Go the Dynamite...in Turkey!

2010-03-09T09:54:00.000-08:00

I have recently confirmed my participation in the World Championships in Turkey during the summer months. True, this will mean I have battled on basketball courts almost nonstop for a series of years...with the exception of time off for back surgeries.

Yet surely none fear that this wearing and tearing will tire me? Behold my youthful exuberance! As you can see, I am prepared to drive to the basket like a homing pigeon lost in the towers of Barcelona!

Or perhaps I will pass the sphere instead. Either way.

Foto from here.

Andre Miller & Elevated Perceptions

2010-03-08T16:35:00.000-08:00

Upon seeing Andre Miller sprint and deliver this transcendent hammer blow in Denver, I nearly lost touch with my senses. All of this year, practice included, I had no notion that the taciturn Stranger could achieve such dramatic heights!¡Esmaixada!

As you can see, my mates and I watched this cataclysmic event with disbelief. How can I best describe it? I was dizzied and felt I was parading up into the tower of a castillo in constricting circles until, in the center, I finally looked up to gaze at the heavens…and instead of the heavenly firmament, saw this majestic figure instead!

Do You Think I Can Be Stopped?

2010-03-05T16:47:00.000-08:00

The coaches often intone that "Defense starts with stops"!

While I ponder that Zen koan, observe how I mince the meat of this credible defender. His stops never start...and then ¡Pum!

The Rattle of Plastic Sabers

2010-03-04T15:47:00.000-08:00

I am of the hope that you have some quantities of hazel-nuts on your person, because I have a largish scoop! Our match against the Indiana Pacers revealed that Josh McRoberts rattles a plastic saber on the court. You see, after my drainage of a tres, McRoberts took exception and berated me. My response for my irascible former mate?

A smile.

For I knew a reason for McRoberts' antipathy: Grooming jealousy! It has always been thus between us. You see, upon entering an NBA locker chamber, an anthology of body odors assails one's nose. And yet even in this pungent atmosphere, when McRoberts was a Trail Blazer, he still somehow made his presence known!

Not to trumpet my own horn, but my grooming is impeccable. Bearing witness, note the image above. Although I am in motion, see how my hair is in perfect disarray? Contrast this with Mike Dunleavy's flailing moppiness!
Further, note the awed looks on the coaches behind me. They cannot help themselves, although they already know the secret origin of my savoir faire: Prudently chosen gels and a large pre-match glass of leche!

Of course, one can not relax post-match...behold:

Rudy foto from the Oregonian.

Uno a Uno

2010-03-02T10:17:00.000-08:00

Before our recent match in Memphis, Marc Gasol approached me with a sly smile. “Rudy!” he cried. “Do you know the difference between a man and a woman?”

Perplexed, I answered, “I can’t conceive!”

Marc’s jaw dropped. He said, “I can not match your wit, El Machetero! I was going to say ‘Only a man can survive in Memphis,’ but I retract this punching line.”

A wise decision, my friend! It smacked of the weak sauce. And smackings of weak sauce should be avoided at all costs, as this defender of Yao Ming ascertained!

Although manliness on Mallorca was often defined by all-night flamenco dancing contests and knife fights, the truth is this: All that I needed to learn about toughness on the parquets comes from the cinematic epic Uno a Uno... starring Robby Benson as a character not unlike myself! While we players suffer misfortunes, so too do our fans...like this unlucky fellow in Memphis, who was chosen from the crowdings to attempt a dunk from a trampoline!

Fotos from the Oregonian and SI Vault.

Triple Doubles and the Doubly Affirmed

2010-02-27T21:45:00.000-08:00

In this evening's match, Nic Batum enjoyed a flirtation with a triple-double, with his 31 puntos, 7 rebounds, and 7 assists. Well done, mi amigo! But while the triple-double is a benchmark that bench players rarely achieve, I sometimes wonder over its linguistic counterpart, the triple-negative.

Rasheed Wallace is the only player to my awareness who has a triple-negative this season. When asked whether he would stop leading the NBA in technical ecstasies, Wallace responded, “I ain’t changing nothing for nobody.”

When I inquired of Dante Cunningham if this means Rasheed WOULD change his ways, Dante looked at me quizzically and said, “Yeah, right.” Yet this leaves me none the wiser!

