The Basketball Diaries

Basketball. It used to be my life force, my essence. It was all that I was. I believed the world revolved around Chapel Hill and the sun rose and set simply because Dean Smith drew up a play to make it happen. I would go to UNC or die trying. I had heard something about it being a top public university or something like that, but there was no need to be bogged down in trifling details such as these. I wanted to be in Blue Heaven.

I wanted to be a great player, too, but the Lowe/Gentry genes aren't exactly designed for superior court skills. I remember when I made the freshman team at North Surry, my uncle Ronnie asked me, "What position do you play, middle linebacker?" After that self-esteem boost, I went on to average 1 point a game over a 10 game season. I matched the feat the following year as the 12th man on a 12-man JV squad. The problem was, I still only scored 10 points, but it was over 20 games (that's 1/2 a point a game for those of you scoring at home ... mostly coming during 30-point blowout wins). But, I drew an occasional charge and inexplicably blew Bryan King a kiss at West Iredell after he hit me on a no look pass on a give and go. I'm pretty sure there are still 40 year old men in west Statesville making fun of the "fag" who blew a kiss to that other guy, but hey ... I was excited just to be playing. I could jump -- though there is no video footage of it, I did actually slam a volleyball on a 10 foot goal in the NSHS field house. It was the dribbling and shooting that I struggled with. Sure, many would argue these are necessary skills, but again, I tend to overlook the trifling details, remember?

My interest as a player sort of waned after two straight knee injuries sidelined me for my sophomore and junior baseball seasons. Playing both sports was taking its toil on my middle linebacker build. But, the love of the game was still there. I have so many memories associated with the game. I remember my dad hitting his head on our 12 foot cathedral ceiling when Lorenzo Charles slammed home Dereck Whittenburg's airball to beat Phi Slamma Jamma in 1983. On that day, it was actually okay for Tar Heels to pull for the Pack (at least if they were 10 years old).



I remember running up and down our hallway (subconsciously channeling Jim Valvano looking for a hug, I guess) after Rick Fox hit a baseline jumper at the buzzer to upset then No. 1 Oklahoma as an 8 seed in 1990 - a team many said shouldn't have even made the tournament.



 I remember braving the rain to celebrate the 1993 championship as a student after watching it in Carmichael ...

... storming the court after the blood game against dook ... 

... and the 21-point comeback against Florida State in the second half.


I remember seeing Vince Carter jump out of the gym against Virginia Tech during my sports writing days, and my mom still has the autographed Antawn Jamison photo I used as a Mother's Day card in 1998 (for the record, it was Antawn's idea). Yes, he really is that nice in person.

After that, it gets a little blurry. I still remember being very excited with the national championship wins in 2005 and 2009, but basketball started taking a backseat to football in my world. I guess it was the hope Mack Brown instilled in me before hooking his Horns. Maybe it was the excitement Butch Davis created before the witch hunt led to his demise to save the skin of the higher ups (for the record, the higher ups are all gone now, too). Most likely, it was because my hero stepped down after 879 wins. It just didn't seem to be the same without Coach Smith. For some reason though, and maybe it's because the football team now gives up more points per game defensively than the basketball team, I'm having a little glimmer of love again for the sport I had forsaken.

I really like this UNC basketball team. Ol Roy's team is making me feel a little nostalgia for the Coach Smith days. Sure it's not the best shooting team we've ever produced, and there have been the inexplicable letdowns against Butler and Iowa, but there's a little spark in this team that takes me back to the days where I couldn't sleep the night before a big game, and cried for days when teams like Georgia or Ohio State (or Weber State, but I digress) inexplicably knocked the mighty Heels out of the tournament before it was a dance. I see a little of George Lynch's quiet moxie in this team; a bit of Steve Hale grittiness and maybe even a bit of Kenny Smith smooth in that left handed kid from Iowa.

