Grazing in the Grass

As a frequent watcher of sports, I hear the words unbelievable and miracle a lot. This is despite the fact that because the event is being viewed, recorded, and rebroadcast multiple times, I do, in fact, believe an even has occurred. And, while a team performance or individual moment might be outstanding, I don’t put it on par with paintings of the Madonna weeping.

A word that I am not having much problem with is “surreal.” I am not a huge fan of surrealism, as Dali and the like never evoked anything in me. However, if the word only means that it has a dream like quality, how can I judge that? I don’t know what other people dream. I don’t remember my own dreams most of the time.

I remember one day in high school, Dave telling me that he and Gruve were at a lacrosse practice. He said that in the field next to him, there were a bunch of men from India. They were playing cricket. They were smoking cigarettes. And they were cranking Hank Williams, Jr. as loud as it could go. Dave told me it was surreal. I always assumed the surreal part was that guys from India like listening to Bocephus.

We are less than a fortnight since the World Cup of Cricket. I don’t think that got a lot of play here. However, my wife and I were on the continent and only received one or two channels in English. BBC or Skynews or Euronews or CNN International touch on sports, occasionally. By sports, I mean soccer or Grand Prix auto racing. The entire time we were in Europe, the only mention of anything related to the United States was when an international runner announced he was injured and would not run in the London or Boston marathon. However, even soccer was pushed from the headlines because of the World Cup.

On the day of the finals, Julie and I were outside of Zurich. We were sitting on a deck at a pub that, as is common, couldn’t accept a U.S. credit card. If you don’t have a chip in your card, it has to be swiped. A lot of places don’t like paying extra for that machine, especially if they don’t pander to American tourists.

I was drinking a Coca Cola. Julie had a Carlsberg. The motorcycle enthusiasts beside us were smoking cigarettes. The Asian family on the other side of us was laughing and throwing watermelon rinds into the otherwise pristine river running beside us. The world cup was showing on a television inside, and despite the fact that no one spoke English, we kept hearing cries of “That’s good!” from the Indian patrons during their time at bat. It qualified as surreal. You know why?

My glass had seven or eight cubes of ice in it. That is truly dream like. This is the first time I have been Europe and not only been given ice without request, it was not just a singular die sized piece of ice. Plus, the bottle of Coke was frosty cold. It was a refreshing moment.

Also refreshing was the basketball game I watched as we settled in for the night in Paris. During the trip, there was a betting house that showed sports and let you wager on them. I told Julie that after a week of no sports, I would gladly watch a Minnesota Timberwolves game against the Cleveland Cavaliers. This was better.

It turns out that San Antonio Spurs guard Tony Parker owns partial interest in a French league team, ASVEL Lyon-Villeurbanne. ASVEL Basket was playing Le Mans. Because my wife is from San Antonio, we took a rooting interest in Parker’s team. At one point, ASVEL had three Americans on the court, USC’s Davon Jefferson, Clemson’s Cliff Hammonds, and Florida’s Matt Walsh. Walsh, incidentally, could not be stopped. He can shoot the ball.

But most of my time was spent watching former Dallas Maverick Pops Mensah-Bonsu. Does anyone remember that the Mavericks D-League team played in Fort Worth? Pops was on that team. Why didn’t I go see the Fort Worth Flyers play? Why wasn’t I a season ticket holder? Does anyone realize that Pops played professional basketball in Fort Worth, Dallas, Austin, San Antonio, and Houston?

Now that is what I call “surreal.”