That Summer I splurged and made it rain everywhere. Whether it was the first few rounds of Jagerbombs at T.G.I.F.’s with my broke friends or popping bottles of Goose at Tryst in Vegas with my rich friends. I never had this much money and loved the feeling of buying anything I wanted. My cousin’s sexy blonde sidekick took a liking in me. My wallet, my dick and her started a Summer fling. I thought the money I earned from one year of ball and this gold digger of a girlfriend was the start of my “American Dream.” Basketball stopped for the time being as my shoulder injury healed. I found my first 9-5 job and began to hate myself for stopping what I did my whole life; basketball. As my gold digger of a girlfriend emptied out most of my hard earned Jew money, our relationship fizzled out. At least my shoulder problem healed as I didn’t have to use my arm for self-gratification all Summer. I quit my endless job and got on the phone with a new agent. Within a few days he found me a basketball gig. The following week I was off to Bosnia.

Being my new agent, he just sent me where the most money was at that time. He could’ve pointed to my whorish Summer fling, but instead it was to third world Bosnia. Who would’ve thought? The team, Igokea, was in 2nd place and I was replacing a center who previously held a Summer league position on an NBA team. I knew this was big shoes to fill. I was still very nervous about traveling to third world countries, let alone filling the void of better players. If I was going to get my wheels going, Bosnia was the place to man up and start ballin’. Luckily it was Winter break and I had time to get back into shape and show the team what I was made of. I was still just a young pup in the pro basketball game. I knew my talent could progress with the right situation. Most foreign basketball teams were full of selfish Americans who couldn’t give a shit about their teammates. I was beginning to understand the truth about “the game.” Basketball is your typical Catch-22. While winning would keep me on a team and kept the paychecks coming, lots of points and rebounds would get me a better paying job the following season. Some players could do both well, but most just cared about points, more points and banging anything with a hole. I was still very unselfish and needed to change quickly or I’d be eaten alive.

After a five hour layover in Croatia and two unknowing $70 one-minute collect calls to my agent’s Bosnian contact, Slobodan, I arrived in Mostar, Bosnia. I never knew what to expect or who I was meeting at these airports. Although I had someone’s name, I never had a face. When I arrived in a new foreign country everyone always looked the same. I always expected whoever was looking for me to find me or I was screwed. Most basketball players were black and easy to find in a small, foreign airport full of white people. Luckily I was very tall and had visible tats when I rolled up my sleeves, a dead give away for a basketball player. I waited in the magazine shop flipping through a Maxim magazine when I was tapped on the shoulder. A big beefy man, who I assumed was Slobodan, cleared his throat and said, “You know all the girls look like that here!” I looked back at the delicious picture of Elisha Cuthbert and then looked around the airport. If he meant they all had hair, a nose and a mouth then he couldn’t had been more right. We took a seat and he gave me the rundown of the team and their expectations. Slobodan finished his second latte, third cigarette and then told me to wait for my pickup which was supposed to had already been here. I resumed my magazine browsing and waited for whoever was supposed to find me.

Two and a half hours later as I napped in the barren airport, I heard my name being shouted from a distance, “Dooooostin, Dooooostin.” I stood up and realized how empty the airport was; it was just me and him. Without an introduction or cultural greeting (handshake, cheek kiss, dong knock) he grabbed my bags and started walking away. I assumed that “Doooostin” was my name and not a Bosnian word for “steal his shit.” We walked to his jalopy that was well overqualified for “Pimp My Ride.” The back seat window remained permanently opened and he had to open the passenger door from the inside. Still only the word “Dooostin” had been spoken by him. I attempted to break the ice, “Hey man, what’s up?” but he just shrugged his shoulders and nodded horizontally. He attempted some Bosnian and I just smiled and responded, “Don’t know what the fuck your saying dude!” I knew this was going to be a quiet ride and also had no idea how long the drive was. As we hit the highway he cunningly smiled and said his only other English word, “Fast…Vrrrrrm Vrrrrrrm!” I didn’t recognize his English over the Techno beats that constantly popped his speakers. He suddenly slammed his foot down on the accelerator like he was driving in the Daytona 500. While he double gripped the wheel, I tried to keenly buckle my seatbelt as to not let him know I was afraid. I struggled for a few minutes and finally noticed the part where you buckle it was missing. I literally shriveled up in fear as this crazy stranger Kurt Busch’d it for over two hours. I became more relaxed with every passing kilometer, but remained shriveled up because of the brisk 40 degree wind that was blowing through the broken backseat window. I arrived at my hotel at 2 a.m. in one piece and got to sleep in before my first night practice.

I arrived at practice early to meet the coaches and management. This introduction was standard procedure for a new player, making him feel at home. Five crinkly aged seniors sat around a table and choked on a pack of cigarettes while sipping their cappuccinos; also standard procedure. We barely exchanged words as I sat there twiddling my thumbs waiting for practice to come about. My bag of usual ice breakers was rendered useless so I remained silent. It was pretty much a round of hand shakes, a few welcomes and that was it. I didn’t feel too much at home. I can’t tell you how awkward these situations were. A few other Americans arrived in the smoke filled lobby and I escaped with them to the locker room. As we small talked, both Americans only complained about the team and immense pressure shown from management to win. They were a few years older and arrogantly talked about the other jobs they had lined up. This didn’t excite me too much and my hopes were shot before I even stepped on the court. I was there to make the best of my time and didn’t let their words bring me down.

I sluggishly made it through the first grueling practice. Jet lag was a bitch! I couldn’t sleep until 4 a.m., my body was aching from the first practices and it was below zero outside. After a few more practices we took an eight hour bus ride to play a friendly match with a Croatian team. I happened to pull a hamstring the last night before this test game. I forced myself to play or I knew it was a wrap. I knew this game was my test and if I didn’t man up and play, they would send me home. I played in excruciating pain and turned in a decent performance, but it wasn’t good enough for them to want to keep me around.

My agent called and informed me that they wanted a taller center. Guess I was a few inches short. I’d stay at the hotel for a few days while my agent found another team for me. No reason to go back to America and make the grueling flight back to Europe. So I wined and dined on behalf of the team for a week in the hotel. The other Americans knew that my tab would be picked up, so they met with me for lunch, dinner and drinks everyday. I had nothing to do for a week stuck in my hotel room. I got desperate and persuaded the front desk guy into letting me use his PC and internet. It was running a dial-up modem. I hacked the screen name, password and phone number for their dial-up internet. I luckily had a 26k connection in my hotel room. Let’s just say waiting two minutes for a Google search wasn’t fun, but it passed the time quickly.

A week after being cut, my agent found a job in the same league, but with one of the lower, struggling teams. I accepted the offer and another random Bosnian drove me down to the southern most point of Bosnia. This was an eight hour drive through the countryside which still had active mind fields and the occasional road that was big enough for only one vehicle to pass. I remembered being on a stretch of one of these narrow roads and having to reverse for a quarter of a mile to let a semi-truck through first. Never seen anything like it. Parts of this road also had no guard rail. One false move and your car would go tumbling down a few thousand feet of treacherous cliffs. This guy fortunately spoke English and we shared conversations about the NBA and the USA for a few hours. I arrived in Trebinje, Bosnia where I’d stay from January to May. Smaller town, absolutely no English and only one American on the squad. Here’s a breakdown of my experiences in this small town:

LIVING

After arriving in Trebinje, I ate dinner with the team and they took me to my temporary house. I was going to live with a seven foot Moroccan and a cocky kid from Montenegro until they found my own place. They opened a room which I thought was the storage closet for my luggage. This was my new comfy 50 square foot room. I was thinking more on the terms of a prison cell. My bed touched wall to wall and I obviously extended longer then it. I had to turn the bed diagonal, but this caused the door to be blocked. It also had an oversized dresser that took up half the room. There was no room at all, but I had to make due. Our toilet shot up water when it was flushed. No, it wasn’t that extra toilet that you can douche yourself with. It just gargled when it swallowed poop and pee. The shower had a heater that needed to be warmed up before showering. At full power, it allowed ten continuous minutes of showering under hot water. It wasn’t a pleasant process after practice with my roommates. To top it off there wasn’t any internet. While I had a full apartment to myself in Israel, this was the worst living space I had to live in to date. I knew it was temporary, but I didn’t actually get my own apartment for two more months.