Maybe its the fact I have to get up at 4 in the morning to watch games live now (or the fact I actually do it), or maybe it's coaching the sport for the first time in my life. But, for whatever reason, a little of that basketball fire is rekindling in my belly. I may have been the 12th man on a 12-man team, and I'm pretty sure I'm the only 5 foot, 8 and 3/4 inch post player in the history of high school basketball, but I do know the game. I'm slowly starting to remember the grace of the game, the pace of the game, the lessons the game teaches and the agony that can come when the other team's plan works a bit better than yours. I'm charged with teaching 8th graders the nuances of a game that can be gratifying or humbling in the blink of an eye. I'm blessed that I was part of a great coach's system in Ron King, and doubly blessed to understand the things Coach Smith brought to the arena every night. I can't match him in Xs and Os, but I can take the life lessons he instilled -- selflessness, humbleness, respect for the opponent, life and the game itself -- and I can pass it on to another generation a world away from Coach Smith in his latter days.

So, I'm now left with the challenge of figuring out how to watch the rest of the season 13 hours ahead of you 'Muricans back on Tobacco Road, but where there's a will there's a way; where's there's a back pick, there's an alley-oop slam; where's there's a point guard silly enough to pick up his dribble in the corner, there's a double team to make him pay. That's the Dean Smith way, and now that I'm seeing the style of play created by the man return to the floor named for him, I will figure it out.

And I plan to enjoy every last second of it even if I don't sleep the next three months and all my students have to watch videos and do worksheets during the NCAA tournament*.

* If anyone from the administration of Mont' Kiara International School is reading this blog, I am SURELY just writing this sentence for comedic effect and would NEVER sacrifice the educational opportunities of my students for some silly game (Do you think they bought it?)

Holly Jolly Malaysian Christmas

Happy New Year to everyone! My New Year's resolution is to get my readership back up. The people have spoken! Quit with all that "What the world needs now" blah-de-blah-blah and tell me funny stories about living somewhere besides 'Muricah! If that last sentence speaks to you, you will enjoy this segment of MayberrytoMalaysia!

Our story begins with a quick jaunt to the Malaysian highlands -- you basically have two choices if you're hanging out in Kuala Lumpur. You can go the Cameron Highlands and look at strawberries, or you can go to the Genting Highlands -- casinos, Chinese food, golf and chilly 55 degree nights. Now, those of you who know me know my special affinity for Las Vegas -- the place God created to prove he created the heavens, the Earth and pure-T capitalism! He let Satan throw in a little Hedonism for fun, but what happens in Vegas stays, right? You've seen the commercials. So, it should be pretty clear to where we headed come December 23rd (the fact that the Cameron Highlands was one big mudslide never came into the equation, I swear).

Now, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, but what I'm about to share with you is an open door to all things Genting Highlands! That's right ... a sorrid tale of wretched, unbridled holiday debauchery. Well, as much as you can have in a Muslim country, with strict Casino regulations and a 12 and 9 year old in tow. First off, you've got to get to the Highlands. That's where our buddy Asir comes in. Asir, our driver of choice. He's been there with us through thick and thin, taking the Gringo Griswolds wherever they have needed to go over the last six months. Maybe it is his love of our witty banter, that twinkling of our eyes, or maybe it is simply because we pay him to do it, but either way Asir is always there to deliver. The Genting Highlands are about 45 minutes outside of town. The first 30 minutes are pretty uneventful, but when you get to the exit, you start the ascent. If you get motion sickness in a car, you might want to stop reading now.

For the folks in Surry County who have traveled to Shatley Springs for a huge Ashe County breakfast, you know what I mean. You ate about three too many buttermilk biscuits and gravy, a little over half a pound of bacon on your own, and the family decides to take the scenic route home. There's nothing like the smell of hash brown grease from your shirt and pumped brakes squealing in agony as you take the gut-wrenching turns trying not to barf up corned beef hash and fried eggs. Now, take that experience and realize this -- that's like driving through the flatest flight of Kansas compared to the road heading up and down the Genting Highlands. Winding up the rain soaked asphalt, Asir desperately tried to find a gear lower than 1st to climb the mountaintop curve (after curve, after curve, after curve). Finally, as Asir's transmission groaned in relief, we pulled into the Awana Golf Resort. Here's the view they show on their website:

Gorgeous, right? 

