Wunderluster

Take a deep breath; I made it through my first practice. The guys responded to me pretty well. I made some points that were well received. Who could ask for more, really? While there little vestiges of my fears (i.e., skeptical, surly veterans) for the most part, most of the guys were happy to have me. It even went so well that some of the players who are going to be around Dunedin during the Christmas asked me to come in and work with them. I was down-right flattered.

Now, the hardest part of this whole night was the opening speech I gave. I was torn as to how I would introduce myself. I’ve been involved in basketball since a young age. Players, much like werewolves, can smell fear. So, my first inclination would be to be as short and as sweet as I could; show no emotion. But that’s not me. I’m emotive. I’m secure and insecure. I’m dynamic and severely lacking. But someone once told me that it would be better to not unleash myself on the first date. Hell, even my mom coined the phrase that will serve as my epitaph: “Zach, you’re a difficult person to know.” To know! My mom said that.

But I couldn’t go too hard to on the self-deprecation. So, the goal was to ingratiate, not perform a self-vascetomy. It worked. I think.

It raises an interesting issue both Monica and I have been facing since we’ve been here: the American Double Standard. The first part of this catch-22 is that we’ve been, at times, received tepidly because of the fetid stench our “Ugly-Americanism.” Maybe it’s deserved. I’m outgoing. I’m looking to conquer, although as politely as I can. But that’s not to say that I won’t share or learn. I mean, my God, all I want to do here is learn. TANGENT ALERT. So, I’ll reel myself back in here.

On my first day of work for the Otago Nuggets, a top coach pulled me over for a chat and mentioned the word “Sepo.”

“You might hear this word, Sepo, Zach,” this middle-aged Maori woman said. “And that word is an Australian term for Americans which is short for septic tank, which means that you Americans are full of shit.”

Yikes.

Her eyes narrowed before she explained that she and the basketball team had been burned by Americans in the past. We’re all sparkle and no substance, apparently. We talk a big game. Make a lot of promises. Use the situation for our benefit. Shag the place and leave it worse off than we found it. (Oh, what a perfect metaphor for my romantic life!)

 That’s not totally untrue, I suppose. The long and short of it from her was that I had extra to prove as I’ll be received with a healthy skepticism.

So, fuck you to the following that have ruined it for Americans: G.W. Bush, Hollywood, Paris Hilton, every politician ever except Barack Hussein Obama (Obama 2008), Roger Ailes, Rupert Murdoch, Latrell Sprewell, Michael Vick and Eddie Vedder.

The other part of this double-standard is the (maybe) unfair respect Monica and I get. There’s definitely an assumption that because I come from the U.S. I have some super-advanced knowledge of basketball. As if Jesus had appointed me Apostle of Hoops. People have deferred to me in certain theoretical arguments for which I know my opinions are perhaps well-thought out, but certainly flimsy. This is not for my Eastern European good looks or embarrassingly interesting body-hair pattern, but instead because I have the slightest East Coast accent and a few Boston Celtics t-shirts.

Name dropping the Boston Globe has helped. Name dropping California helps, too. And, yes, I probably do have a lot of good things to impart to these people. But should they be receptive? Would I be receptive if a random Kiwi came to Boston and started to chat me up about how “they ball in Te Anau”? Nope.

So, respect and derision are fighting a battle for my livelihood in New Zealand. This, of course, isn’t just a New Zealand thing. All over the world Americans have to prove their worth because of years of political missteps and heroic (and eventually) commercial world-saving.

In Japan for example, when American baseball imports are introduced at those zoo press conferences, their jersey is handed over with a number that represents how many home runs they’re expected to hit in the upcoming season. Many of the best home run hitters of all-time admit that hitting a homer is an almost random event. You can’t call your shots. (Quiet, Babe).

However, in the twisted psyche of the Japanese baseball collective, the belief exists that since Americans have created baseball, they should dominate the game in Japan. But of course, should the American not reach those lofty, and often times impossible standards, the negative Nipponese take immense joy in watching the failure as both an affirmation of the quality of Japanese game and yet another reminder about how Yanks promise a lot, but are just a load of shit.

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When it’s been a while between meetings with my grandfather, he’ll give me a look-over and quip “Zachary, I didn’t know they stacked shit that high.”

Here’s hoping I don’t hear that sort of respect and derision until I step off the plane again at Boston Logan Airport.