A few months after the dreadful living conditions of the broom closet, they moved me into a hotel room sized flat. Finally, I could play with myself in the peace and quiet. The other American lived in this same building, so I at least had someone to talk and walk with to practice. There wasn’t internet in this building either. I found some active WIFI signals, but after numerous hacking attempts, I failed. Even though it was written in my contract for internet, they seemed to beat around the bush when I asked. I was forced to spend my days in an internet cafe. This room was also very confined, numbering about 12 computers and as big as your average living room. There was a rare semi-cute twenty year old girl working the internet cafe. Her and her boyfriend chain smoked hours upon hours. As I spent 4-5 hours a day in the cafe, I lost 4-5 years off my life inhaling second-hand smoke. Sometimes the smoke was so thick my eyes began to burn. Once again, I had no choice but to sweat it out. Only a few months after living in my new apartment, I’d be kicked out. We weren’t told that the apartment was pre-leased to students in the Spring. Onto my third and final Bosnian home in the same amount of months.

I was moved into the same housing structure as before. This time I lived with my American teammate, Rome, and the only cool Serb on the team, Nemanja. I was given the master bedroom as the Serb took the broom closet and Rome slept in the other regular sized room. My bed was more comfortable and I had a balcony. Once again, there was no internet access. There was no one on the team to help us out with internet problems. As I asked the coach to ask the management about hooking up internet, I’m sure the message was never passed on. The language barrier was impossible. Yet, I was determined to get internet in my house. I walked into the main internet/cellphone service office only to be told that there was a 2 year waiting list for the internet. Damn! Two years? This seemed more difficult than I thought. After walking into some other computer repair shops, I was finally pointed in the right direction. I found this guy who came to my flat and bolted a 2 foot satellite dish to our roof and enabled us to surf the web occasionally. It worked like Direct TV, if the satellite pointed to the right access point, it’d pick up a weak signal. It had 60% accessibility, as sometimes it was just not work or pick up a signal due to bad weather. Better than nothing. At least there was also a 24 hour bar below our house, so it became my own personal fridge. This was my final stomping grounds and I lived in this house until the season ended.

TOWN

The town itself was also as little as my first room. The population was under 15,000 and missed the female population aged 18-35. It had two eighty meter bridges connecting both sides of town. A beautiful lake ran through the middle of town. The most popular past time was sitting at a coffee shop sipping cappuccinos and reading the newspaper. Trebinje lacked women, fun and just about everything that was necessary for a town. There was no car for us Americans. In a town of this size, everything was within walking distance. There was always a popular joke when asking about somewhere in town, “Yeah, it’s a five minute walk.” Yet, we couldn’t use a car to escape to the next bigger town if we wanted. We were stuck.

One main source of income for the city was sports gambling. Every corner had a bet shop. Each bet shop had it’s walls littered with daily lines and box scores. Some had flat screens to watch international matches and most were 24 hour bars. Rome and I would visit the bet bar everyday after practice to put our bets in. It became a cheap addiction to bet on the over/under of Lebron and Kobe scoring 30. I learned that betting parlays of over five bets never hit. I think I went 3/50 on the year. The two girls working the bet shop were bombshells, but knew no English. It didn’t matter how hard we tried to lure them away for a night, always resulted in a failed attempt. At least it was something to keep the mind off the nothingness in town.

We were given free meals at the team restaurant in the center of town. The food wasn’t bad, but it was a crap shoot. I didn’t get to pick my meal, it was a random rotation of meat cutlets and soups. There was no popular restaurant to eat at like in most cities. The town was full of little Mom and Pop restaurants trying to make a buck. Their version of pizza couldn’t even beat out frozen Vons Select generic pizza. I stuck with the team restaurant as everything else was below average.

Not too many people owned a car here. Walking was preferred by everybody. Since everything was within a ten minute walk, why would you need a car except to escape the city. A popular pastime was to cruise around town in circles. On a Friday or Saturday night, the younger generation enjoyed driving around from bridge to bridge and honking their horns. I guess this was similar to cruising PCH or Sunset, but just a tad bit different. Since gas was $6/gallon, it was an expensive cruise.

There wasn’t even a disco for adults. The few times we went out to a night spot, it was 16 and over. Yet, the ages ranged from 16 to 17 as no women my age could be found in town. Pimping was left for Myspace and the few adult girls I tried to lure back to my pad for some love. Except for a few make-out sessions and a random blow job, there wasn’t much luck finding a fuck in Bosnia. I just dealt with it and hoped my teammate, Rome, would let me enjoy one of his monthly imported chicks for the night. That didn’t happen! I guess I needed time in Europe to have been able to import my own chicks.

Every city I lived in I’d find a guitar to call my own. I figured this town was too small for some kind of music shop. I looked all over, but couldn’t find anything. Even a few of the local patrons couldn’t point me the right way. One day I saw a teenager with a guitar case strapped to his back. I ran up to him and asked where he got the guitar. He was polite enough to take me to a small music pawn shop. I couldn’t believe there was a guitar shop like this in a town of less than 15,000. The guitar would become my drug and best friend, sort of like Wilson the volleyball in Tom Hank’s “Castaway.” After my last day in Bosnia, I smashed the guitar to bits like a rock star, this would be my calling.

One random day my Bosnian teammates asked if I smoked weed. I knew that most of my teammates were young and ready to snitch. I took a chance and told him I did smoke. With the extreme boredom in the city, I would’ve done anything for a smoke. I didn’t think it existed in this puny town. He told me he would get some for me. A few weeks passed by and I felt he was just talking the talk. Then of all days, April 20th, 420, he came up to me in the street and handed me a phat nug of weed. I couldn’t believe it, smelled great, looked great, probably smoked great. They just gave it to me. They didn’t want to smoke it or have anything to do with it. I thought it was some kind of setup. The season was almost over and I didn’t care. I marched into my room with so much excitement. I tried to make a bong, but didn’t have the proper scraps and tools to accomplish it. I did the next best thing, grabbed an apple. I smoked myself silly on 4/20 at 4:20 and enjoyed the rare sunny day playing guitar on my balcony. This was one of my few fun days I had in Bosnia. I made that gorgeous purple nug last almost a week.

My daily activities were going to practice, putting bets in, inhaling cigarettes in the internet cafe, eating and repeating. The most boring place I’d ever been in. Sometimes you must make your own fun, but with cold weather, no women and no English…that meant suffering until the season’s end.

BASKETBALL

The team was full of 18-21 year olds and one guy over 30. I was 23 at the time and felt more ready then ever. While the weather during the winter remained hovering around freezing, the gym was an ice box. It was necessary to wear a sweater for the first thirty minutes of practice, if not for the whole time. Rome was even caught wearing gloves for many practices. The gym owner refused to turn on the heater because it cost too much in electric bills. Even during games the heater wouldn’t be present, but fortunately sometimes it would.

Having so many younger teammates meant a high level of selfishness. They didn’t understand the concept of team basketball and winning. Instead they cared about Kobe Bryant scoring tactics; the more shots attempted meant the more shots that had a chance to go in. Practice was simple and they had a decent weight room to workout in. Weights kept my mind free as it always did. We had one egotistical Bosnian older player who acted more like a little baby then a 35 year old power forward. While the players averaged 10 words of English, Rome and I never knew what was going on. This cry baby of a player would many times just get pissed for random reasons, walk over to grab his fanny pack and jet out of the gym. I didn’t understand it. I did my job and all I could do to contribute. I averaged 14 points and 9 rebounds a game during my stay. I was hoping these stats would help towards my next team.

We needed to win games as the bottom few teams in the league dropped to second division the following year. Our team was in a battle for the bubble all season. We won our home games and lost our road games; typical in a country like this where the bus rides average six hours. The last month of the season our team fell into money problems. We finished the season tied for the bubble spot, but the team had a bigger winning margin over us. The league decided that the bottom two teams in our league and the champions of the 2nd and 3rd division would have a mini playoff for who would stay in the first league. There was one problem with this scenario. As our last game was played on April 10th, this playoff wouldn’t start until the first week of May. Not only was there financial problems, but I was forced to stay and practice for a month to play in this loser bowl. After a few weeks of just practicing I started to give up. The boredom reached an all-time high. I told them a family member was very ill and ditched out of there. The other American, Rome, stayed and finshed out the season, saving the team but receiving no money in return. I made a good call!

