“In Russia, we like to shoot basketballs and Chechen rebels!” Being an international player.
As we Americans grow ever fatter and more sedentary, we must increasingly rely on importing foreign players to play our games for us. Soon leagues will consist of nothing but foreign-born players, hired mercenaries from another part of the world paid to represent your preferred locality. I can’t wait. If you’re a talented expatriate from a former Soviet republic that is constantly teetering on the brink of anarchy and you have a neck beard, chances are you’ll find yourself playing on our side of the pond at some point. In which case: guten Tag, Comrade!
As an international player, it’s important that you assimilate into American culture as quickly as possible. Don’t expect your teammates to adapt to you. This is America. The world adjusts to us, not the other way around. It’s much easier that way. Oh, and don’t bother staying in contact with your family back home. They’re so lame now. Do they even have running water in Haiti? Losers. Our shallow and depraved pop culture will be all the family you’ll need. Some quick notes on what to expect depending upon your country or region of origin.
EUROPE. Yes, I know what you’re thinking: Wow, the play here is so physical! I know. It’s gonna be a bit of a culture shock from the world of European sports, where each player is granted a three-inch imaginary force field that no opponent is ever allowed to enter. You’ll also notice that flopping is discouraged here in the United States (unless you play for the Spurs). I know you’re used to soccer. Or, as it is known over there, football, or the beautiful game, largely because all the players remain so clean throughout the contest. But we don’t give a fuck about that sport here. So don’t bother lying down and flopping around like a freshly caught marlin should an opposing player gesture toward your general vicinity. The refs won’t have it. Should you grow to miss some of the comforts of your home nation, don’t fret. We Americans are sure to have a bastardized version of whatever it is you crave. Jonesing for one of the morning cappuccinos you enjoyed back in Italia? No problem. You can grab one at Starbucks for a mere $8. Yes, it is supposed to smell like vanilla syrup!
AUSTRALIA. Get ready for a whole lot of American women (a) testing your accent to make sure it isn’t fake, and (b) throwing themselves at you once they realize it isn’t. Seriously, milk that accent for all it’s worth. I was born in Australia, but I only lived there for one year. Oh, if I had just lived there long enough to pick up that accent, or at least long enough to justify affecting it. Holy shit, would I have gotten some serious trim. Fuck. See, Australians are exotic enough to entice American women while also providing the comfort of being just as lazy and obnoxious as American men. Best of all, you live a hemisphere away. If you dump an American woman, the flight to Sydney is too long and expensive for her to stalk you. Bonus points if you live in Perth. That place is farther away than Andromeda.
SOUTH AMERICA. Is your family still back in Venezuela? Are you out of your goddamn mind? They’ll be in the hands of rebel kidnappers by sundown. Do you really want your family hauled off to an undisclosed holding pen in the jungle for eight months while you bargain for their freedom? Seriously, get them on a fucking plane. Once the details of your contract hit the press, they’ll be a riper target than Hayden Panettiere.
DOMINICAN REPUBLIC. No need to assimilate. You’ve got at least three fellow Dominicans on your team. Don’t even bother trying to learn En-glish. In fact, don’t even bother to acknowledge the white people in the clubhouse. What’s the point? They’re all more or less alike. Go ahead and look right through them when they wave hi. The same goes for your manager. You’ve had the same swing since you were eleven months old. Where does this maricón get off telling you you’ve got a hitch on your follow-through? Is not right.
CUBA. The first thing you’ll notice once you get off your raft is that America has roads that are paved. Pretty sweet, eh? Many Cuban athletes come to the States with the intention of using their newfound fame and fortune to improve living conditions back in their homeland. But they soon realize that Castro will never die, that the proletariat is too low in morale to start a revolution, and that cigars, in reality, taste like shit. They never go back, and neither should you. Defect. In fact, have a press conference announcing that you are defecting. You’ll feel just like Ramius in The Hunt for Red October. It’s pretty cool. Oh, and vote Republican. Cuban immigrants always vote Republican. Why? No one knows.