Here is the view we had for the first two days instead:

#Christmasinacloud

But, hey, we didn't come to sit in a hotel room, and it was a blessing in disguise. Sure, with zero visibility the golfing adventure was off, but that's 8-to-10 golf balls I wouldn't have to replace until much later! Plus, the casino was calling. That's right ... finally a chance to eradicate memories of my last trip to Vegas where Lady Luck was on strike, leaving me on my own. I would send the wife and kiddies to see the Hobbit movie, get reacquainted with Lady Luck and leave the Highlands begging for mercy (and all their money back). With that, we loaded up on the complementary shuttle and headed to First World Resort and Casino! It was at this point we quickly started to realize that we were the only Gringos around ... typically there's an occasional Eastern European, a smattering of Kiwis and/or Aussies and even a Canadian or two around. But, during this holiday, we realized that Santa Claus was the only other White dude that would be hanging in the Highlands on Christmas Eve.

Going up the mountain in the fog at midday was about like riding Space Mountain at Disney World. You just kind of hoped the cart didn't go off the rails because you had no friggin' clue when the next big curve would be. Occasionally we could make out the outline of a building, but we were flying blind on hairpin turns en route to rings, dwarfs and winner, winner chicken curry dinners!

After a non-tariffed spending spree at the Nike Direct Factory Outlet (two pair of Chinese produced shoes, some Chinese-produced golf shorts and a Chinese-produced t-shirt for about $160 total), the other three scurried off to see Bilbo and Gollum for the SIXTH time (really, Pete Jackson ... really?), and I headed for the Floor. There was a rumor circulating that you cannot wear shorts in the casino -- something I decided I would will to be not true. And, fate was on my side. The guard said, "short pants fine" ... success! But then, he uttered a confusing conglomeration of words that would adjust the tilt of my gambling world. "Need shoes though." WHAT? This is flippin' Southeast Asia! The only thing you see more than flip flops and sandals in this country are rice and noodles. The flip flop is the national shoe of Malaysia. And, they were expensive flip flops (well, they weren't the $2 Old Navy model anyway). This was a turn I did not anticipate, but I had a date with the odds, an interlude with financial success. The cards had my name written all over them. The only thing standing in my way was the only known 2,000 square feet of Asia that disallows sandals. My mission would take a quick 10 minute detour -- I needed shoes.

The next segment of this award-winning blog (as awarded by Blog Magazine) can best be told in the style of Remy Charlip's children's best seller, "Fortunately" as seen below:

I was just missing a Cousin Eddie to make this a better Griswold holiday. 

If you haven't read the book, you'll get the gist pretty quickly ...

UNFORTUNATELY, I needed shoes to gamble in the casino. 

FORTUNATELY,  Ethan had just bought a new pair of Nike skate shoes and we wear the same size.

UNFORTUNATELY, the movie had already started. 

FORTUNATELY,  Jill ignored movie etiquette and answered my text anyway.

UNFORTUNATELY, Ethan's shoes were inexplicably way too small for me even though we wear the same size. 

FORTUNATELY, there were plenty of other retailers readily accepting money for shoes nearby. 

UNFORTUNATELY, none of these retailers had affordable shoes that I would wear outside that casino. 

FORTUNATELY,  I stumbled across some Levi's casual shoes that were red, white and blue (and those colors don't run!) and on sale!

FORTUNATELY, I now had the prerequisite shoes and was ready to gamble. 

UNFORTUNATELY, the guard looked at me and said, "No bags in the casino."

FORTUNATELY, there was a trashcan nearby and I stuffed the box and bag away.

UNFORTUNATELY, I still had the non-Old Navy flip flops with me, and I had to carry them. 