The worst part about being the southern most team in a big country is the traveling. Our littlest bus ride was three hours and the longest was ten hours. We’d usually travel the average six hours cramped on a bus and show up an hour or less before the game. It was difficult to play on the road, nonetheless win any of these games. There is one bus trip I will never forget. I contracted dysentery six days before our longest bus trip. When our water guy ran out of bottled water, he would use the disgusting sink water without our knowledge. So from this I became real sick. I’d never had diarrhea for this long of a period. The first three days were spent hovering over a toilet throwing up and shitting. Every 30 minutes to an hour I had to shat a water cannon out of my ass. The excessive wiping caused bleeding and rawness of it’s own. After three medications and five days of dysentery, it began to slow down. I was still afraid of the bus trip the next day. Although my sickness slowed, it was still present and the buses never had a toilet. Holding in diarrhea was impossible and I didn’t want to try and make it possible. Lucky as I was, the bus trip went smoothly. We got to the game 20 minutes before the tip-off and got smashed. Nine hours of bus there, two and a half hours at the gym to lose a game, then nine hours home. What a trip! This was the first bus ride in which I slept the majority of the way home. Every three hours the bus driver would stop for a pee and stretch break; standard procedure. Yet, a few hours before we arrived back to Trebinje, I notcied our bus would be stopped for 10-15 minutes without anyone getting off. I came to find out that the bus driver usually came with a backup driver to drive the second leg of the journey home. Our bus driver would be doing almost 20 hours of driving in a 22 hour period solo. The bus driver began to fall asleep at the wheel. Luckily our coach was wide awake and noticed him slowly nodding off and told him to take a few 20 minute naps every few hours. Like I said, some parts of this road through the mountains were without guard rails and heavily slick from snow. I guess I’m just lucky to still be alive. Maybe this was the place for me to die. I could be sure if we happened to drive off a cliff, no one would ever know what happened to me.

EPILOGUE

Of all my basketball experiences, this was my own personal hell. Freezing cold gym, being forced to move place to place every other month, traveling dozens of hours on a bus every week, getting screwed out of thousands of dollars. I guess this was punishment for leaving basketball and trying out something new. I wasn’t done with basketball and I knew this. While it was a personal hell, I stuck with it and performed every game. All I could do next was hope my agent could plug me into a better situation with the work I did in Bosnia. That’s all you really hope when you depend on an agent to get a gigs for you. Living in different environments is a true experience, but also makes me realize how difficult it is for some people. Even more difficult for an American to live there and not have the usual things he expects; women, Dr. Pepper, Taco Bell, internet, Charmin 3-ply. Yet, no matter where I’m sent to in this world to live and hoop…I’m fully ready to absorb the environment and take on any challenge. You learn something new, meet cool strangers, fuck cooler strangers, drink what they drink, eat what they eat and do what they do, all with my own unique twist.

I knew our usual Saturday night consisted of pounding mass amounts of alcohol, dancing with porno caliber Czech girls and arriving home when the sun came up. I just had to deny this one Saturday night of its usual razz and sacrifice being hungover in bed all day for a Sunday fun day in Prague. There was one problem though. One of my teammates was celebrating his birthday. I knew I’d be forcefully dragged out with everyone for some celebratory birthday shots. Once a few shots would hit my lips, there was no denying the night could become endless. While the bus ride usually consisted of talking about our game and what we’d drink and screw that night, everyone popped in their iPod’s and quickly fell asleep. Spirits were at an extreme low from the loss. No doubt after a quick snooze, the guys would be ready to flush the loss out of their system with some drinks and late night partying. I was hoping I could escape to my flat without everyone hounding me to join them. Peer pressure is a bitch! With no one to talk to and the pungent body odor seeping into my head, I decided to put on some music and closed my eyes for the three hour ride home.

Fifteen minutes away from home my teammate, J-Mill, put his wet finger in my ear to wake me up. I jumped up out of my seat like Frankenstein had been given a jolt of electricity. “Hey Deezy, turn that rock shit off, we’re almost home.” I guess my headphone jack came out of my iPhone and “Master of Puppets” was blaring for all too hear. I wiped the drool off the rim of my mouth and gave a big stretch and yawn. I overheard the word “Fiesta” rolling off someone’s tongue. Oh shit, they were already making plans for the night. I almost wanted to fake falling back asleep to dodge everybody. It was too late. The birthday boy, Uncle, noticed I was awake and said, “Deezy, you coming out with us to celebrate my birthday, right?” My brain was still in nap mode, but I knew my plans for the night, “Naw, I’m going to Prague with Smashavan tomorrow, I need my rest.” Uncle knew I was the one teammate who never turned down a Saturday night. “Don’t worry Deez, everyone is tired and we’ll just have a few birthday drinks, I’ll even buy.” I was starting to think everyone’s definition of “a few” was different than mine. To these guys I knew “a few” meant more than ten. I told him I’d think about it and we quickly arrived back at our apartment building.

Living in the adjacent flat next to Uncle, I was doomed from the beginning. As we walked up the steps he demanded of me, “Deezy, get ready and I’ll ring your doorbell in twenty minutes.” I sat on the edge of my bed, put my hands on my head and weighed my options. I looked at the clock and noticed it was already almost midnight. Should I call it a night or man up and enjoy a few drinks and save the girl-on-girl action for later? I was never one to turn down free drinks. I’m Jewish, it’s embedded in my blood to accept any free gift. Before I knew it my designer jeans were on, my polo was ironed and Ax Body Spray was sprayed on my neck and groin area; I called this the “double neck to testies.” The doorbell suddenly rang twice startling me. My doorbell sounded like the America’s Got Talent “X” buzzer. I think I was just X’d twice by Howie and Piers for making a bad decision on going out. I opened the door and Uncle was standing there as if he was picking up his hot prom date. Unfortunately, I knew he’d rape me of my time and energy before tomorrow. I grabbed my wallet and phone and we were on our way to Fiesta.

Fiesta was the busiest restaurant/bar in town. It was two stories of tantalizing fun, but each story held it’s own unique vibe. Upstairs was the party zone. Pool tables, air hockey, slot machines, juke box, fully stacked bar and plenty of hot blonde Czech women to go around. Not even thirty minutes into the night, I found myself holding a half-drank double Mojito and buying a second round of Jagerbombs for the crew. I wasn’t a fan of the Mojito, I just didn’t enjoy any drink with a whole plant shoved inside. This was the free drink I was given by the birthday boy. I guess alcohol was alcohol and I had to be respectful and finish it. The night got interesting as a few smoking hot blondes approached us. My dick began to tingle and smile. The cuter one of the two began to speak in her sexy Czech accent, “Hey Uncle, you guys going to Simetrix tonight?” Uncle slyly responded, “Yeah, we might make it over there, it’s my birthday you know.” I thought I recognized her before and quickly ran through my mind databank of women, but it was running slow from the double Mojito and didn’t register. As they walked away, Uncle mentioned that she was one of the dancers from our basketball team. I remembered her and was immediately interested. Petite, blonde, sexy, dancer, cute accent; that was all me. Yet, the Simetrix Disco was mentioned and that meant a very, very late night. Once again I was faced with a tough dilemma. I was a few drinks away from being completely shit faced and unable to control my urge to leave at an appropriate time. I was also in the process of mind-fucking a cute chick, which drew my attention even further away from Prague. One of my teammates, Iceman, was leaving for home, but I denied my only chance at an early departure. I was in this for the long haul. We shot back a few more drinks, paid our tabs and off to Simetrix we went.