Further, this suggests that a triple-negative is STILL a negative, yet a double-affirmative (e.g. “Yeah, right”) ALSO seems to be a negative?

Sometimes I despair of learning this wretched tongue!

Post the Game: Toronto!

2010-02-25T16:01:00.000-08:00

On Entertaining Offers and Aiming High

2010-02-24T10:48:00.000-08:00

Should a marksman fire a bullet at a perfect vertical angle into the air, the shooter need not fear being wounded. For as the bullet ascends and falls, the earth moves beneath it! This planetary rotation ensures the person’s safety.

Now imagine a three-point shooter lofting a shot. The ball climbs upward, until it is apexing. At that moment, if the ball had eyes, it would have a fine perspective! In fact, the ball might spy me languishing on the bench. And as the earth rotates, the ball either falls through the net or caroms off the rim...but either way, I will be shielded from getting the rebound because I am not IN the match.

This keeps me safe from the injuries that plague our team, yet I am still wounded...by my dearth of minutes!

Finally, consider the Russian ice-skating duo of Oksana Domnina and Maxim Shabalin. (Many NBA players —por ejemplo, Rajon Rondo— are enthusiasts of the skating.) When the Russians were derided for offending aborigines with the first version of their ice-dancing routine (top), they were undeterred. Why? The duo loves the ice-dance! So the pair re-tooled an utterly different ice-dancing routine which they unveiled to great adulation (below).

I understand the travails these dancers experienced, and like them, I too love to please the crowd and participate in my sport (though mine, sadly, does not allow the flinging of roses!).

This is a lengthy explanation of why, when Real Madrid offered me parquet time, I did not make a ruling against it. Why should I? Though Portland is a paradise, if I can obtain more game-times in Madrid, should I not entertain the thought... even as Oksana and Maxim entertain the world? Further, isn't an attitude of nonculpability essential to a talented player?

This I know: If I aim high, I will always be safe. That is science for you!

Rajon Rondo foto from SI Vault.

Lamar Odom's Astronomical Wisdom Salvages the Day

2010-02-20T10:44:00.000-08:00

No matches are good or bad until thinking makes them so. Thus, I could look at my woeful performance in our defeat against the Celtics last evening as a travesty. I could gaze in the mirror and proclaim myself a Pharisee, a poseur, or a wingless beetle. But to what end?

Or one could take a happier look at the competition and say, "In our match last night, we Blazers placed second and the Celtics were next to last."

But let us take the spin off the ball. Driving against the Boston Celtics is like running through a forest of cacti. And as one pauses to pluck needles from one’s brow, their offensive campaign has already begun: Ray Allen emulating naval artillery and lofting distant bombs or Rajon Rondo attacking at close range with bayonets.

As for me, I attempted to unleash La Bomba on two occasions, but was twice called for offending transgressions. My only solace is in wishing Sergio Rodriguez good fortune with his new team, the New York Knicks. (Under other circumstances, I might jest about El Chacho in the Big Apple, but not this day.)

Wait— there is one thing that can cheer me: The knowledge that Lamar Odom thinks that the planet Saturn is closer to the Earth than the Moon!

Foto from here.

On the Importance of Calling Shotgun

2010-02-17T17:33:00.000-08:00

Foto by Brittany Davidson.

Brandon Roy's Advisement (and a Veiled Lamentation)

2010-02-17T11:01:00.000-08:00

A note to Brandon: Three priorities was drummed into my brainpan early on in life: Never skip your siesta. Never play at cards with a gentleman who has the same first name as a Croatian city. And NEVER test your tendón de la corva (or “hamstring”) until it is fully recovered.

This puts me in mind of a recent locker chamber conversation. Steve Blake threw his towel to the ground after an exasperating defeat and uttered a cri de cœur: “If we just had a big man in the middle!”

“Yeah,” said Brandon Roy, “and if we had some cheese, we could have some ham-and-cheese sandwiches.”

“If we had some ham,” rejoined Travis Outlaw with a sad laugh.

“Ah, but I have some very fine ham, my friends!” I exclaimed. I then explained to them the charms of Jose Calderon’s angel pigs. But either my mates spoke in an idiom or they can not understand pork's potential for uncanny deliciousness.