RUSSIA. No doubt your hockey team paid one hefty sum to the Mafiya for your rights. Just remember: at any time, the Mafiya can tell your team, “Oh, sorry, the rights fees have doubled. In fact, they have tripled.” There really isn’t anything you can do about this. Just continue drinking your homemade potato vodka and pray they don’t come to claim their “prize.” At least your girlfriend is smokin’ hot.
JAPAN. Like Dominicans, there is no need for you to assimilate with your fellow American teammates. For one thing, you will be completely disgusted by their work ethic and complacent attitude toward life in general. So you won’t want anything to do with them. You’ll be surrounded by a cadre of eager young Japanese reporters ready to transcribe your every word. So go ahead and hang out with them. Together, you can discuss how America embodies the very antithesis of Japanese culture, which prizes hard work and loyalty above all else. Then you can hop on the Internet together and order all the necessary Japanese underage pornographic serial comics (for you) and ridiculous amounts of brand-name merchandise (for your twelve-year-old niece, Mayuko). When speaking through your interpreter, be sure to have your translated words sound exactly like the dialogue from Ran. And drop your last name. It’ll make you that much more mysterious, even though in reality you’re just an aloof dick.
AFRICA. The first thing you’ll notice about America is that most of the murdering here is performed by civilians and not the police (except in New York City). Be sure to adopt an American-sounding nickname that has nothing to do with your given name. Ndebe can become Sam in a snap. Many American fans and journalists will marvel over your polite demeanor and genuine kindness. Well, no shit. You just left the Sudan. People from the Sudan tend to perk up a bit when they get air-dropped into a kickass town like Chicago. Be sure to bring your white professor legal guardians to every event. Your American dad will be beyond psyched to have a pretend son who has the athletic ability to notch three sacks in a single game.
Many African athletes use the majority of their earnings to invest back into the destroyed areas of their homeland. Some, like Dikembe Mutombo, go back for months at a time to help build roads, hospitals, and more. These are athletes who know that you don’t help people simply with money or photo ops, but with lots of time and hard work. So when Bono asks you to talk about Africa at Coachella, tell him to go eat a bag of shit.
CHINA. There is only one prominent Chinese athlete playing in America today, and that is Yao Ming. But soon, China’s practice of selective breeding will pay off in spades. As part of this future wave of Chinese athletic and economic dominance, you’ll be counted on to bring glory to the Communist party. And to murder any Chinese girls under fifteen months old. This won’t be a problem, as in the future all Chinese people will be genetically engineered by the government to feel no human emotion. Fraternizing with your American teammates will be discouraged, and a very small tracking device will be inserted under your toenail so that the government can follow you at all times. Try not to think about this while masturbating.
No matter where you’re from, you should usually make a token effort to try to enjoy things that are uniquely American. Our athletes will pay you back by feigning interest in things from your home country. It’s all about trying to find common ground, failing, and then pretending that you succeeded for the media. In the end, you’ll own five hip-hop CDs you don’t like, and your American counterpart will discreetly head to the loo to throw up the shabu-shabu you prepared for him. And that’s what diplomacy is all about.
Clippable Motivational Slogan!
/> Deh haffe flugenblugen! Schnell! Weiss ausche! Nien mit schnitzengruben! Ich bin dingelhoffer! Scheisse! Tisheldecke!
— DIRK NOWITZKI
“I’m gay! After I retire!” Being a closeted athlete.
Even though an estimated 10 percent of the human population is homosexual, an astonishing 0 percent of athletes are gay. How are we to account for this amazing phenomenon? Could it be that pro athletes are so manly they don’t qualify for gayness? Possibly. I know I’ve never made love to one, despite many valiant attempts.
But a more realistic explanation is that there are many homosexual athletes out there who choose to keep their sexual orientation (direction: gay) hidden from teammates. If you’re afflicted with “the gay” and are unsure as to what to do about it, relax. This handy FAQ will answer all of your questions.
Q: How do I know I’m gay?