FORTUNATELY, the guy felt sorry for me and let me go in anyway. 

UNFORTUNATELY, the security guard inside was not as friendly and told me I had to go rent a locker. 

I feel at this point I should clarify a few things. First, I'm not making any of this up, and secondly, I'm now about 45 minutes into my gambling time. Jill made it abundantly clear that Baby Jesus' Birthday and Birthday eve were not appropriate days to gamble, and my argument that he was actually born March 3rd fell on deaf ears (for the record, I will NOT be gambling on March 3rd on principle alone). So, that meant I had roughly 2 hours left -- assuming the Malaysian government didn't edit the 3 hour plus movie down to about 1:45 which is very possible. You saw Wolf of Wall Street? About an 18 minute movie over here.

Malay Censors are tricksie tricksies!!

No problem I says to myself (Schmiegel likes the fatty guard lady) -- I'll just drop another 10 Ringitt or so on a locker, come back and pay for our getaway in about 5 precisely played blackjack hands, and catch up with the family for celebratory fried bananas. She told me to go off the Floor (that I worked so hard to get on in the first place), take a right and it would take me right to the lockers. So, I set off in my newly acquired patriotic Levi casuals, moderately priced flops in hand and trekked to the lockers ... or so I thought.

Directions in Malaysia are about like everything else -- you hear what you are being told, but you have no idea what is being said. So, I took a right, and just kept going right. I walked, and walked, and walked and walked ... to the point that my Star-Spangled slippers were now my most broken-in pair of shoes. I'm pretty sure I crossed over into Thailand at some point -- not clear if maybe it was Cambodia (we call this Nixonitis back in the states ... it's hard to tell where one border starts and another ends in the world of casinos and illegal bombings).

Now, there is a very important rule about Vegas casinos -- one that I actually told the boys when we meandered into the First World Casino that day. It's important you case out the joint on the first day -- where are the best tables, the closest toilets, the cheapest place to get a snack when you are coming off a dizzying winning streak. I realized I was doing this -- I pretty much combed the entire four hotel complex. I saw every toilet, every snack shack, coffee bar, video arcade and most importantly, all FIVE Baskins Robbins (31 Flavors) in the entire complex. What did I not see as I kept bearing right? That's right -- rental lockers. I could have gotten Tutti-Fruitti, Rocky Road, Salted Caramel Chocolate, Orange Sherbet and a banana split from five different vendors, but I couldn't drop my flippin' flops off anywhere.

The only thing standing between me and financial bliss!

It became pretty clear at this point (the point where I couldn't go right anymore without falling off the mountain) that I had overlooked the locker somehow. So, I did what anyone else would do -- I decided to go onto another casino floor, slip the flips into my back pocket, and no one would be any wiser. I mean, the first casino option was only one of four, right? With all the money I stood to make, I would pay someone to walk the flip-flops around for me, feed them, tell them a bedside story by Remy Charlip and return them in the morning. So, I stepped into the Maxis Casino and quickly was turned away by yet another security guard. Racial profiling? Possibly ... before cracking out a #whitegamblersmatter t-shirt though, I realized this was the ritzy high roller Floor and was members only. I started back to my original point, using all the BK31s as my landmarks and ended up back at the movie theatre. Time consumed at this point? About an hour and 30 minutes. Precious table time and I was desperate. So, I took matters into my own hands. I hid the flops behind a huge Ben Stiller cutout and made a mad dash to the casino. I quickly texted Jill (who continued to ignore movie protocol) and asked her to go get them between Orc bashings.

Honestly! Turn off your phone, lady! We're on a 3-movie adventure here! Sheesh!

Now, it was time. Well worn Levi shoes and a heel blister in place, I now was ready to wipe the Floor clean with my North American gambling skills. I meandered past the security guard at the door with a wink, head nodded to locker-needin' lady, and I went in search of a 25 Ringitt blackjack table. Only Randy on The Christmas Story had endured more to get ready to head out on a winter's day. But it was to be worth it.

