First-Team All-Swindle, I

There is a catch, though. A huge, almost-six-digit catch. You see (sigh), the one-year Medill Master’s program costs (gulp) $84,000 (tear).

I recently received news that, in my mind, confirms two things beyond any doubt:

(1) I have the chops to be a real journalist, not just a nary-read blogger
(2) God or the cosmos or whatever it is that controls the world seems to have condemned me to a life of teaching English and blogging

(You can skip this bit of bio and get to the basketball-in-China stuff by going to Part II…)

In the middle of March, I learned that I was admitted into Northwestern’s prestigious Medill Master’s in Journalism program. There are few better programs in the country – or at least few programs with Northwestern’s reputation (it’s hard to tell sometimes what’s more important). The list of big-time sports journalists to go through the Medill school is staggering: Michael Wilbon of ESPN and the Washington Post; J.A. Adande of the Los Angeles Times and ESPN; Kevin Blackistone of the Dallas Morning News; Mike Greenberg of ESPN; Jon Heyman of Sports Illustrated; Brent Musberger of ABC and ESPN; Adam Schefter of ESPN; yadda, yadda, yadda. The list goes on. Basically, if you’re a sports fan, there is a decent chance that you have ingested coverage from a Northwestern alum in the past week. And for me, an aspiring sports writer who is stuck in a far corner of the world, going to Northwestern would be a way to insure that I never find myself scavenging the basketball courts of Jinan, China, in an attempt to find things to write about.

There is a catch, though. A huge, almost-six-digit catch. You see (sigh), the one-year Medill Master’s program costs (gulp) $84,000 (tear). I knew that when I applied, but the number was so outrageous that I kind of shrugged it off: Sure, they may list the price at $84,000, but there is no way they can honestly expect people to pay that. Get in and get scholarships, I thought.

The instant I got accepted, I went to a local computer store and printed out the necessary paperwork to procure some financial aid – a 2009 1040 Form, the NU financial aid application, a letter explaining that, you know, I’ve been working in China and have no money. I shot it off in the mail and, six days later, called the Northwestern financial aid folks to make sure they received everything they needed to award me financial aid. They assured me they had, and for the first time since the summer of 2008, a sense of having everything in order washed over me: I’d teach through the summer, go back in August, head up to Northwestern in plenty of time for the Sept. 20 start date. Yeah, there were logistical concerns – I needed a place to live, I would probably need to buy a new camera, etc. But for the most part, I was set. I was going to the best journalism school in the country, and afterward, I’d (finally) be on my way to procuring a job. Like, a real job.

But then I saw the financial aid package Northwestern offered me, and the ray of sun that had been following me around for the past month turned to a dark, dark cloud. Of that $84,000 total, Northwestern offered me only $12,000 in grants and scholarships; the rest of it was loans. It doesn’t take an egghead to do the math on that: I’d have to swallow $72,000 in loans. And really, it’s more than that. With the help of a financial adviser, I crunched the numbers and figured out that I’d have to pay about $790 per month for 10 years to repay that debt. Because of interest, that comes out to about $94,000 over 10 years. If this were law school or medical school or an avenue into some high-paying industry, I wouldn’t blink at $72,000 worth of debt. But this is journalism, where even good jobs don’t pay that much. If I paid $790 per month, that’s roughly $9,500 per year, and I have no idea when I will have a job where $9,500 isn’t at least one-fourth of my annual salary – even with a degree from Northwestern. I’d gladly take on $30,000, maybe even $40,000 worth of debt. But $72,000? My god.

I sent out a dozen emails to various contacts I have in the journalism biz – editors, writers, friends. I asked them, basically, if it was worth it: Is taking on gobs of debt to go to Northwestern at least going to insure that I have a place in the industry. Without fail, their answers were tepid. (Well, except last one here, which basically says it would be a gargantuan waste of money.)

* If the writing market isn't there, there's always teaching. I would think that getting a grad degree would set you up on that front!…

* But does it really HELP you? Depends on what tangible evidence you can show prospective employers when you’re done with school besides a line on your resume. At the rare times I’ve gotten to hire, the work that’s been done always speaks volumes louder than the school you went to or the grades you got, and the journalism experience OUTSIDE the classroom usually proves to be the most valuable. If you want to be a reporter, what you really need are good, recent clips reflecting varied internships and experience at multiple professional organizations….

* I have a master's in Creative Writing. I acquired it through scholarships and teaching assistantships and avoided debt. The discipline of graduate school is good for you. And congrats on getting into such a respected school. But would I recommend taking on a big debt for that degree in journalism?

The honest answer is that I – [anonymous person] – would not. I love in fact that good journalists don't need the advanced degrees. But it would give you the option to teach. Or a better chance at teaching. Which is a good fallback….

* That's a really, really tough call. I am not big [on] debt (who is, right?). But that is a great school with a sterling reputation and a lot of contacts…. It's also amazing to me how many people (including my wife) have the option to teach journalism if they need tom, as long as they have a master's degree. And having a master's from such a great school could be beneficial in a lot of way….

* If this is what you really want to do, then Northwestern or any other master's program is a waste. A master's won't really impress anyone in this business. If you're hoping to teach, that might be a different story. Someone else might have better information on that. But as far as being a reporter or editor, no. A master's won't help you get or keep a job and the debt you're talking about would just be a huge burden for absolutely no benefit. If anything, this business is going to less formal education….