I choked on thick cigarette smoke and machine-made fog as we step foot in the disco. Uncle, J-Mill and I headed straight for the bar. Visibility was at a two girl depth. We crossed the living room sized dance floor and bumped elbows with girls that looked like they came straight from the girl-on-girl scenes I loved to watch. The ratio was unbelievable, at least three girls to every guy, a complete rarity. All of them were as hot and fresh as morning coffee. My goal was to find and strike up a conversation with the blonde dancer I doggy mind-fucked just an hour earlier. I looked everywhere but I couldn’t find her and the stinging smog began to burn my eyeballs. I needed a better view. There was a vacant stripper pole three feet above the dance floor besides the DJ booth. I waited for the Go-Go dancer to step down for her usual two song cigarette break. Now I was Go-Going and began my own seductive pole dance. There was never a night in Simentrix when I didn’t get on the pole at least for a twirl. As I started to take my shirt off, Uncle thought it would be hilarious to join in. His shirt came off as well and now we were two drunk guys with no shirts sharing a stripper pole for all to see. In my opinion, they should rename the Mojito to Homojito. Three girls clawed at our stomachs and we helped them up to join us. In the midst of a Flo Rida’s “Get Low” grind session, I located the cute blonde I had my sites set on and exited the stripper pole mayhem. It was time for my Deezy charm to be put to use.

After a quick pee break and checking my nose for any hangers, I plotted my attack. I was hesitant to aggressively approach her petite 5’2 frame with my giant 6’9 body. I had it in my mind that all petite women thought that guys of my stature had three foot long schlongs and would destroy their vaginas forever. Not true, it’s only two feet. I kept my distance not wanting to intimidate her. She stood alone with a sulky demeanor. As my tractor beam locked on, I yelled “Hey, what’s wrong” from a distance. She replied, “I need a boyfriend, I’m lonely.” Jackpot! I laughed on the inside knowing what she really needed. Deez nuts! I reached into my bag of drunk pickup lines and responded, “You don’t need a boyfriend, you need a man friend.” She sarcastically chuckled, flipped me the bird and walked away. I was turned on by her feistiness, but wasn’t going to let her off that easy. I gave it a few minutes and was ready for another attempt. As I began to close in on my prey again, a giant fat guy the size of the Kool-Aid man cut me off. She was now conversing with Sasquatch and I could only stand a schlongs distance away by the bar. As I stared at her and started my missionary mind-bang, he suddenly picked her up as if she was a Wendy’s Triple Stack. As I saw her struggling like a baby seal in Shamu’s mouth, I realized this was my golden opportunity. Hoping this guy didn’t know English, I threw George McFly’s famous “Back to the Future” line at him, “Hey fatty, get your god damn hands off her!” Knowing no one would get the joke but me, I started to laugh outloud. This seemed to upset him. The Kool-Aid/Sasquatch man mumbled curse words in Czech at me. My blonde slapped him in his man titties and then he backed down saying, “No problem, no problem.” Trying to complete my act of heroism I told her, “Maybe you need a bodyguard and not a boyfriend.” Waiting for another middle finger, she instead showed a beautiful smile and at that moment I realized I was in. I introduced myself as Deezy and she told me a name that started with a V. I asked again, but couldn’t understand her soft voice because of the powerful bass speakers that had rattled my ears deaf. I bought V a few drinks and then we danced to the repetitive playing of David Guetta and Lady Gaga songs. We finally sat down and Uncle came over to join us.

My body began to shut down and fall asleep. I was still conscious and wired due to the Red Bull in my system. Uncle looked partied out and told me he was ready to leave at any time. I checked my phone and it was already past 5 a.m. Not only that, I had a text message from Smashavan alerting me to be ready at 8:30 for the Prague trip. As V erotically puffed on her cigarette and sat in silence, the house lights of the disco suddenly turned on. As we stood up ready to leave, V suddenly spoke, “I’m not done partying, let’s keep the night going and go to my flat.” This was very unexpected, but I was totally excited and down with it. I looked at Uncle and Uncle looked at me. We gave each other the good old “who gives a fuck” shrugging gesture with our shoulders and out we all went.

I fell in and out of consciousness in the back seat while Uncle and V navigated home. We all stumbled into V’s flat. It smelled of fresh laundry and Victoria Secret’s body spray. V escaped to the bathroom like Houdini giving Uncle and I a minute to make a man plan. Either V was drunk and lonely or just a freak-a-leek. As she drunkenly struggled to change in front of me from her jeans and top to an oversized Mickey Mouse t-shirt, I began to think how bad I wanted her. I knew there was no time to fool around, so I got into the nitty gritty talk about sex and her loneliness. While Uncle laid in her bed fooling around on her laptop, she suddenly got the drunk spins and invited me to lay with her in bed. We assumed spooning positions and she unfortunately slowly fell into her dreadful hangover. Uncle excused himself to the bathroom where I was able to get a couple kisses and erotic grabs in. V seemed to enjoy my company and had a permanent smile on her face as she scooted closer to my half hung man piece. I began to pass out as Uncle started “Psssss’ing” at me. I got out of my comfortable spooning position and met Uncle at the front door. Uncle reeked of cigarette smoke and Homojito and was ready to bounce. As he asked if I wanted to stay or go, I was once again faced with a difficult decision. Possible future fuck buddy or Prague trip? His advice was to stay and so I did. As I got back into bed with V, I realized that she was gone till November. I decided I wouldn’t spend the night and try to bang her in the morning, as that wasn’t my style. I knew how drunk she was and when she’d wake up sober next to a random tattooed giant stranger, well I’d be scared shitless too. I needed to somehow leave my name and number with her. I didn’t have my own number memorized and it was no where to be found in my phone. I checked her phone, but all the options were in Czech. I thought of the next best thing. I opened her laptop hoping she had a Facebook account and an auto sign in. Success! I logged in and friend requested myself from her screen name. Thank you Facebook! I now had a name to go with her beautiful self, Vera. I gave Vera a kiss on the cheek, a quick booty grab and left her apartment at 7:30 a.m. I had less then an hour to get home and prepare for a day in Prague.

I only lived in Prostejov for two months and hadn’t quite became acclimated with the layout of the city. I knew how to get to and from the gym and the disco, but that was about it. I had no fucking clue where I was or how to get home. My clothes were still damp from bumping and grinding all night and now my head started spinning. I called Uncle twice, but there was no answer. I started thinking what Survivorman or Bear Grylls would do. I remembered that the sun always shined on my flat in the morning. So I just started walking away from the sun. Unsure of my idea, I eventually noticed the big clock tower in town. This was the middle of town, I knew where to go from there. I arrived home after a 25 minute walk, took a quick shower, gathered my things, accepted Vera’s friend request, left her a quick message yearning to see her again and took a 15 minute nap. My phone rang and Smashavan was waiting in front of my flat. Off to Prague we went.

Smashavan and his brother picked me up and I was luckily able to have the whole back of the car to myself. I definitely needed this extra space. Smashavan noticed that I looked a little sluggish, “Damn Deezy, did you go out last night?” I laughed, telling them that I was on absolutely no sleep and hoped I wouldn’t puke in his car. My head began to spin again and I got the whomp-whomps. Smashavan said he had some knock-off pain killers for his back he could give me. I took two pills and tried to sleep for the two hour trip while they laughed at my struggle. The pills actually made me feel worse, but I passed out and woke up when we arrived in Prague.

Prague is the second most visited city in the world. It is lined with tram tracks running across it’s cobblestone streets and hounds of people trying to make their way to each famous landmark. The Czech Republic is known for it’s beer as they invented the Pilsner. Although hungover, I couldn’t wait to have some food and cold brew. We couldn’t find anywhere to park and accidently turned down the wrong street. A cop pulled us over and told us we couldn’t drive on the team tracks. Smashavan played the dumb card and luckily they let us off. We eventually found a temporary parking spot. Arguing over whether we could leave the car there for more then the hour limit, we took our chances rather then driving around for another hour.

