The New Flatmate

We welcomed a new addition to our flat on Friday...a basketball. After talking it over with Pat and Alex, as well as mentioning it to a few other expat friends, I finally picked up an outdoor ball to unite us in our conquest of central European pick-up games.

After a night spent in debating about top movies, movie stars, movie heroes and villains, and the various other AFI lists, Lindsey and I settled in to watch "Rear Window". It was Lindsey's first viewing, and my twentieth or so. Even still, I get a little jumpy during it.

That morning, Alex and I went out to try the new ball at the school sports grounds around the corner. We started off trying to share the cramped court with some locals who were playing some 1-on-1, but that soon turned into a 2-on-2 game: us versus them. Having not seen them play before, I was unsure of what to expect. In my basketball experience, my humbling basketball experience, I've come to terms with the fact that I'm a low-level scrapper who is inconsistently inconsistent. Yet after playing these kids with Alex and running the score up to 7-0 before they hit the backboard and 10-0 before they even hit the rim (credit our defense and their nontraditional offense) I came to realize that on the playgrounds here, I'm not terrible.

The big difference between playing ball here and playing in the states (aside from the lack of talent) is the fact that most of the players I play with in Michigan (and again in Florida) have sound fundamental skills. They don't dribble without any idea which way they're going. They know how to pump fake without actually throwing up a shot, and they know how to pass in a way that doesn't look as if they're trying to join the And1 tour with everything they do. Fundamentals did not exist in our competitors' repertoires. Instead, they crossed-over, spun, went through their legs and behind their back while we stood back and a.) waited for them to actually do something and b.) tried not to laugh. It felt as if somebody showed some old Harlem Globetrotter videos to a group of asthmatic mathletes and then set them loose.

Before too long, we took mercy on them and switched up the teams, leading to some hilariously acrobatic (I say acrobatic, but really, there was very little coordination involved. I think awkward would work better. Awkward with a running start) hurls at the basket from our Czech teammates.

Their friend, who didn't know how to play basketball, was sitting on the sidelines listening to music. Apparently he had some mini-speakers with him, which he used to mildly amplify some rap music which he felt inclined to rap along to. If you thought that suburbanites rocking along to gansta rap was ridiculous, try watching Czech kids. It's pricelessly hysterical.

When our friends grew tired of basketball, they invited us to the soccer field, and the competition was much more even. The scales were actually tipped in their favor for most of it. Lousy kids.

Lindsey and I went out to dinner at a nearby Italian place. We went there several times in our first Prague experience, and were completely enamored. Yet in our absence, it seems to have changed hands or something, and the pasta is not quite as exquisite, and the pizza doesn't have the same zest. It seems reflected in its constant emptiness.

We then met up with Liz and Alex to see "Burn After Reading" which, like most Coen Brothers movies, I'd probably need to see again to fully make up my mind on it. That said, I was leaning towards liking it when we left. Leaning strongly.

We met up for a few drinks with our Vinohrady friends Todd and Lisa who were joined by Pat Buckle. We tried to go to a Homer Simpson themed bar, but since it closed early (at 11) we were forced to go to a cat themed bar. I would have preferred Homers, but sometimes you just have to resort to cats. That's a life lesson. Write that down.