Of course, I don’t want to teach. That’s kind of the whole point of me going back to school (so I can quit teaching) and this blog (so I can divert my mind from teaching). I know teaching English here is different than teaching, say, high school journalism back home. But still, I don’t like teaching. I don’t have the patience to teach. I want to be a journalist.

But unless something drastic happens in the next week – like, say, I fall into $70,000 – I simply don’t see how I can justify it.

So there it is – how it’s possible to have the best news of the year turn into the worst news. Congratulations! You, the 24-year-old desperate to be a journalist, have been admitted to the best journalism school in the country (world?)! Now, here’s your piddly financial aid package. Go find $70,000 – psst…it’ll be more like $95,000 when all is said and done – and come on board!

Part of me wonders if I am just being a wuss, if I need to bite the bullet and swallow the debt if this is really what I want to do. Another part of me wonders if that is a decision that could ruin the next 10 years of my life.

First-Team All-Swindle, II

When Jonathan asks about particular players, Goel nods knowingly and – in a feat that many US basketball fans couldn’t achieve – proceeds to list their numbers.

I write for a few hours and then watch basketball to round out the morning. There is a 9:30 a.m. tip between the Spurs and Mavericks, but before the game starts there are highlights reels galore – the Top 10 Blocks of the Year, the Top 10 Buzzer Beaters of the Year, etc. Then there is a Jason Kidd commercial in which he’s advertising his Peak brand shoes. Kidd is one of the handful of U.S. players – along with Shane Battier and Ron Artest, to name a few – to have been signed to deal with Peak. The commercial is hokey – there are tight shots of Kidd trying to get around his defender while he says something in English about how, on the court, “You are your own worst enemy.” Then, after he makes a move around the defender, the opponent is revealed to be…Jason Kidd! Artsy, huh?

Other NBA-on-TV notes:

• There was no game yesterday* because there was an all-day commemoration of the earthquake victims last week.

* This was originally written on April 21.

• During the Mavericks-Spurs game, Dirk Nowitzki receives a curious technical foul. I never figure out why he was T’ed up because, alas, the announcers are speaking Chinese.

• At one point Caron Butler is shooting two free throws during a Mavericks run. After he cans the first shot, he turns to the home crowd and waves his arms to rile them. I’ve never seen anything like it: someone about to shoot a free throw who is nonetheless imploring the crowd to make noise. They oblige; Butler hits the free throw.

• The Spurs really annoy me.

After a few hours of watching the NBA playoffs, it’s off to SNU, where hopefully I can allay my heart-pounding anxiety over graduate school, jobs and my life in general. I immediately start talking to a Chinese guy who I meet on the sidelines named Goel. He is wiry, probably about 20 years-old, and wearing a button-down flannel shirt and jeans. He ends up playing with my buddy Jonathan and I, and after we lose a game, Jonathan takes to asking Goel some questions.

Jonathan was born in Boston – and likes to let people know that he was born in Boston – and with the NBA Playoffs now underway, he has been particularly enamored with his Celtics. So Jonathan sets out to test (a) Goel’s English, (b) his NBA knowledge, and (c) whether or not he likes the Celtics.

Well, Goel doesn’t only speak English, and doesn’t only know about the NBA, but also likes the Celtics. When Jonathan asks about particular players, Goel nods knowingly and – in a feat that many US basketball fans couldn’t achieve – proceeds to list their numbers.

Rondo? “Yes. Very good. Number nine.” Allen? “Ah...Twenty.” Garnett? “Yes. Number five. He was the best until he injured. His knee is...freak.” Seeing as Goel was at a university and playing basketball, it’s no stunner that he knows a bit of English and knows a bit of basketball. But to list off players’ numbers? That’s above and beyond. Thing is, he wasn’t done waxing eloquent about the NBA.

Once Jonathan finishes his masturbatory line of questioning about the Celtics, I ask Goel about my favorite player, Steve Nash, who plays for the Phoenix Suns. Nash’s list of endearing qualities abound. First off, he’s a joy to watch. Watching him is like those days in high school when teachers would flip on a movie: a true reprieve from the sometimes overwhelming monotony of the NBA. He is the point guard of the highest-scoring team in the NBA, and as such it’s his responsibility to orchestrate and moderate a breakneck pace the entire game. He does this as well as anyone ever has, and in 2010, at age 36, became the became the oldest player in history to lead the league in assists. In addition, he is a 6-2 point guard who happens to have the efficiency of a power forward – this season, for instance, he shot 50.7 percent from the field. That was better than any guard in the league save Rajon Rondo (Number nine!), who shot 50.8 percent...but took less than one-third as many three-pointers as Nash...and scored three points less per game.

What’s more, Nash just doesn’t look the part of a big-time basketball player. And I’ve stepped into enough all-black gyms – and been immediately written off because of my appearance – to have a special appreciation for someone who thrives in the face of stereotypes. I even spent the summer of 2005 being called “Steve Nash” at a local gym because, like Nash, I had long, shaggy hair, and because, like Nash, I was one of the rare white dudes playing.