Knowing it was going to be a nice Spring day in Prague, I thought like a typical Californian would and only wore sandals. Not a smart idea when walking on cobblestone all day. My knees instantly hurt amongst my constant headache and complete body failure due to lack of sleep. I toughened up and we made our way through the thousands of tourists to find a restaurant. Why we chose to eat at T.G.I.F.’s in another country, I had no idea. The food sucked, the prices were double and I was dumb enough to order a Margarita with my looming hangover. The food in my stomach gave me a bit of energy, but the margarita was a different story. I sat there in a daze as Smashavan and his brother caught up with life and family talk. I was actually thinking about Vera and why I didn’t stay with her instead of suffering here. Smashavan got up for a potty break and his brother, O-Nasty, turned the conversation into weed talk. Traveling through Europe for the past week, O-Nasty managed to smuggle some weed in from Amsterdam. In his pocket was a pipe and a fat purple nug suprise. He asked if I’d smoke with him when we had the chance and I quickly obliged with a “fuckin’ hell yeah!” I told him that I didn’t usually chance it during the season because of the risk of random drug testing. Due to the current mental and physical state I was in, I couldn’t turn down a simple puff to relax me. Smashavan didn’t condone anyone smoking weed. We needed the perfect moment to disappear for a secret session of puff puff give. Smashavan became overwhelmingly paranoid about his parking spot. We stood outside watching Smashavan figure out where the Palladium mega mall was. In the blink of an eye Smashavan started walking away from us and said, “I’ll go park the car somewhere else and meet you guys at the Palladium.” Knowing we found our chance to smoke, we could care less where the Palladium was. Smashavan offered a few finger points this way and that way in the general direction of the Palladium. He assured us that we’d have no problem finding it and walked off. O-Nasty and I were ready to blaze it up in Prague.

O-Nasty and I started walking towards the Palladium. For the second time that day I was lost and had no clue where I was. We started making eye contact with every person passing by and yelled at them, “Palladium, Palladium??” We eventually were pointed in the right direction by two fat disgusting chicks and found our destination. Next, we scouted out a spot to blaze. Making sure there were no police around, we inconspicuously sat in the middle of hundreds of people on a bench in front of a random statue. Of course, while O-Nasty packed the bowl with that “stanky Amsterdam purp” other people took a seat right next to us. We didn’t care to relocate as we had to quickly make it to the mall to meet Smashavan. We just enjoyed our smoke session in front of everyone. We engulfed the smoke, slapped our stoner shades on and let our minds become dazed. O-Nasty and I then continued on to the mall.

Holy shit! This was the biggest mall I’d ever been in. I later found out it was one of the biggest malls in Europe. Four towering stories, hundreds of shops and thousands of people. This place was so fucking big that when we went to the directory it took us ten minutes to locate the “you are here” dot. My advanced calculus tests were easier then finding anything on this directory. Maybe it was because we were stoned, but after watching others spend 10 minutes looking at it in confusion, I knew it wasn’t just the weed. How did Smashavan think we would find each other without declaring an exact meeting point. Telling us to meet at the biggest fucking mall around wasn’t too exact in my book. I didn’t have my cell phone and neither did O-Nasty. We instantly became paranoid and had visions of sleeping in the mall overnight. This wasn’t the way I wanted to spend a stoned day in Prague after the night I just went through. I should’ve tried to get pussy instead of this. We started our search for Smashavan by constantly going up and down the escalators hoping to spot Smashavan. No luck. O-Nasty and I stopped and began to make a new stoned man plan. Being 6’9, I figured I would be easy to spot if we split up to find him. Then the spirits of Survivorman and Bear Grylls once again called upon me and said, “stay together in one place and have the rescuer find you.” The garage elevator area would be our safe haven and home base. We were thirsty and travelled to the top story to grab some Orange Fanta and munchies as the high kicked in a bit more. Thirty minutes pass. An hour passes. I was luckily wearing a red long-sleve shirt, so I suppose this was a cruel game of “Where’s Waldo?” Except I was Waldo and I hoped I’d be found. After 80 minutes I told O-Nasty I was going to start screaming Smashavan’s name hoping he’d hear me and appear out of thin air. As soon as I started the yelling game, I heard my name in the distance “DEEEEEEEZZZZZZZZY!” Smashavan came walking towards us and had nothing to say but a simple, “What up guys, sorry, but I couldn’t find a parking spot and there was a lot of traffic.” I guess we could do nothing but continue on in the madness that was the trip to Prague.

We enjoyed the rest of our day walking on the cobblestone and visiting the great sites Prague had to offer. After my hangover subsided I was free to enjoy some peace and quiet in the Prague air. Smashavan brought along the best toy known to man, a frisbee, and we hurled that thing all over the place. It was the most exhausted I’d ever been, except for the one time I went to Chico St. on graduation weekend and didn’t sleep for three days straight. I couldn’t wait to get home and crash on my bed and watch some girl-on-girl lesbian action. Little did I know that the beautiful blonde I met in the disco only the night before would become my fiancee. I guess life is full of risk and reward.

Veezy and Deezy

When you are 18 years old in California your boredom is quite limited; Go to the movies, miniature golf, hang with friends at In & Out, chase girls. Every teenager can’t wait until they 21. Why is that? The magic words: Alcohol, Liquor, Bars, discos, VEGAS BABY. Well, what do you do before then? Some were ballsy enough to buy a fake ID or even steal one at a house party. After watching my white friend A-Rob use an asian’s fake ID and get turned down at every 7-11 in town, I ruled out stealing an ID. Yet, it wasn’t just about drinking or buying alcohol. It was entering places only 21+ year old adults were allowed. Just to smell the drunk folk, listen to others sob about their day at work or watch others karaoke Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” after a few happy-hour cocktails. That’s what it was all about. It was easy to get alcohol from the parents liquor cabinet or ask an older brother, but there was no substitute for being able to enter a local hole in the wall bar or fancy Vegas club. Or was there? Only a few hours drive down south was a place where the under 21 year old crowd travelled to have a taste of that adult life. The wild and dirty border town of Tijuana, Mexico.

A handful of friends and I decided that before college came our way, we should have one of those drunken Summer weekends down south. The plan was to go to San Diego for a few nights. Being poker fanatics, the main purpose of the trip was to gamble at the Indian Casinos (Gambling is legal at 18 years old on the reservation). The trip would be concluded with a night in Tijuana. Once the last of us turned 18 it was time to rock out and head to San Diego, which in German means “Whale’s Vagina,” according to Rob Burgundy. While only half of us experienced what Tijuana had to offer, some were beyond curious and even frightened. It was just a place you had to see for yourself.

One San Diego hotel room for six guys, plenty of beer and excitement all around us. After a few lackluster days at the Indian Casino the time had come to cross over to the other side. Everyone put on their best outfit, pounded a few beers and off we went to the border. A few of our virgin friend crossers had plenty of questions. I didn’t blame them for there were many myths told about Tijuana; Being arrested for public urination, “Federalies” (Mexican Police) stealing money from Americans, Donkey Shows, etc. Maybe some of them held water, but I hadn’t experienced any of this in the past visits. I offered them full protection as I was the biggest of the group and was expected to help out. I just didn’t show them my own fear as I was scared every time I went to Mexico.

Some of us hopped on the train that took us to the border, while the others packed a car and drove. Being a bit intoxicated and chatty we happened to meet a couple girls on the train going our way. They seemed like the type that did this every weekend. One was a skinny white blonde, looked more like a junkie. The other was black with a huge weave and definitely had a chip on her shoulder. Always a smart idea to travel in a big group in Mexico, you just never know what could happen. We chatted and waited for our other friends to arrive and the walk began into Tijuana.

