Basketball Diaries

Back in May of last year I was picked up by the Muni team to play with them in Tactic’s women’s basketball league. We won a total of one game throughout the whole three-month season, and we got that win only because the other team didn’t show up.

This past October we started a new season (the staple sports in Guatemala consist of soccer and basketball and are played year round). We picked up some new players in the off-season, I forced them to have some practices (though never more than a fourth of the team would ever show up at a time), and we managed to place 4th out of six teams. Baby steps.

The flow of a women’s basketball game in Tactic (well at least when my team is playing) is usually along these lines: Someone from my team will launch a running two-handed bullet from around two feet behind the three-point line. The ball will ricochet off the backboard and since our team was not even fully down the court when the ill-advised shot was taken, the other team will easily rebound it. They will bring the ball up the court and take a similarly poor shot, which I’ll rebound and throw the ball to a teammate further up the court who will miss a lay-up (if she even initially catches the pass). The other team will rebound the ball, and the cycle will start all over again. By the middle of the game it becomes nearly constant three-on-two as members of both teams quit playing either offense or defense.

My description might be a bit of an exaggeration, but it really not far from the truth. There are some good players in the league (but none of them happen to be on my team, bless their hearts), and there are two “good” teams (it is all relative). But the vast majority of the women have absolutely no skills.

I love playing basketball, but playing it here in Guatemala requires every ounce of self-control and patience that I possess. It is like sloppy street ball except that no one calls her own foul and the referees rarely do either. (Once while with Michelle and Mike watching a game preceding mine, a girl got fouled really hard in the process of lay-up. Mike asked, “Where was the ref on that one? She got hammered!” We looked to find the referee completely oblivious to what happened, because he was talking on his cell phone.) I have not participated in such a violent form of basketball since the summer after my senior year in high school when we went to Ireland to play against the 18&U Irish national team.

Even though they were dirty players, at least the Irish team knew how to play basketball. Here it is just out of control. Women grab arms, push, and throw elbows. And because I am the foreign gringa playing, I think I get the bulk of the rage. I have yet to finish a game not either bleeding and/or bruised (it doesn’t help that we play on a concrete court). My sitemate, Michelle, who has come to numerous games and seen me constantly beaten, has no idea why I continue to play. Perhaps I am just a glutton for punishment.

A gentleman from Cobán came down to Tactic to put on a refereeing clinic during this past season. He blames the brutality of the game here on the fact that Guatemalans don’t receive adequate physical education during their youth and therefore never fully develop their motor skills. The women simply can’t control themselves. Hmm. Perhaps. But I would say a larger part of the problem is that Guatemalans personalize everything during the game. If I block someone’s shot, intercept a pass, or steal the ball from someone dribbling, I am fully prepared to be attacked by that person on the next trip up the court. It is unrestrained vengeance.

When it comes to rebounding it is pura lucha libre under the basket. In the three or four dozen games that I have played in Guatemala, never once has a referee called a foul during a rebound. Anything goes. But since I am a bit of a giant among dwarfs (I have been moved to the post position because I am so “tall”), and I employ this newfangled technique called “blocking out,” I have come to occupy a role that I have never before held (and will never again among people of normal height)—a 5’5” rebounding powerhouse. I pull down double digits in rebounds every game.

Although rebounding mayhem still does and probably will continue to go uncalled, I must say the referees here in Tactic have made some great strides since I have been playing. I have befriended them all and am now at liberty to give them friendly pointers on their calls or lack of them. They are now well versed on when to call charging, although I am not sure the players yet know why they pick up fouls when they plow me over. But one area in which I have made absolutely no progress is traveling.

I have ascertained that the Guatemalan interpretation of the traveling infraction is dependent on the location of the ball and one’s intention with it. If you are in the back or middle court and take a few strides without dribbling then this is considered traveling and almost always called. However, if you are in the frontcourt and want to get a running start to the basket, from say outside the free throw line for example, then there seems to be no limit to the amount of steps you can take without dribbling. Basically if the end result is a shot or you are inside the paint, you can shuffle your feet and walk all over the place without getting called for traveling.

Despite the usually poor officiating, the constant fouling and rules violations, and the overall poor play, I have managed to keep my calm and resign myself to the fact that that is just the way things are here…except on two occasions that is.

The men’s and women’s teams from Playa Grande, a municipality located near the Mexican border, made the 4+ hour journey down to Tactic one afternoon for some games. Unlike in Tactic where all those who play basketball are Ladinos, the Playa Grande team was composed completely of indigenous women (but, no, they do not play in cortes). And they somehow managed to play even dirtier than any of the teams in Tactic.

At one point in the game, I received a pass and was immediately grappled by a little indigenous woman who stood at about my shoulder height. She had literally wrapped herself around my left arm. I shifted the ball to my right arm, and shot pleading glance at the referee imploring, “Are you going to call this?” He didn’t. So I tried to shuck her. I did a very poor job factoring in my size and strength advantage, though, because what I intended to be a slight nudge to free my arm ended up sending her flailing to the ground like a rag doll. The whole crowd collectively gasped in disbelief. But the referee didn’t call a foul, and so, left completely unguarded, I hit an easy 15-foot jumper. I tried helping the woman up after the play, but she not so kindly refused my help. I paid for that “nudge” for the rest of the game.

My second major faux pas occurred when my team traveled to the neighboring municipality of Purulhá in Baja Verapaz to play against their team of teachers. No referees showed up so two of the coaches from the Purulhá team assumed the duties. They did the worst job refereeing I that have experienced in Guatemala and that is saying a lot. Towards the middle of the game my teammate was inbounding the ball after the other team had scored. She took a little while to throw me the ball, and when I received it I proceeded to cross half court, but before doing so the ref blew his whistle and yelled, “¡Tiempo!” I snapped.

I ran over to him and, in a gym that fell completely silent, I left out all by built up frustration. “You do not know how to referee! The time that she had the ball out of bounds does not count towards the 8 seconds [we play by FIBA rules] to cross half court. The time starts the moment I touch the ball, and I know 8 seconds had not passed.”

After I had finally finished my rant about what I perceived as an incorrectly called 8 seconds violation, the referee calmly responded, “It’s halftime, Seño.” Oops.

Even though my team is horrible (we once lost to a team with only four players), I do really enjoy my teammates. Whenever I am having a good shooting game, they always tell me, “¡Tienes pulso [you have a pulse]!” to which I always reply, “Nací con pulso [I was born with a pulse].” This never fails to get a laugh. To end this season, we had a New Year’s Day cookout at my house. The women brought their kids and husbands, and we played football and lacrosse in the yard, danced to Reggaeton songs, and chased the rabbits that live in the adjacent lot. After trying the cookies and Velveeta cheese dip I made, my teammates assured me that I am definitely marriage material (the ability to cook with a processed cheese spread should augment anyone’s desirability).

But now I am faced with a dilemma. The coach of the team that came in second place in the last season has asked me to play with them during the next season that is starting at the end of the month. This team is composed of all teenagers, and quite a few of the girls have impressive natural talent. The coach is really enthusiastic and does a great job with physical training (I attended a number of their practices just for the exercise), and I would love to be able to work with him and teach him and the girls more technical aspects of the game. And I also love winning. But I also feel terrible about deserting my old teammates. I have to make my decision by the end of tomorrow. Anyone who knows me probably knows which way I am leaning.