A: We all start off heterosexual, of course. But if your mother coddled you as a child, you’re well within the danger zone of becoming a gay little firecracker. Here are some early symptoms of gaiety:
• Bossiness
• Unreal level of self-absorption
• Bally’s Total Fitness membership
• Beginning 90 percent of your sentences with “Okay . . . ”
• Referring to jeans as “denim”
• Tricking straight people into supporting gay rights by declaring it Denim Day when everyone wears jeans every day anyway
• Love of sangria
• Affinity for placing your hands on your hips
• Well-groomed eyebrows
• Affinity for cock
Q: Should I come out to my teammates?
A: Good God, no. You need to repress that gayness far down into the depths of your psyche. In fact, you need to go in the opposite direction. Submerge your own identity and put up a false front of overly aggressive masculinity. Get drunk. A lot. Brag about all the hot chicks you banged. Do lots of grilling. And, at least once a month, order a male hooker to your apartment, pretend to like him (and, if you do like him, pretend that you are pretending to like him), kiss him once, and then beat the ever-loving shit out of him while crying your eyes out. Your teammates will adore you.
Or get married and have children. Nothing takes your mind off your true sexual orientation like marrying someone you don’t love and then producing offspring in order to lock yourself into a horrible, unhappy life forevermore. It keeps you super busy.
Q: But why can’t I come out?
A: Because your being gay serves as a distraction to the rest of the team. Your teammates need to remain focused. They can’t be sitting around thinking about the fact that you’re gay, and that you might like them, and that you might be staring at them in the shower, and that you might nail them to the bathroom floor when no one is looking. It’ll cause them to lose their concentration. All so that you can be yourself. Now, don’t you think that’s being a bit selfish? You should be ashamed of yourself, which shouldn’t be hard for you. Closeted gays are excellent at self-loathing.
Look, you won’t be playing ball forever. Once you retire, you’ll be able to go on an epic, yearlong man-binge that would make your average New Jersey governor cream his jeans. You’ll move to Chelsea, shack up with four crazy new friends, join a gym, get a new wardrobe, hit the clubs every night, and overcompensate for lost time by becoming almost cartoonishly gay. You’ll become so promiscuous, you won’t be able to tell when one hot, sweaty, gay sexual encounter ends and another begins. Then you’ll grow disillusioned with the superficiality of the whole gay scene, taking less and less joy from all the nonstop, anonymous fucking. Then you’ll get hooked on Zoloft and consider going back to women for a bit. Then you’ll move to Napa and become an olive farmer.
Sound fun? It is. Right now, you’re the only guy on your team with something to look forward to after his playing days are over. Why spoil yourself now with the occasional clandestine handicapped stall BJ? Save yourself.
Q: I have a boyfriend who is pressuring me to come out. What should I do?
A: Of course he wants you to come out. The media has been dying for a gay athlete to come out for ages. The New York Times already has a special sixty-page commemorative section ready for press. All they have to do is stick in your name. Vanity Fair will have Annie Leibovitz at your house within an hour. MTV will promise you a two-hour True Life special. Gay rights are one of the last causes left for the media to champion. Everyone else’s civil rights — blacks, immigrants, criminals, hunters, suspected terrorists, children, pornographers, Klan rally marchers, dolphins, the paparazzi, pederasts, online stalkers, gamblers, Linkin Park fans — have already been well established. You’re all that’s left, baby. They’ll turn you into an icon. Like Jackie Robinson, only fabulous. So of course your special friend would like to be a part of it all. He was disowned by his family back in Montana for coming out. You’re his karmic reward for decades of sullen family meals. He’s got ulterior motives. And he still wears Benetton. Dump him.
Q: What do I do if a teammate finds out I’m gay?
A: Keep cool. Many teammates will be surprisingly discreet about it so long as you aren’t “in their face” about being gay. In other words, don’t be gay around them. Never bring up your gayness to them. Don’t talk to them about some great date you had. That will cause them to envision you fucking another man, which will in turn trigger blind hatred. Don’t mention it. And do everything to keep a low profile. This will send them the message that “Hey, I’m gay, but I’m doing everything in my power to make sure that fact doesn’t ruin your day.” They’ll appreciate the gesture.