Dirty Pearly Gates - Point of No Return

Funny thing about Mexico was anybody could cross without question, but coming back…that was a different story. So we walked and walked and walked. It must be a quarter mile hike up and down zig-zagged walkways until we reach the dirty pearly gates. The dirty pearly gates are one-way huge steel, circular swinging bars that make it impossible to return once you’ve crossed. In the blink of an eye we were in Mexico. It was about nine o’clock and we were headed to the only strip of clubs we knew, Avenida Revolucion. Getting there wasn’t that difficult, but there were many paths to choose from.We decided to let the veteran junkie girls take the lead. We first crossed over a huge wash that was so pungent I could feel the acid in my stomach churn and slowly approach my throat. We could see some families living down there and somebody asked, “How can they live down there?” A few of us replied in unison, “Welcome, this is Mexico dude!” We approached a familiar town center where I once bargained for a marble chess set ($70 down to $25) and some handmade necklaces. Being nighttime, all the daytime shops were closed making the hustle and bustle of the usually overcrowded center seem like a ghost town. As this walk was never-ending, someone mentioned they had to take a leak. Before I could tell him to hold it he found a mysterious set of stairs in the middle of this ghostly center leading down to a locked door. With no one around but us, he willingly took a few steps down and relieved himself. We carried on and before we knew it we could hear someone yelling Spanish behind us, “Parada, Parada!!” (Spanish for Stop). While I told everyone to keep looking forward, the man was quickly onto my friend Ryano who had just urinated all over Tijuana. As Ryano stopped in his tracks, we noticed the man happened to be a Federalie (Mexican Policeman). Who would’ve thought! The Federalie gathered us up while he went to the crime scene with his flash light to investigate. After seeing the damage, the Federalie approached Ryano and asked for his ID. Ryano handed him his CA drivers license and the Federalie checked it out, obviously knowing we’re all Americanos. Not knowing what to do we started to develop a contingency plan. I knew one thing and one thing only, NEVER let your friends go to jail in Mexico. Those jail stories told by my older friends who visited here in the past always haunted me. Yet, it’s amazing how quick a plan could be developed in such a hostile and sticky situation. We daringly spoke out loud in English thinking the Federalie wouldn’t understand. These were the quick options we came up with; Plan A: Beat the living shit out of the Federalie, as there was only one of him and ten of us, and run as fast as possible out of that area. Plan B: Somehow pay him off and plead to let us go on our way. With two votes for Plan A and the rest for Plan B, the girls took it upon themselves to help us out. The Federalie got on his walkie-talkie and as it sounded as if he was asking for backup, the junkies hesitantly threw money in his face. In America, bribing cops is a no-no, but things changed once over the border in another country. As he denied this offer very quickly, the junkie girls turned on their magic junkie charm and we were somehow let go. The license was handed back and he told us to leave the area. Being a fast walker, I’ve never seen people walk so fast in my life. From danger to safety in a matter of minutes, we slowly made it out of the center and blended in with the other party-goers on Avenida Revolucion. We all couldn’t believe what had just transpired. I guess the myth about urination was right, but for now it remained a myth as we were free to party. What would the rest of this night have in store?

Avenida Revolucion

Avenida Revolucion was lit up with drunk teenagers wanting to enjoy the under-aged adult club life like us. Everywhere we looked was a Mexican bartender blowing a whistle offering a mouth full of tequila. Bright neon signs seemed to go on for an eternity, all of them some kind of bar or club. Starting somewhere in the middle we just randomly made our way into where we saw the most girls; the Sahara Club. This club was as hot and sweaty as the Sahara Desert itself. Yet, with a $25 cover charge and unlimited drinks how could you go wrong. We were sure any other club was the same way and proceeded directly to the bar. Hundreds of blue drinks were aligning the bar. ”What is this?” Someone asked. “An Adidos Mother Fucker!” The bartender replied. Before we could figure out why it was called that, I think we were better to find out the hard way. Plenty of dancing, drinks and drunk fun ensued. A few friends grabbed me and said, “Let’s go to the titty bar across the street.” Already bludgeoned with A.M.F. after A.M.F. a change of scenery was needed.

Ummm..$5 Hand-Job Por Favor?

Leaving the others partying in club, a few of us ventured off across the street to see some quick boob action. One of my friends was beyond excited, already talking of the $5 hand-jobs his other friends told him these strip clubs offered. The Tijuana strip clubs offered a little bit more then your average California strip club. You named it, you pretty much got it. We walked up a long stairway to a bodyguard and Federalie checking ID. Checking ID’s was rare in Mexico, even in the Sahara club we paid $25 and walked right in. I was a little suspicious. As the first of my friends got stamped and entered, I was left with my friend Farzi. Farzi was an American but born in Afghanistan, so he obviously looked the part. He showed them his California Drivers License and they immediately pestered him for more than the stated cover charge. I don’t even think my friends paid a peso to enter. Wondering what was going on, I tried to interfere as they were searching him for his wallet. Being denied by the security guard, Farzi was left helpless. A type of racial profiling was happening and I wasn’t liking it. While I offered my protection, there was nothing I could do. Farzi not knowing what to do handed over what he had and they let us enter. Crushed by what had just happened I tried to brighten his spirits by telling him I’d sponsor him for one of those $5 hand-jobs our friend was talking about. A curtain was opened and smelly body odor, loud whistling and hundreds of boobs struck us. We were escorted by the same men who stole money from my friend to a round table with half broken chairs. While we were already ready to leave because of the incident, we decided to let this play out and enjoy our time staring at naked women. The private dance rooms were fully visible cubicles lining the wall, some with a curtain and some without. Bodily fluids were visible everywhere. Not my type of joint. We could see strippers riding patrons and doing every sexual favor possible. My friend quickly felt that this wasn’t the place to get a cheap hand-job in full view of his closest friends. Disappointed, we finished up our free drinks, enjoyed some of the free titties that were bounced in each of our faces and we were out of there. Not the highlight of the trip, but definitely a vivid memory in our minds.

A tantalizing and tasty A.M.F.

A few friends had already given up on the night and retreated back to the hotel. I think not getting a $5 hand-job pissed off a few of us. The rest of us drank and danced for as long as we could stand upright. Knowing we had to make it back before the train system shut down for the night, we gathered the drunken troops and made the struggling walk back to America. Friends carrying other friends in their arms, people puking on the sides of roads, I guess Tijuana and A.M.F.’s took it out of all of us. Nobody would be left here alone though. The walk sobered a few of us up and before we knew it we were at the border checkpoint. Unlike the free walk into Tijuana, the walk back to America required photo ID checks by American border patrol and random body searches. You handed the officer your ID, it was scanned and checked for outstanding warrants or any other red flags and into America you went. That easy right? Once again, all my friends went through without problems and Farzi and I were left behind. I handed the man my ID first, he asked if I had any contraband on me, I replied, “No, sir” and he wished me a good night. Once you were scanned you were to immediately exit and wait outside. There was no waiting for others inside. I came out to a line of high-fives by my few friends still standing in the wee hours of the morning. “We made it back!” We then waited for the last man, Farzi. Knowing he was next in line behind me, I expected to see him within a few minutes.

Twenty minutes passed by and there was no sign of him. With only one exit, there was no where else he could’ve gone. We remained calm, patient and drunk. Twenty more minutes passed by and we started to worry. There was only a few more minutes left to catch the last train. A few of our friends decided to escape the situation and headed back before there was no way to get back. Only three of us were there standing with no place to sit except the concrete floor. We stood and watched all the wasted teens we saw in the club that night crawl back into America. One hour passed. My friend finally decided to ask the officer standing outside the exit where our friend was. Before he could say a word the officer aggressively pointed and told him to get away from the exit and wait with the others. No help there. We are now completely lost to what could’ve happened. Knowing little about our friends background, we wondered if he needed papers since he was born in Afghanistan. He had a California drivers license and lived in the same city we had since we were kids. I was ignorant to think he was American enough for me. Border patrol wasn’t that ignorant, but if that was the issue how would we know and help him. Four hours passed. We still stood looming in and out of consciousness. We tried to amuse each other with stories from the night. The constant wave of teenagers coming back to America had slowed down to a halt. There was no way we could just leave

No Questions Asked!

Farzi and hope he got out and made it back to the hotel safe. It was now six in the morning, the sun was coming up and as we were half asleep. We awoke to witnessing a Mexican man get almost beaten to death by two black guys right in front of us. We weren’t dreaming at all. Some argument occurred and ended with these men beating another man with a sweater full of rocks. Just more drama for the night/morning. We expected that sort of thing at the border. There was nothing we could do but watch. We knew we needed to get our friend and get out of that hell hole. As the man lay there bloody and sirens ringing in the background an officer yelled one of our names. We looked at each other in relief. Our friend, Champ, walked over and spoke with the officer. He told us that Farzi needed his papers to cross the border and that he is stuck in secondary (The drunk tank/Illegal immigrant room). If he paid $200 they’d release him. A man that was stolen from and taken into custody in secondary. I would guess Farzi was never coming back to Tijuana ever again, unless we couldn’t get him out and he was stuck there forever. Our troubles were far from over as none of us could collectively come up with the money. We called our friends who we assumed were sound asleep in the comfortable hotel bed. No answer from anyone. Us three were still at square one. After numerous attempts and a phone whose battery was about to die, someone finally picked up. We told them of the situation and all they could say was, “I’m not paying $200!” Obviously the Indian Casinos stole everyone’s hard earned cash and we were all broke. After word got around to the others who made it safely back to the hotel, they were on their way back to the border. As they parked their truck and came to save the day, I could only think about laying down. I proceeded to the bed of his truck for a quick nap knowing the situation was going to be handled. Almost two hours later I awoke to Farzi’s voice. They finally let him out. I guess many papers had to be filed and he still had to wait his turn to get out of secondary. Poor guy!

