Getting Robbed/Honduran BBall

The P.E. coach at Brassavola, Suazo, invited me to play a little bball last Friday with his team. Apparently he saw me embarrassing some 5th grade girls on the court at school and decided that display proved my talent enough to play for his team. Naturally I obliged--I never turn down the opportunity to ball. At about 7:00pm I began lacing up my kicks, downing some Aguazul (Honduran bottled water), and getting pumped up by blasting Jay-Z's "Dirt off your Shoulder" (though I accidentally had iTunes on shuffle and the subsequent song was Bing Crosby's heart-warming version of "Silent Night," which certainly killed the mood but made me smile).

I left my house at about 7:15pm with nothing but pocket-less shorts, a simple grey tee, my house keys and my cell. By that time it was completely dark in La Ceiba, though the roads I planned to walk were mostly well-lit. I made my way out of my secure apartment, down my stairs, around the corner and to the main stretch which heads to my school. The road to the gym passes right next to my school and was recently paved; thus, it still receives very little traffic from the main road. However, I have walked this stretch numerous times en route to Emily's apartment complex and have always felt confident and safe. I began trekking the lonely piece of pavement behind an older couple who moved with surprising grace and swiftness, hands firmly locked together as they glided ahead. I was probably whistling Jay-Z while trying to remember some And1 moves to impress the guys when a big-boned kid on a bmx bike pulled up next to me, moved ahead, stopped his bike, turned to me and said,
"Dame tu celular" (means "give me your cellphone")
"No" (means "no")
As he pulled a gun out from under his shirt, he responded, "Damelo ahorita." ("give it to me now")I lifted my hands and told him I didn't have any other money. This kid couldn't have been more than 16 or 17 and surely didn't have bullets in the weapon, though I wasn't going to take chances with some desperate and scared kid. As I handed over the phone, I asked, "Por favor, puedo tener el chip?" ("please can I have the chip"). He didn't answer--he seemed scared that someone had seen him and kept looking around nervously as he rode away. Luckily, I didn't have any other money or anything truly valuable with me. Annoyed, slightly scared, and certainly pensive, I walked the remaining three minutes to the gym. This is life in a third world country--I have to count my blessings instead of being upset about the minor incidents.

Once I arrived at the gym, completely distracted but ready to ball, Suazo introduced me to a gruff middle aged man who asked me in a tone that would've made Mussolini nervous if I could really play ball. I told him, "Claro que si!" I figured he was just joking around with the whole serious bit, but realized later that he was dead serious. Our pregame warmups were more intense than those in high school, with a distinct absence of attractive high school sweethearts cheering my name. After we warmed up, the team grouped up and I introduced myself to everyone. The two captains took a moment to welcome me to the team, saying that they expected good things from me. I felt as though I was a part of recent million-dollar trade. As the lone white guy on the team, I told them to expect a Larry Bird-type player. I can't remember if anyone laughed, though I do remember I haven't had such a tough audience since El Pomar Foundation. The game itself was fairly disastrous-turnovers, fouls, and terrible shot selection galore. I didn't play until late in the 3rd quarter; when I entered we were losing 27-24. I played for most of the 4th and we ended up winning 49-33. At the end of the game, we were blasted by our "coach," who screamed as he told us he'd rather be home mopping his floor than watching us win by such a small margin. His teams apparently had never scored less than 50 points and he was embarrassed more than he ever had been in his life. As he ferosiously yelled and threw his hands flailing in the air, I couldn't help but laugh on the inside at the humerous irony of the situation. Here we were, a bunch of amateur ball players listening to this guy maniacally bash us after some insignificant game against insignificant opponents in an insignificant gym in Honduras. Nobody cares about basketball in Honduras and that, I believe, is what makes this guy insane. His hilarious antics went on for 10 to 15 minutes until finally he left in a tantrum. I'll certainly be playing with this team in the future if not only for our coach, whose passion and fury are to be admired.

-Micah