The Suns were being broadcast on Chinese television one morning last month, and, because Nash was on, I made my girlfriend watch for a little while. “Him?” she asked almost incredulously. “He is your favorite player?! He’s so...spindly.” That’s not the word I would have used, but it’s an apt one nonetheless. Nash is indeed spindly, which, in my mind, makes him that much more likeable. The point guard position is getting more and more freakish – guys like Derrick Rose (who is a hoss) and Deron Williams (who is built like a running back) and John Wall (who one pundit described as having “extraterrestrial athleticism”). Point guards are getting bigger and stronger and, more than anything, younger. Yet here’s little old Steve Nash – literally, he’s little and old – still producing outlandish numbers and eye-pleasing basketball. (One more Nash tidbit: During the 2003 All-Star weekend – a couple months after the US had invaded Iraq – Nash addressed the media wearing a shirt that said, “Shoot baskets, not people.” Love it.)

Turns out Goel is impressed with Nash, too. “Nash is amazing,” he says. “He is – how many years? He is 32 years-old? And he is still incredible.” Nash is actually 36, but who’s keeping track. “A player who is very old and is still good like Nash is amazing.” Touché, Goel. Touché.

Goel rounds out his impressive interview with Jonathan and myself when he nails the final question: Who is the best? A lot of people in China will say Kobe Bryant. An increasing amount will say LeBron James. And there is still a segment of the population that will say Tracy McGrady (more on that here). But Goel displays an appreciation for history – and an understanding of the game – when he answers.

Who is the best player? Jonathan asks. To which Goel – like it was a moronic question – blurts out, “Jordan! Of course Jordan!”

***

Goel, Jonathan and I are joined by another foreign teacher named John (who was introduced here). John has a husky build and, it turns out, a bit of a mean streak on the court. Jonathan and I had spent the previous hour building a repoire with the Chinese players in attendance, but that guan xi is washed away in John’s first game. He plays with an intensity that is foreign to these courts, at least this court on this day. He uses his elbows to get rebounds. He refuses to accept other players’ foul calls. At one point, while being guarded tightly by someone on the other team, he thrusts the ball into the guy to clear space – shoving him, basically, with the ball. Yeah, John was getting fouled, but such an unabashed display is still uncommon. The thought that he was in the wrong never crosses John’s mind.

I’ve played in games here at Shandong Normal University where John would have fit right in. A lot of dudes here do seem to relish getting after it and playing with a fire (Cliché Alert! Cliché Alert!). Those games, though, are usually closer to the entrance, closer to Court No. 1. That seems to be the epicenter of competition, and the further you get from No. 1, the more laid back it gets, like the concentric rings of a dart board where the bull’s-eye is Court No. 1.

Right now, we’re about four courts away; the competitive residue doesn’t stretch to these parts. And while Jonathan and I are both competitive, we have the wherewithal to see that today, here, things are amicable and not intense. We were keeping score, but we were also laughing. There were fouls being committed, but they were also being called and acknowledged. There were people chasing down rebounds, but very few of them came with elbows attached – until John arrived. Jonathan and I cringe at the way John is playing and hope that he realizes we aren’t playing our district rival on a Friday night. He never does.

Even with John’s, uh, zest, our team’s winning streak ends at two. Thus, Jonathan, John, Goel and myself walk over to the sidelines. My eyes are trained on the pile of bags, clothes and water bottles sitting at the base of the hoop. My backpack sits there, next to Jonathan’s, a water bottle resting invitingly atop each bag. We guzzle down some water and give that deep, quenched, post-drink exhale. Goel, though, can’t find his water – or his bag. He looks around like someone who is late for work and can’t find his keys. He peels back shirts and backpacks. He looks all along the sideline, and then looks again in all the spots he just looked. Nothing.

“What’s wrong?” Jonathan asks.

“My bag. It is not here.” What’s in it? “My money, my ID card, and my phone.”

He continues to look and John asks if he wants to call his phone. (Don’t think John’s a bad guy. Just competitive.) Goel gratefully says yes and calls his phone. The thief answers, and we listen to Goel speak in Chinese, trying to decipher what is going on by reading Goel’s face.

He hangs up and says that the guy who answered wants 200 yuan. Goel is to meet him later, with 200 bucks, and then he will get his things back. We extend our honest condolences – really, if could have been our stuff that got jacked – but Goel doesn’t seem too upset about it. He’s taking it in stride.

Goel says that he will need to call the guy back in a few minutes and asks if it’s OK if he uses John’s phone. John doesn’t hesitate – of course he could use it. Goel makes another call and I sit down next to Jonathan, on his left, while Goel paces back and forth a few feet away. Quietly, I say to Jonathan, “Feels like a swindle.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just seems a little weird, doesn’t it? His bag is gone but he doesn’t seem to care. Now he needs to pay a guy 200 bucks, but he doesn’t have his wallet. I give it five minutes until he asks us for 200 yuan.” I can’t tell whether or not Jonathan agrees with my cynical conspiracy theory. But he at least thinks it’s interesting. “I never thought about that,” he says, shaking his head and smirking just slightly.

My suspicions pique when Goel says to John, “Can I take your phone?” John is more than compliant. “Thanks! I’ll be back in five minutes.” Goel then jogs out of the entrance, past Court No. 1. Upon exiting the gate, his jog turns to a sprint. I think – but don’t say – There goes your phone, John.