As we originally crossed the border around one in the morning, it was now nine. Eight hours later we were excited to have our friend back alive. We followed this late late night with a trip to Denny’s to hear what happened. The few of us who managed to stand at the border for eight hours could barely keep our eyes open listening to Farzi tell his story. The border patrol was ready to let Farzi go through when they asked him where he was born, Farzi answered, “Afghanistan” and they immediately asked for his green card. When he replied, “I don’t have it” and he didn’t think he needed it, they threw him into secondary, no questions asked. Tough ride for a first time in Tijuana. I guess we all learned a big lesson here, wait until we’re of age to party in our own country!

It all started back in high school. I was the six foot nine, skinny, big eared and big nosed basketball player trying to become accepted and make it to the next level. I lived and breathed basketball. I did all the right things and avoided all the wrong things. Usually, about the second year of high school is when experimenting with the wrong things start for most teenagers. Maybe in the beginning it was only a drag of a cigarette or a sip of alcohol. A few years after the initial taste and usage, it seemed to always lead to more powerful things; weed, pain pills, etc. For me, basketball was my drug all I needed to get by. Having height and basketball talent, I knew I could possibly earn a scholarship for college. Only the wrong things would stop me. So I did my best: studied hard, worked hard, put in extra time to give myself the best chances of succeeding. While being quite shy as a 16 year old, I avoided the weekend partying and drinking. I saw on television and the news that it could only have a negative effect on my life. I had a few good friends and we instead chose computer games and soda. This was my first year on Varsity, our team was top 24 in the nation. I was being seen as a talented young prospect. Yet, I wanted more out of life and to somehow break out of my shell. Meeting new friends and becoming a little more less pussified came with the success of basketball. Then, about halfway through my sophomore year in high school, I was to do the unthinkable. I would get a little risky and attend my first high school party. If you think back to your first high school party, it must still be one of your fondest memories. It’s a big step for anyone’s teenage livelihood, we all seem to grow up on that day. There was just one funny twist to popping my party cherry. I wasn’t going to a party, instead I was going to host and throw the party at my parents house. You got it right…I’ve never even been to a party and I expect to throw one. How would I even know what to do, what to provide, who to tell. Your guess was as good as mine. This one single party would start the monster we’ve all come to call, “The Villa.”

This idea to throw a party was a process in the making. In a few weeks time, I did all the work possible for allowing my parents to let me throw a party. You must understand that throwing a party involves many universes colliding. There was no other hurdle harder to tackle then asking my parents if they would allow me to have this party. This was always step one and the toughest step to get by. You can’t make all the plans and have everyone show up and just hope they say, “OK, let them in.” That wasn’t the way to go. So as I fought off each “NO!” and begged beyond belief, eventually I broke them down. They understood that I was getting good grades, doing well with basketball and fully focused. Why not let their boy have “one” party with a “few” friends for a “few” hours. It was my best acting job yet! You must understand, 99.9% parents would keep that, “No!” till the end. Step one was now complete. I was glad I didn’t have to go with the contingency plan: Wait for the parents to leave town for the weekend and the do what all other teenagers would do, Rage it up! Since they never left town, I was glad they agreed to be there on this glorious occasion. With my parents present during this party, I was sure nothing could get crazy enough to make the night end abruptly. Of course this was the biggest “Yes!” I’ve ever received from my parents. Even bigger then the “Yes” they gave me for when I wanted this huge Lego set (That was accompanied with dramatic crying). Yet, the serious questions would then follow this significant, “Yes.” “Will there be drinking involved?” “Whose coming?” “When is the party over?” and again, “Will there be drinking involved?” Such questions were irrelevant to someone just given permission to throw a party in their parents house. I would just promise it would be a good time and no problems would ensue. I had no clue. They eventually put full trust and control with me. Now what? I was this 16 year old given permission by his parents to invite some friends over and have a great time. With no party experience, I was thinking the possibilities of the night? Would I take my first sip of alcohol or maybe even go as far as to get laid? The curiosity was killing me. I couldn’t just google “How to have a high school party,” as Google was non-existent. Nor could I ask my close friends because I doubted they’ve ever been to any high school party. So I did the next best thing; told the other basketball players. Being the youngest player on the basketball team, I felt the elder guys knew something about parties. I was trying to fit in and thought throwing a party would make me look good. You know the extent people go through to impress. Well I was trying to do such a thing. This was my chance to break out of my pussified shell and maybe earn some respect. After a Thursday practice I daringly told my teammates, “My parents are letting me have a party this weekend after our game. Do you want to come and bring some friends?” A few chuckles quickly turned into a few smiles and a sense of excitement, as they told me, “Yeah of course we’ll be there!” My eyes lit up as this weekend was to be the start of something new inside me. I was only imagining it like the movies: shy basketball player has his first party, people come, people party, everyone talks about it all week…something legendary! Now I’d have to find some more friends to join the festivities. I was wondering who to invite besides the basketball players. Luke was one of my closest friends. He knew of the computer LAN parties we already had. Multiply this by 20 and replace the computers with women and alcohol, sounds like a good time to both of us. Something we both felt could shift our well being. I told a couple of my other friends to invite their friends and figured this was enough needed for a party. The following day at school, I had numerous random students asking when and where my party was. Not to mention some cute older girls who I was always scared to approach, but instead approached me. My own excitement could only be negated by the fact that this was starting to sound like it was to be one of those wild parties. I didn’t even know these people asking about my party. If I tell them about my party, are they going to tell others? My thoughts and emotions flooded. The last thing I wanted to do was piss my parents off. I just told myself, “parents said yes, basketball players said yes, just tell everyone yes!” I thought most that asked would not come anyways. Most of these people would just chicken out anyways. Right? Sounding like plenty of people would end up coming, I let the party plans take care of itself. There was one day and one basketball game standing in my way before the big Friday night. I went to sleep focused on the game, but overpowering thoughts of a wild and crazy night plagued my mind.

I was drenched in sweat as we headed back to my house after the game. The pressure of the game was off my shoulders as we smashed one of our rivals by 30. I had a solid game with a rafter roaring big dunk at the end of the game. The emotions slowly faded away as I remembered the best part of the night was to come. I could only turn my focus back to party mode. After settling down and removing some of the valuables and items that could be damaged due to partying, I cleaned up and put my best outfit on. Black Basketball shorts, white t-shirt and sandals. Cali style of course, but it also told everyone, I was laid back and had done this before. Anticipation grew as time ticked by slowly. A few of my friends were already there and helped setup all the necessary party items: chips, dip, soda, cups. Of course my parents supplied some nice “munchies” for all to eat. We were too young to drink alcohol, so that obviously wasn’t provided. I’d never drank alcohol, but also didn’t care if it was there or not. I was sure it would be present and very prevalent. I just wanted a good and safe time, but didn’t know what to expect. With many confused lights driving down the street, it was only obvious this was the start of the party train. Standing outside with my Dad, we watched the fighting for parking as the first guests arrived; my basketball teammates. They entered my home and began to munch on the chips and drinks provided. A conversation ensued about the night’s game which calmed my nerves. I began to be less worried about the night and it being so perfect. Only a few moments later, the door bell rang. The first few friends of my teammates showed up. We greeted them with handshakes and I offered them into my house. I ran over to crank the music louder and the party was off and running.

