Off the Record

Today I showed the Spanish people the true American in me. In congratulating them for last night’s ultimate win and series sweep, I wore my Cardinals t-shirt (circa 1982) to the bar I frequent in the evenings. I’m sure no one knew what the hell a red shirt with a white scribble on it meant, but, if someone had said something to me, they would have promptly received a kiss, a handshake, a slap on the ass and a high-five. All in that order. I have watched several professional sports games since arriving in España, and the one that struck me the most was basketball. Why do the Spanish play basketball? Shouldn’t they be chasing bulls or throwing tomatoes or flamenco dancing or producing crazy artists? They’re short. And they’re short-tempered. They’re not fit to play basketball. Unless it’s against the Serbs, who suffered greatly in their loss to the gazpacho heads on Sunday. As mentioned in an earlier post, the fans of these sports are there only to watch the games or matches–not for the Build-A-Bears or the virtual reality games or the food or drink or gift shops or socialization. It’s really a beautiful thing. As is a Cardinals win.