First-Team All-Swindle, III

“You got tea-scammed?” she asked excitedly, as though it were part of the experience of going to Shanghai. And then it hit me – I was scammed.

My cynicism regarding Chinese swindles isn’t natural. It has been learned – the hard way. The first time I was swindled in China was in 2007, when my brother and I went to Urumuqi, the capital of Xinjiang Province. On the bus from the airport to our hotel, we were befriended by a guy who spoke pretty good English. We chatted for a while and, when we were about 15 minutes from the hotel, he tossed us a sales pitch about his tour group, Turpan Happy Tours. We could pay 400 yuan for an all-inclusive package that included trips to a series of things that my brother and I wanted to see anyway. We would ride camels and go to a grape farm and peer into ancient caves and do other things unique to the Urumuqi area; this guy’s taxi-driver friend would provide the transport. Sounded good.

The dude came to the hotel with us. Inside the hotel was a huge poster featuring package-deals that included many of the same sights that this guy was offering. The major difference was that those tours were considerably more expensive. Thus, we agreed to terms: four-hundred yuan; sites A, B, C, D and E; his friend would drive; 8 a.m. tomorrow morning.

Come 8 a.m., his friend rolled up in a nice taxi – even had leather seats. We would first go to the furthest destination, where camels and caves awaited. Well, instead of getting on a camel straight-away, which is what we were anticipating, we were first asked to pay. “No,” my brother said in his broken but serviceable Chinese. “We already paid.” No we hadn’t, they said. “Yes, we gave 400 yuan to this guy,” at which point we showed then the Turpan Happy Tour card.

Turned out the 400 yuan wasn’t all that inclusive. This wasn’t what we were led to believe, of course. The Happy Tour was to include transportation and admission to all these sites. Not so. Thus, we ended up being nickel-and-dimed all day. Money for the camels. Money to enter the caves. Money to traipse around the grape farm. Money here, there and everywhere. The Turpan Happy Tour turned into a Turpan Crappy Tour.

More recently, I was swindled last fall in Shanghai. While walking around the city center, a nice-looking group of four approached me to chat. They were all Chinese and said that they were on vacation. They’d just gone to an art museum, and they were now on their way to get tea. They invited me to join them, but I declined. The woman who spoke the best English persisted. “Please,” she said. “You need to experience a Chinese tea ceremony. You seem so nice!”

I had other things on the docket, so I again said thanks but no thanks. Afterward, though, I felt a twinge of remorse. Maybe I should have gone, I thought. I mean, it probably would have been cool – experiencing a Chinese tea ceremony (whatever that was) with a bunch of Chinese people. It was a missed opportunity.

Luckily, though, about four hours later I was again approached to have tea. A pair of guys shot the breeze with me for about two minutes and then casually said, “Well, my cousin and I are going to have tea now. Have you ever been to a Chinese tea ceremony?” No! “Would you like to come?” Yes! I didn’t hesitate; I wasn’t going to miss another chance to experience a Chinese tea ceremony (whatever that was) with some Chinese people.

The sanctity of the ceremony was offset by the fact that it was held on an upper floor of a shopping center, that you had to walk past a series of clothing stores and manicurists to get there, and that the hostess of the occasion was wearing jeans. Whatever, I thought. Just Westernization.

The three of us sat down opposite the jean-clad hostess, who explained the prices. It would cost 39 yuan per person just to be there, and then 49 yuan for each variety of tea we drank. I was a little taken aback by the prices; it seemed insanely overpriced. But, then again, we were in Shanghai, and things are expensive in Shanghai. Plus, I was on vacation. What the hell!

There was a hokey explanation for what each tea was supposed to do – this one is good for your breathing; this one is good for men. After about 15 minutes and two different teas, the bill came to 137 yuan per person. I gave one of the guys 150 yuan, and he left the room with the hostess. The third guy didn’t pay anything, but explained while we were alone that his cousin was spotting him. I got my 13 yuan back and felt good as I left. I may have foolishly forewent a cultural experience when I passed on tea this morning, but at least I made up for it.

That night I met my friend, who was teaching in Shanghai, for dinner. She asked what all I did today. I told her that I went to an English language bookstore – can’t find those in Jinan – walked around the Bund, etc., etc. Shanghai stuff, basically. “Oh, and I went this tea ceremony thing.”

“You got tea-scammed?” she asked excitedly, as though it were part of the experience of going to Shanghai. And then it hit me. Yes, I was scammed. One-hundred thirty-seven yuan for a few sips of tea and 15 minutes of sitting in an annex buried atop a mall, presided over by some bimbo wearing jeans and paid for by an invisible exchange that took place outside the room? Scammed, indeed.

I have friends who have been scammed, as well. And heck, maybe there are other times when I’ve been scammed and I didn’t even realize it. Basically, scamming in China is not uncommon. And when Goel disappeared and informed us that he needed 200 yuan, it reeked of a scam.

Jonathan, John and I continue to play basketball. John’s intensity never relinquishes, and our squad rarely loses. Eventually, though, we tire of playing and decide it’s time to head out. Jonathan and I stuff our money and phones into our pockets, noticing that John’s phone is still nowhere to be found. Nor was Goel. I then give my phone to John to call his phone to see what was going on. Goel answers and says that he’d be about five minutes.

