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Do you play basketball?

An adventure in Denmark.

In the mid-1980s, I was a full emersion student in Denmark. Living in a country is a fantastic way to gain language fluency, and it helps one understand their culture.

For a year, I brutalized their language (and Norwegian), traveling to every Scandinavian country. I still love the Nordic people and their cultures. It was a marvelous journey.

After three weeks staying with a Danish family, I arrived to study at a folkehøgskole (a non-traditional residential college) in rural Jutland, Denmark.

Exploring the campus, I walked into the school gym to look around. Two guys were shooting baskets. They see me and stop.

The standard greeting for the next month seems to be, “You’re the American, right?”

“Yes.” I may have European features, but do not blend in with my clothes, hair, or mannerisms.

“You Americans all play basketball, right?”

I shrug. I haven’t polled all Americans. The State Department might frown on me speaking on behalf of our nation. The NBA would take issue.

“Many of us grow up playing it,” I offer.

“Are you any good?”

I have an instant traumatic flashback to my after-school, fourth-grade elementary basketball team, The Dirty Dozen Minus Five. We considered losing by under thirty points as an exceptional outcome.

“No. I am not very good at it.”

He tosses me the ball. Clearly he is a sadist. I am standing at half court. HALF. STINKING. COURT.

Pretty much every kid who plays a ball sport practices the buzzer-beating shot where they win the game.

The dialogue goes, “[Insert your last name here] has the ball. Five . . . four . . . three . . . He shoots! And . . .”

Ninety-nine percent of the time, the ball misses the backboard or hits the rim and goes off into the yard, where you have to chase it. No glory, all repeated for hours until it is dinner time, and you are called in to eat.

I didn’t hesitate. Fail? I am on a flight home in a year. I have withstood much more teasing for years. Here, I probably would miss the subtle translation of the shaming. In the worst case, a name change is not out of the question.

I toss it up; it goes up near the low rafters and— I kid you not— it goes straight in! No rim, only net. The shusssh-tic sound of the net on the ball and the whipping release, and we watch the ball fall. It was beautiful!

I nod. Inside, I am doing flips and screaming. Maybe some mental victory laps or skidding on my knees like you see with winning soccer goals. Most people would pay good money for this kind of event! There are whole YouTube memes of the winning shot. We love them.

Coolly, I say, “I gotta go.” And I turned to walk out.

The two Danes are gasping. I hear, “I want HIM for my team!”

No. No, they would not if they saw me play. It was far better to let us have that special moment. I told the truth. I am below average in basketball.

After less than a month in Denmark, the odds of me making another of those amazing shots was as likely as me understanding their dialect of Danish or being voted in as their Prime Minister.

Of the three of us, I am the only one who likely remembers that shot. Now you have it. I am sorry. With decades of not playing, I am far less talented in basketball. Danish is still lurking in my mind, ready to torment any Dane foolish enough to ask if I still speak it. They, who speak four to eight other languages, are always kind.

“No. Your Danish is very good.”

There is no fear of me applying to become the Danish Prime Minister. That and their laws forbid it. That is called planning for worst-case scenarios. Well done, Denmark. Well done.

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Read excerpts from Trolls and other Trouble - Book One
Read excerpts from Prophecies and other Problems - Book Two