It was a tick past Midnight. The smell of booze covered the whole house. The music had reached it’s maximum volume. Every couch was full with strangers I’d never seen in my life. In fact, the whole house was full with people I’ve never seen before. To this day, I’d never seen that many people in our house at one time. As soon as the first door bell rang, the tsunami of people seemed to not stop. Luckily, it was a spring day and we had very tolerable weather at night. The backyard was an escape from the sound, smells and overcrowding of the house. Everyone seemed to be having a great time. There had to have been about 120 people there. My parents had the most confused look on their face. I didn’t know if they were enjoying this or wondering if their house was going to collapse. With the river of people between us, I could only step outside for some fresh air. I was then confronted by a few of my older brother’s friends. Them being over 21, they had all the access to alcohol they wanted. They made about 4 runs to the liquor store up the street for everybody and profited a few dollars from the under-aged teens. Nothing was more exciting to them then watching teenagers get wasted and make fools of themselves. They asked me if I wanted one, then quickly shoved it in my face, “Just taste it.” Until this point in the party, I was drug-free in my life. What also crossed my mind at this exact moment was the time I won the D.A.R.E. award for an essay I once wrote in the 6th grade pledging to lead a drug-free life. I never said I promised! They knew I hadn’t drank before and this was their chance to put the pressure on. Scared of my parents seeing, I got out of their sight grabbed the beer and took a swig. My face cringed with bitterness. They assured me that the more I drank, the better it tasted. After a few laughs they handed me two bottles of Bud Ice and carried on. I walked away from them knowing I just took a step into the dark side. Something I was so curious about, had now become reality. I tasted my first alcoholic beverage. I didn’t think much of it, but it also tasted horrible. As big of a thing it was for some, I thought there was more to life then beer. I knew my time would come when it would be as refreshing and relaxing as they marketed it on television.

The night was rolling out as imagined. The taste of beer made me curious. I didn’t like the taste but knew it had some powerful effects unknown to me. Only a few minutes later, after my beer tasting, I would run into one of our statisticians from our basketball team. Both of our “stat girls” were two of the more sexier and popular girls on campus. I knew this one had a thing for bad boys, alcohol and partying. Her being two years older and taken, she was definitely out of my league. I was still too shy to hold a full conversation with a girl without getting nervous. Nonetheless, we shared one common fact; we had the same birthday. She approached me and said, “Hey Dustin! Crazy party, you want a shot of vodka with me birthday buddy?” I was excited that she remembered me as her birthday buddy, but not excited for the vodka. I just had a sip of beer for the first time ever, now ten minutes later I was stepping up to vodka. How could I resist her dimples and popularity? Everything was happening so fast that I told her quickly and confidently, “Sure!” As we clinked our shot glasses, I noticed that this time I was in the vision of my parents. Not letting anything stop this moment, I took the shot down and immediately gagged. My throat was on fire. I could feel the McDonalds in my stomach start to churn. She handed me some Orange Juice and I quickly recovered. With a look of struggle on my face, I thanked her for the shot. My parents barged over and reprimanded me for taking the shot. “Dustin, you are too young for alcohol…” The cute “stat girl” interrupted them abruptly and introduced herself. We all then talked about the amount of alcohol, people and the noise our party was creating outside. I figured that my parents were surprised at how full the house was and not so enthused with the amount of under-aged drinking. I had a feeling this was the peak of the party and it would all calm down. Already satisfied with the way things have turned out. I was willing to let this fun end, but the vodka was slowly kicking into my body. As my parents retreated upstairs for a few minutes. I was introduced to another shot of vodka. This was all the fuel my fire would need to let it all hang out. Time and thoughts all started to slow down as I was feeling drunk for the first time. As the crowds started to thin out, I could only see intoxicated smiles and drunken inhibitions. Everything still seemed under control as I continued my drunken chatter with the only thing that mattered at that moment, the “stat girl.”

Yelling, screaming and bottles flying. The floods of people seemed to get sucked out of the front door in one quick motion. In this commotion I heard the worst words you’d want to hear at a party, “FIGHT!” My senses quickly arose as I needed to find out who, what, where and why. I heard pots shatter as the masses rushed out the door trying to see the action. Two drunken guys seemed to want to duke it out on my front lawn over a girl. I quickly yelled to my parents and brother’s friends to help out in this situation. The fight cascaded onto the neighbors lawn. With all the yelling and screaming from the hundred people still in attendance, the fight eventually came to a halt. The two were separated, both still arguing and bleeding from the face. In the background can be heard, “Everyone get the fuck out of my house now!” These words would be forever echoed throughout the numerous parties that would be held in our home. My Dad had spoken! As the crowds suddenly dispersed. You could see that some of party goers didn’t want this all to end. The sounds of sirens could be heard in the distance. Once the flashing lights turned onto our street, teenagers scattered like cockroaches in the light. Unfortunately, about 30-40 people ran into our house frightened. Two cop cars stopped in front of our house to inspect the scene. They approached my Dad and I and told us they got a disturbance call from the neighbors. We told them we had a party and it turned into a fight in the street, but most of the party goers had left. One of the officers worked on our high school campus and recognized who I was. We spoke about basketball for a few minutes and they suddenly overheard something on their radios. The police told us to keep it down and not to have them come back. After we complied to pick up the bottles and cans left behind in the street, they wished me luck on the season and carried on. I was beyond frightened and nervous because of the numerous under-aged drinkers known by the cops. I would come to learn that what stays inside was our business and anything outside was theirs. The party was now cut down to a few of my teammates, my close friends, and a handful of other wasted girls and guys scared to leave. Without the masses of people inside you could closely see the dirty floors and trash everywhere. My parents felt as if their house was destroyed. With my Dad being a carpet/upholstery cleaner, the floors and furniture could always be restored to their original shine. Otherwise, it would just take an hour of cleaning the trash and putting everything back in its original place. With a promise to keep the rest of the people quiet and to clean up, my parents resigned for the night. As they seemed disappointed with the outcome of the party, I could only relish in the events of this night. I accomplished partying for the first time. While it was one I was hosting, I felt as if I had done this before. Yet, this was my first time and I was changed forever. I made new friends, tried beer, had shots of vodka, a conversation with a pretty girl, saw a fight and felt the drunk tiredness that comes with being up until 4 a.m. As friends filled the couches and floors passed out, I could only go to sleep knowing that this party was a success and a night to remember.

Ten years after this momentous occasion. The house we’ve come to know as “The Villa”  has continued on in its glory. Through high school and college the parties would continue. How my parents let these parties rage, I have no clue. It all began from that single “Yes!” which granted me permission to throw my first house party. Ever since then, I found a way to convince my parents the next party wouldn’t be as out of hand as the previous one. Those of you who are frequent visitors to The Villa can attest that they did get more wild with age, but we learned something new from every “gathering.” I think the ego of The Villa got the better side of every person that passed through there and it became its own monster. The parties became so popular and frequent that one night in high school, after a basketball game, we went to eat a family dinner. As we drove home and approached our house, we saw numerous cars parked on our street. Only to see a usual Saturday night party happening in our own house. The problem was I had no plans for a party that night and some how a friend managed to let himself inside and start one. I can tell you that one ended quickly. Just one of the many things to happen at The Villa. We came to call my house, “The Villa” as to trick others into thinking we weren’t partying at my infamous house. Instead of saying let’s go to Dustin’s, it became, “The Villa.” It worked most of the time, but otherwise became just a funny thing between my group of friends. “Let’s go to the Villa!” Always after a busted high school party in our city, the heads turned to me as if I was going to continue the post party at my house. Cars would always follow us in a train-like fashion hoping we were going to my house. We would drive to a fast-food joint and wait for them to stop tailing us and continue on. My friends and I eventually understood that less was actually more. As the years went by, mass parties slowed down and were saved for only big occasions: birthdays, special holidays, and my surprise visits home from college. The Villa rather turned into just a daily gathering of all my friends to play video games, talk, laugh and later on drink and get faded. My parents allowed it knowing we were safe in the comfortability of their own home. With my parents being deep sleepers, my friends knew that the more quiet we were the longer the night. Without my parents this wouldn’t have been possible, but my friends helped build The Villa into the getaway and hangout spot for my friends. Since I’ve been living in Europe playing professional basketball, The Villa has been recently retired from mass parties and gatherings. The Villa is always welcome to a few good friends to have a fun time and relax. As long as my parents live there, I’m sure it will forever be that one house that we’ve all shared memories at. We all understand one thing: The Villa is the place where memories will never be forgotten and laughs will always continue! I’m sure it has a place in many of our hearts!