The three of us slowly walk over to the entrance and sit down next to Court No. 1, waiting for Goel. The people playing there invite us to join them, but we are played out. Five minutes passes and Goel is nowhere to be found; my swindle theory is looking stronger and stronger.

Then a cop car rolls up. Goel hops out of the backseat and jogs over to John to give him his phone. “Sorry!” He says. “Sorry I was gone a long time!” John earnestly isn’t upset and tells Goel not to worry about it. Jonathan asks what happened. “I called them to meet and give them the 200 yuan, but they said that they wanted more money. So I called the police.” He punctuates this last sentence by pointing to the police car. “Sorry again,” Goel says to John.

“It’s no problem,” John assures him. “Good luck getting your stuff back.”

I don’t know if Goel ever did get his things back. I do know, however, that he wasn't swindling us or trying to trick us. Nonetheless, I successfully tricked myself.

Los Suns Couldn't Rise in China

This hullabaloo wouldn’t happen in China for a multitude of reasons. For one, Chinese journalists have as their Editor-in-Chief the Chinese government.

Nothing too unusual about this morning’s NBA playoffs broadcast. The Suns-Spurs game was aired on CSPN – China’s all-sports equivalent to ESPN – and presided over by a pair of commentators/analysts who were waxing on the game from thousands of miles and 10 times zones away.

As tempting as it is to rant about the Suns, my favorite NBA team, I’ll stick to the point and not get sidetracked on how awesome Steve Nash is, or how tortured the Suns’ recent history has been – especially against the Spurs. After all, the best Suns team in recent memory, the 2007 squad, was ousted by the Spurs in the playoffs in no small part because later-jailed NBA official Tim Donaghy famously and brutally fixed Game 3. I won’t talk about any of that stuff. Promise.

Instead, what struck me about this morning’s game was the idea of Phoenix’s “Los Suns” jerseys happening in China. The idea of a blatant political statement being made…on (inter)national television…highlighting and criticizing a governmental decision…and it being allowed to happen!

And not only allowed to happen, but even admiringly referenced by the president. Obama, after all, addressed a crowd Wednesday by saying, “I know that a lot of you would rather be watching tonight’s game – the Spurs versus Los Suns from Phoenix.”

The Chinese parallel would be something like Xinjiang’s CBA team wanting to wear alternate jerseys in a show of support for the region’s reportedly-repressed Uighur population; the CBA allowing (and supporting) it; President Hu Jintao taking a moment to make a quip about to the press; the story getting huge media play.

This wouldn’t – couldn’t – happen in China.

A quick background on the Los Suns thing. Arizona recently passed legislation mandating that immigrants carry documentation at all times proving that they are in the country legally. The legislation also permits law enforcement officials – “when practicable” – to ask for said documentation at any time, from anyone.

The aim of the law, according to Republican Arizona Gov. Jan Brewer, is to help identify and prosecute illegal immigrants. Brewer added that it was “another tool for our state to use as we work to solve a crisis we did not create and the federal government has refused to fix.” It is the most stringent such law in the United States.

Not everyone is for it, however. Obama, for instance, said that the legislation threatens “to undermine basic notions of fairness that we cherish as Americans, as well as the trust between police and our communities that is so crucial to keeping us safe.” A statement from the Mexican American Legal Defense and Education Fund said that the law could spur “a spiral of pervasive fear, community distrust, increased crime and costly litigation, with nationwide repercussions.” And Los Angeles Cardinal Roger M. Mahony went so far as to say the demand for immigration documents was akin to “Nazism.”

And it’s not just politicians and Mexican groups and religious figures who are against the law. The Suns are against it too, and that’s why they were wearing jerseys that said “Los Suns” – to protest the law and show solidarity with Arizona’s large Mexican population.

The Suns have been unabashed about their displeasure with the law. The team’s owner, Robert Sarver, said the other day, “The frustration with the federal government’s failure to deal with the issue of illegal immigration resulted in passage of a flawed state law. However intended, the result of passing the law is that our basic principles of equal rights and protection under the law are being called into ….”

And after Tuesday’s practice, Steve Nash said, “I think the law is very misguided. I think it’s, unfortunately, to the detriment of our society and our civil liberties. I think it's very important for us to stand up for things we believe in. As a team and as an organization, we have a lot of love and support for all of our fans. The league is very multicultural. We have players from all over the world, and our Latino community here is very strong and important to us.”

Such public displays of political discontent – and media coverage of that discontent – would simply not happen in China. Period.

There are no direct analogies to this Phoenix Suns scenario. The Chinese government has a tight handle on these things – protests, and the manner in which protests are portrayed by the media. Media in China, after all, are controlled (or at least heavily censored) by the government. So even if there were an unabashed attempt to protest a governmental decision, say, like the Phoenix Suns did, it would only become news if the government allowed it to become news. And that’s only if it were allowed to happen – which it probably wouldn’t be.

For instance, foreign protesters who unfurled a pro-Tibet flag in 2008 were arrested, jailed and then expelled from the country. Later, China closed Mount Everest as a preventative measure to thwart any more protests.