Unless the teammate who finds out is Evangelical. He’ll douse you in kerosene and light you aflame within an hour.
Q: Who are some gay athletes I can turn to for advice?
A: All current gay athletes are, of course, still firmly locked in the closet. But, as a card-carrying insider, I have come to learn the names of several athletes who dabble in the homoerotic Dark Arts. And I’m quite confident that I can divulge their names to you here without any fear of legal reprisals whatsoever. Like _______. He’s gay. And remember ________? Gay as an Audi TT. And _______ is totally gay. Man, is that ________ gay! He’s so gay, you turn gay if you accidentally bump into him.
Ooh! Ooh! You know who I found out was gay recently? _______ You wouldn’t have guessed that, right? Guy is totally into bondage and domination. Really wild stuff.
_______ gay, of course. He’s one of those “hide behind Jesus” gays. _______ is gay, though he doesn’t realize it yet. And _______ is also super gay. Quiet, bookish, excellent ball control: he’s a textbook gay. Super nice guy, too. I heard he’s a really great cook.
Yes, there are many gay athletes out there, but don’t even think of going to them for advice. They’ve got problems of their own, and they don’t need you snooping around. Unless you’re good at rubbin’ and tuggin’.
HEAR IT FROM A CLOSETED ATHLETE!
Being a closeted athlete is hard, especially when you love cock as much as I do
by name redacted — black
As a closeted homosexual, I can’t enjoy being a pro athlete as much as most people would. Other guys in the locker room joke all the time about going out and having sex with all these girls and stuff. It bothers me, because it’s such a culture of intimidation. I hate my teammates for making me feel like I have to suppress this enormous part of my identity. But I’m also envious of them because they’re able to lead a normal, all-American sort of life. I feel so ostracized. I guess, in many ways, that’s why I lash out at teammates to the media and do all that showboating on the field. If I alienate myself from teammates with my actions, then my homosexuality becomes less of a reason for my not fitting in. Does that make any sense? I suppose that sounds foolish to you. But how can you understand what I’m going through?
You see, being a closeted athlete is hard, especially when you love cock as much as I do.
Man, I love cock. I love all k
inds of cock. I love little white cocks, big black cocks, wrinkled old cocks, fresh young cocks, freckled cocks, hooded cocks, unhooded cocks, hairy cocks, shaved cocks, cocks that are semideflated after an orgasm, Indian cocks, pointy cocks, rigid cocks, Taiwanese cocks, curved cocks, straight cocks, clay cocks made in a pottery class, smelly cocks, glassy cocks, soapy cocks, etc. I love them all, and with an uncommon amount of zeal. And I’m surrounded by them every. Single. Day. (continued on next page)
Do you understand how hard that is? Imagine loving Chinese food, working in a Panda Express, and being unable to touch any of the orange chicken. It’s that kind of hell. Why should I have to hide my love of cock from the world? Cock is my passion. It’s the first thing I think about in the morning and the last thing I think about or suck before I go to bed. Yet I’m surrounded by this oppressive culture that constantly treats cocklovers as something evil or less than human.
Frankly, I think it’s just immaturity. If the fact that I dream of one day lining up a group of black and white male slaves to create a giant cock organ makes you uncomfortable, I say get over yourself. Grow up. _______ used to clip his toenails in the locker room. It was disgusting. But I held my tongue. You know why? Common courtesy. My love of cock should be treated the same way.
Alas, it probably never will. And that’s a shame. Imagine how much more confident, how much better I could be if I were simply allowed to be myself. Imagine how many gay athletes out there are being held back because a bunch of dipshit homophobes are too insecure to handle the idea of a gay teammate. We could win Super Bowls. Then I could have all the cock I wanted. That’s the way it should be. Hate the player. Don’t hate the gay.
I love me some football.
I love me some cock.
Why can’t I love me some both?