But now my mates and I are in a new circumstance. With Marcus Camby’s arrival, we have plugged the "big man" gap, and are now up to the requisite quota for tattoos of Chinese characters. But with both Steve Blake and Travis Outlaw now gone, this old Mallorcan folk tale repeats in my mind:

Three fast friends find themselves stranded on a Mediterranean island when a bottle washes up on the shore. One of the men uncorks the bottle, a genie appears and offers each a wish.

The first man wishes he were in Madrid. The genie snaps his fingers, and the man instantly disappears.

The second man wishes he were in Barcelona for a vacation, and at a snap of the genie’s fingers, he too vanishes.

The third man, now alone on the island, looks around and says, “I wish my friends were back.”

Fotos from the Oregonian and BlazersEdge.

The Challenges Fashionable Players Face

2010-02-16T09:38:00.000-08:00

From here.

Why a Machine Can Never Be a Trail Blazer

2010-02-15T09:46:00.000-08:00

In response to the most alarming word that my team may obtain —however briefly— Sasha “the Machine” Vujacic, I must protest! In addition to our existing battle for the mantle of European flair, you have heard of "arms escalations"? This trading would result in a similarity: comely-women-on-arms escalations. You see, Sasha has a relationship with Maria Sharapova, while I am entwined with the most radiant Cristina.

You can see the difficulties…on court, our facial stubblings would duel. Off-court, our romantic partners would engage in a blood feud of continental proportions!

In other news of violence, words of Juwan Howard’s motivational speech has leaked like the melted ice from the coolers which he kicked and threw around the team locker-room. As such, I will take the liberties of sharing his words with you here. Following is an audio recording; commence listening at 1:00 for the grand finale!

Adición: My apologies, the audio is transposed with that of New Brunswick legislator Abel LeBlanc, who gave a rival politician a most pernicious finger, then challenged the entire Parliament to fisticuffs. But Juwan's message was essentially the same! (Further, my message to the Machine coincides with LeBlanc's final three words. ¡PUM!)

The Play's the Thing

2010-02-13T10:26:00.000-08:00

Behold, the playwrighting magic of Tristan Bernard, author of the globe’s shortest play: The Exile.

The curtain rises on a mountaineer in a remote cabin. An exile knocks on the door.

EXILE: Whoever you are, have pity on a hunted man. There is a price on my head.

MOUNTAINEER: How much?

The curtain falls.

Thus pathos is born in the time it takes to inbound the ball! But does the message of this pithy masterpiece speak to you as it does me? In my case, I confess the swirling rumors of my presence on the trading block give me pause as to whether a curtain will be falling in Portland sometime soon!

Dante Cunningham vs. Dolph Lundgren: A Cagey Match!

2010-02-11T09:32:00.000-08:00

In our last match in Phoenix, Dante Cunningham showed that while he may not be a one-man show, he is a very fine one!

But if it is genuine entertainment you seek, even Dante cannot overcome this remarkable performance by Renaissance man Dolph Lundgren. Behold the Swedish action-figure as he sings, dances, plays a drum solo, destroys wood and ice, and blows the minds of all those in attendance! (Commence viewing at 1:00.)

(A confession...it was only upon the second

listening that I realized Dolph was not singing

in Swedish!)

On Buffness

2010-02-10T08:31:00.001-08:00

Checking into last evening’s debacle against the Oklahoma City Thunder, I found myself standing next to the rangy form of Kevin Durant. The quiet and mannerly player gave me a sidelong glance and said, “Dang Rudy, you’re buff.”

Surprised, I answered, “I shower twice daily, and this process includes exfoliation, defoliation, and deforestation. But while I sometimes take on a healthy sheen, I have never described myself as being ‘buffed.’”

With a quizzical chuckle, Durant responded, “Now you’re messin’ with me? Touché!” (He then proceeded to rain down points on us in a most genteel manner.)

Why North America Needs ¡Olé!

2010-02-05T21:12:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-02T15:55:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-01T21:31:00.001-08:00

Shellings from Afar

2010-02-01T09:47:00.001-08:00

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!

2010-01-31T17:39:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-29T16:07:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-28T08:20:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-25T21:59:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-21T08:46:00.000-08:00

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!