In his book Oracle Bones, author Peter Hessler writes about a religious anniversary – a day rife with protest potential – that he witnessed in Tiananmen Square in 2000:

…a small man directly in front of us drops into lotus position. Shouts, commands, people running: a half-dozen plainclothes cops. By the time they force the man to his feet, a van is already speeding toward us from a far corner of the Square…they carry him into the van. Sheets have been tied over the windows so nobody can see inside….

I wander off the Square for a few minutes, and when I return, a middle-aged woman tries to unfurl a banner in front of the flagpole. A plainclothes man tackles her hard….

So, it’s hard to protest in the first place. And if people do manage to sneak in a protest, then the media coverage is tightly governed. For example, when all the Tibet stuff was going on in 2008, foreign journalists were simply banned from entering the region. The only people chronicling the stories, therefore, were Chinese journalists, and Chinese journalists have as their Editor-in-Chief the Chinese government. Once foreign journalists were allowed to enter Tibet, the protests had been subdued and journalists were escorted around by Chinese authorities. In addition, in 2009, which marked the 50th anniversary of a Tibetan uprising against Chinese rule, reporters were expelled not only from Tibet, but from neighboring regions as well.

And this article discusses a 2009 student protest during which “Hundreds of students from the city of Nanjing in Jiangsu Province clashed with local government security.” The article adds, “The incident was not reported in China’s national media.”

Now, I understand that a basketball team wearing contentious jerseys is different than Tibetan freedom and violent, hundreds-strong protests. But the crux of my point is that the Chinese government monitors both its citizens and the news in a way that the U.S. government doesn’t. China prevents things like Los Suns from happening, and controls vehemently how things like Los Suns can be covered if they do happen (which, again, is not likely).

Yet the media in America doesn’t shy away from controversy, nor did it shy away from the Suns’ dissenting message. After Wednesday’s game, ESPN.com’s front page simply said, “Los Winners.” Under that were links not only to the game recap, but also to an article discussing the political import of the jerseys – entitled “Suns’ Statement” – as well as a link to a copy of the governor’s post-game statement.

The governor said, among other things, “By now, sports fans everywhere have heard something about the passage of Senate Bill 1070, a measure I signed into law.” And sports fans everywhere have heard about it because of the hubbub created by Los Suns.

There’s more. The Associated Press recap of the game began, “The Phoenix Suns took a stand, and a 2-0 lead in the Western Conference semifinals.” The article – which, mind you, was a game story – went on to say:

The [immigration] bill has drawn criticism from civil rights groups and others, including President Barack Obama, who called it “misguided.”…

“The team stood up for that part of our community because I think that's the side of this bill that could open the door to racial profiling and racism,” Nash said. “and I’m talking about American citizens who are Latino. Their quality of life and freedoms could change because of this bill.”

CNN.com’s “U.S.” section on its front page had a link reading, “NBA team joins immigration fight.” The New York Times’ Web site declared, “‘Los Suns’ Join Protest, Then Stop the Spurs.” Even FoxNews.com covered the story. The notoriously right-wing outlet titled its article, “Little Reaction to Jersey Protest.” (That that headline ran on the site’s front page, however, suggests that it may be a bigger deal than they’re letting on.)

This hullabaloo wouldn’t happen in China for a multitude of reasons. First off, the team almost certainly wouldn’t have been allowed to wear the jerseys. Moreover, the president definitely wouldn’t have given legs to the story by talking about the jerseys in front of a gaggle of reporters. And, maybe most importantly, the media wouldn’t be allowed to wax on and on – and print dissenting voices – like the U. S. press has done.

This post is not meant to be anti-China; I am not anti-China. Nor is this meant to be a treatise on how wonderful the United States government and media are; I have serious misgivings about each of those institutions. Nor is this meant to read like a sermon on how American basketball has yet again entered into the political sphere. For in reality, it’s not at all commonplace in the States to have basketball teams – or, for that matter, any team at any level – taking political stands. Indeed, that’s one of the reasons that the Suns’ foray into politics garnered so much attention.

I’m do not want to sound imperial here, or come off as though I think America and its sports teams are untainted beacons of pure democracy and pure freedom. Heck, many believe the law that the Suns were protesting is itself an indicator of the contentious freedom that some Americans – especially ones with brown skin – face every day.

What I am saying: I’d bet the house that this not only wouldn’t, but couldn’t happen in China. That, and Viva Los Suns!!!

Basketball and Breakfast

This broadcast captures none of that electricity – it’s sterile, muted. The crowd noise sounds like it’s leaking out of someone’s headphones who’s sitting a row in front of you on an airplane.

Hubie Brown is nowhere to be found. Neither is Mike Tirico or Charles Barkley. Kenny Smith, Bill Walton, Kevin Harlan – no, no, no. The NBA Playoffs have finally begun, and they’re even being broadcast live, but none of my favorite announcers or talking heads are on TV. Their familiar, almost soothing voices – which are intertwined with the NBA playoffs the same way that organs and choirs are intertwined with church – have been muted by the thousands of miles that sit between them and myself.