Oddly enough, I could find no blackjack tables. The stench of imported Marlboro smoke swirled about the horizon of seasoned Chinese gambling pros. They surrounded the electronic roulette machine, served as Terra Cotta warriors lined around the craps tables, but none were to be found doubling down against a Dealer 16. No problem, I thought. I would just find a one-armed bandit and make my fortune the way any other 85-year-old Haymount County woman would do at Harrah's in Cherokee. Not my weapon of choice, but the victim would be the same. I put 50 Ringitt into a 5 cent machine (chosen because it had a manual arm -- a throwback to when Frank, Dean and Sammy, Jr., ruled the Vegas strip). Within a mere eight minutes I had tripled my money on two triple/double hits. I was the Vince Carter of the Asian slot machine circuit.  I quickly cashed out to take house money to the tables. I had followed this formula so many times before in the Nevada desert. Destiny called!

USA! USA! USA!

It was such a huge payout (the equivalency of about $50 USD) an attendant had to come verify the receipt. I knew he would be amazed. I readied my sharpie anticipating the autograph request and selfie shot with the hot-shot foreign gambler. Methinks I heard pre-plastic surgery Kenny Rogers playing somewhere in the background. I still had well over an hour to get my blackjack fix. I would cash in the receipt for chips, make history and buy a round of curry puffs for the entire hotel.

The attendant took the receipt and asked for my passport.

Passport? I'm wearing shoes! Why do I need a passport???????/

After much hemming and hawing (more racial profiling, perhaps? The Asian man trying to keep whitey down?) and disbelief that North Carolina didn't put a passport number on its driver's license, he finally allowed me to cash out my RM150 winnings using the Old North State identification. He proceeded to tell me to leave because they wouldn't allow me to have any other winnings without a passport.

They knew ... they knew all along. I was like Danny Ocean the second I walked into the place. They had a camera on me from the time I got off the shuttle. All those BK31s obviously were set up as a ruse to block out the surveillance lenses -- no one needs that much ice cream. That's okay though -- I tripled my money in eight minutes, got a striking new pair of Old Glory sneakers made out of American denim (most likely produced somewhere in Bangladesh for pennies), and most importantly, I walked out ON TOP. I beat the house. Left it in my wake.

It was a great start to a great holiday. :)


POSTLUDE:

It did eventually clear up Christmas morning.

And, it was a pretty cool view. The golf course was probably a little harder than I had hoped for, so maybe I save a whole dozen balls. I didn't get to gamble as much as I had hoped, but I had a great time with Jill and the boys playing glow-in-the-dark bowling and watching them take archery shots at targets. Oh, and I beat an Asian dude in Table Tennis! I mean, it was the day after Jill beat me, but I was still in the euphoria of my gambling fortunes.

Christmas day was spent at a Chinese temple and a skylift ride to the top of the mountain. A little Chinese lady nearly knocked me sideways to get on the lift with the four of us. She forced me to the back and insisted on sitting with Jill and the boys. You can't make those things up. Nor can you make up the fact people were asking to take pictures of the little White kids ... one lady even took it to the next level and pinched Ethan's cheeks as she walked by! What was she thinking? Was she stupid? Jared's cheeks are so much fuller.

Oh, and those rental lockers? I found them. They were a floor below the movie theatre. You know, about 200 yards from where she told me to go right. She conveniently forgot to mention the left, or, I don't know -- the fact they were at the theatre????? More proof that they feared the gambler with the steely nerves of a Samurai warrior (I know ... that's Japanese, but it sounds cooler than comparing me to Mulan).

That's all for now. Welcome to 2015. I'll try to continue bringing joy to your lives through my silly stories and will continue to suppress my philosophical beliefs. I mean, it's for the best. All the great philosophers are dead, right? I'll just keep on keeping it real here in Asia with a smile on my face. Just like my buddy, smiling fat Buddha.

Happy not-quite-yet-Chinese New Year everyone!!!