Hubie and Sir Charles and the rest have been replaced by a pair of Chinese dudes sitting behind laptop computers in a studio. These guys are sitting on either side of a drab grey desk with a television screen looming on the wall behind them. There are a pair of miniature, hand-sized Larry O’Brien Trophies resting on the desk, and on the near side of each computer is a “Peak” brand logo, which looks like more of less like a white triangle set atop an ugly red backdrop. Peak has invested heavily in the NBA, signing Shane Battier, Ron Artest and Jason Kidd to shoe deals, so it’s no shock that Peak is smattering its logo on the laptops during an NBA broadcast. That Peak logo also shares airtime on the TV behind the gentlemen; when the screen doesn’t have the Cleveland Cavaliers and Chicago Bulls emblems, it has that Peak triangle. It’s like a billboard with alternating facades.

The playoffs are under way, and this morning’s the Bulls-Cavs game* is being broadcast live from back in the States, from back in time. China is 12 hours ahead of Eastern Standard Time, so last night’s 8 p.m. EST tip-off (broadcast on TNT) is an 8 a.m. tip-off here (broadcast on CCTV5). That these games are on speaks to basketball’s popularity in China: there are enough people who will tune in to watch, even though it’s an 8 a.m. tip.

* This was originally written on April 20.

This CCTV5 broadcast is a bizarre way to watch hoops. The two guys sitting behind their computers double as the in-studio analysts and the play-by-play announcers. They aren’t actually at the game, a fact revealed by the muffled sound of the Cleveland crowd. It’s not like the real broadcast, where a series of strategically placed microphones pick up the crowd noise and on-court noise, mixing it beautifully with the play-by-play and color commentary to form the final product – a product with everything from players’ groans to the net’s swoosh to the crowd’s discontent/euphoria. Instances when commentators raise their voices to speak over the bedlam engulfing the arena are among my favorite moments in sports – the struggle between the crowd and the announcer, when you can feel that things are electric inside the arena. There are no such instances today. (Ron Franklin’s three-hour battle with the crowd during the 1997 LSU-Florida football game in Baton Rouge is one of the reasons I ended up wanting to get into sports. Video highlights of that game are on YouTube, but I can't go there.)

After a stop in action, the scroll at the bottom of the screen sets the scene by giving the location, the name of the venue, the names of the refs, and the name of the lead announcer: Marv Albert. I chuckle and wish that it were Marv Albert. I have no idea what these announcers are saying.

This broadcast captures none of that electricity – it’s sterile, muted. The crowd noise sounds like it’s leaking out of someone’s headphones who’s sitting a row in front of you on an airplane. Even calling it crowd noise is an exaggeration. I later read the AP recap of the Cavs-Bulls game, which says, “James scored 40 points – 15 in a tour-de-force fourth quarter – as the Cavaliers, fueled by a rabid home crowd that booed every move by Noah, maintained home-court advantage…” I had no idea that Noah was getting booed or that the crowd was rabid. I could have guessed either fact, but there was nothing in the audio of the broadcast that made it clear. Come to think of it, I could probably get more out of simply hearing the crowd – no commentary – than listening to these guys blabbering from a few thousand miles away.

All I pick up are the occasional “Hao chiu!” or “Mae you!”, terms that were discussed at length back in the “Say What?” post from April 16. Other than that, they could be saying anything. At times, I fantasize that Hubie Brown is making the call: “OK, so if you’re the Bulls, you live with Varejao taking that shot, OK? He’s an energy guy, he doesn’t shoot a high percentage from there, you let him shoot that and if he makes it (chuckle), well, then kudos to him.” I don’t care if he’s old and says “OK” to begin and end every other sentence. Brown’s a legend in my book.

As bastardized as this broadcast is, there is one redeeming quality about it and other Chinese NBA broadcasts that I’ve seen. Often times instead of commercials, they’ll show highlights. A few months ago I was watching a Lakers game, and each time the broadcast cut to commercials in the States, it would cut to a pre-made highlight reel of Kobe Bryant doing crazy dunks of yesteryear, hitting buzzer beaters, pumping his fist, etc. I’m not huge on Kobe, but give me highlights of him hitting miracle shots or defying gravity any day over tired television commercials. During this Chicago-Cleveland game, each would-be commercial break is instead highlights from earlier in the game. There’s Derrick Rose hitting a jumper…there’s LeBron hitting a fadeaway (why is Kirk Hinrich guarding him?)…there’s Antawn Jamison on the baseline. It’s a pretty cool way to pass the commercial breaks.

LeBron ends up carrying the Cavs to victory, but as much as I admire LeBron’s exploits – tonight he had 40, eight and eight – I just can’t like the Cavs. The thing that bugs me most about them is that they are so hodgepodge. It seems like all of their guys save LeBron have been rented in a furious attempt to win a title and coax LeBron into staying. Look at their starting lineup this morning – er, last night. It’s LeBron, who’s been with the team since he was drafted in 2003. Outside of him, it’s Shaquille O’Neal, Jamison, Mo Williams and Anthony Parker. Only Williams has been with the team for more than one season – and he’s been there for only two. O’Neal and Jamison have a combined 78 games with Cleveland, less than one season between the two of them. Sure, the Cavs bring a few guys off the bench who have been around for years, but it just strikes me as lame that Cleveland’s roster is compiled of non-Cleveland players. It looks like the strategy could land them a title this year; that doesn’t make it cool.

Anyway, enough about Cleveland. When the game ends, the first commercial – and they do eventually start playing commercials – is an adidas ad featuring Dwight Howard, Rose, Tim Duncan, Kevin Garnett and…Tracy McGrady. I won’t rant too much about China’s infatuation with McGrady – did plenty of that here – but seeing him today is extra interesting because last week he floated the idea of retirement if his faulty knee doesn’t get better this off-season. “If it don’t happen this summer, I’ll ride off into the sunset,” McGrady said on April 15, adding, “I can’t see myself coming back playing the way I'm playing right now. I just don't see it happening.” I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if he’s still popular here even after he retires.

Interview Request, I

I loved telling stories and I loved writing and, more than anything, I loved editing the stories I’d written – kind of like a person with O.C.D. loves washing their hands. The interviewing still made me shudder.

I used to treat interviews the way George Constanza would treat a phone call to a woman. George, if you aren’t familiar, was hopelessly devoid of confidence. Thus, he liked to make notes before he called a woman so, if the conversation hit a lull, he would have some fodder to call upon. That was me trying to do an interview: I’d make a tedious outline of how I thought the interview should transpire in case I started stammering. I was always afraid that things would go south – a fear that was justified by numerous awkward, clammy-handed interviews.

A few years back, I hated nothing more than doing interviews. It’s not exaggerated hyperbole to say that I lost sleep over interviews. I literally did lose sleep over interviews. If there were some way to do journalism without doing interviews, I would have been all over it.

The first really good story I wrote, about my high school’s drunk-and-later-suspended cheerleading team, wasn’t all that great at first. The scoop was that 15 of the school’s 17 varsity cheerleaders were getting wasted at one of the girls’ houses, and that girl’s mom got ticked and then called the school to report the transgressions. All the girls got suspended for the season, and it was a big deal in our high school.

Well, the original draft that I turned into my high school editor, Dianne, didn’t have an interview with the mom. I was too freaked out. I talked with the athletic director and some of the cheerleaders and the school district’s Director of Something-or-Other. The mom, though? No way.

I forked over a print-out of that first draft to Dianne, knowing that the mom’s absence was a huge flaw. I was like a kid handing a report card to his parents with a big fat F, hoping that the parents don’t notice.

Dianne did notice. “The story is fine,” she said. “But you really need to talk with the mother.” I knew this was true, but I didn’t want to accept it. Finally, though, I grew a pair and interviewed the mother; that interview made the story 10 times richer than it was originally.

My aversion to interviews carried over to college. The first time I interviewed our college’s basketball coach I was freaked out; the first time I interviewed University of Colorado’s hoops coach I was even more freaked; the first time I interviewed a CU player, I probably sounded like that bumbling kid trying to explain the F on his report card. I loved telling stories and I loved writing and, more than anything, I loved editing the stories I’d written – kind of like a person with O.C.D. loves washing their hands. The interviewing still made me shudder.

But after a while, slowly, I started enjoying interviews. There was a cumulative effect – the more people I interviewed, the more relaxed I got. The more relaxed I got, the better I got. The better I got, the more relaxed I got. Eventually, the anxiety was removed from the process once I realized that, hey, all you’re really doing is talking. If you’re confident in your ability to hold a conversation, then you should be confident in your ability to give an interview.

I officially conquered my interviewing phobia while freelancing a University of Missouri-Kansas City basketball game for the Kansas City Star. That night, the Big 12 football championship was being played at Arrowhead stadium, in Kansas City, and the Star was strapped for writers. My number was called.

After the game I was summoned to the interview room. There was one other person in the room, UMKC’s sports information director, and we waited patiently for players and coaches to file inI was slouched in a folding chair with my digital voice recorder in hand. And when Dane Brumagin – UMKC’s top player – and the coach waltzed in, I couldn’t have been more lax.

In theory, it was probably the most nervous I ever should have been heading into an interview session. It was, after all, Division I basketball; the story was for the KC Star; I was on a tight deadline. Plus, with the room devoid of other reporters, I couldn’t rely on anyone to ask questions for me. I had to fish for quotes all by myself, without the cloak of anonymity. But I was ice-water cool.

My story, “UMKC moves in, gets the win,” started thus:

UMKC must have realized that the dark blue line about 20 feet from the basket doesn’t mean “Do Not Cross.”

After launching 39 three-pointers in their last outing – compared to just 26 shots from inside the arc – the Kangaroos dared cross into the Land of Two. They might just try it again after a 70-62 win against Indiana-Purdue Fort Wayne at Municipal Auditorium Saturday night.

“Our first couple games we averaged over 30 threes a game,” said UMKC coach Matt Brown. “We shot half as many three against Wichita State and we win, half as many threes against Bradley and we win. There’s a correlation there: less threes, you win games.”

The Roos, 4-6, 1-1 in the Summit League, missed 25 long balls in their previous game against Oakland, an 84-78 loss, and had pumped up a total of 65 threes in their last two contests.

At least for a night, UMKC decided to ditch the three-pointer-each-minute strategy and opt for a more two-pointed attack.

Led by Dane Brumagin’s game-high 28 points, UMKC shot just 21 threes against IPFW, 3-5, 0-2. Brumagin, who came in averaging 16.4 points per game, was a perfect nine-for-nine from the free throw line.

“I think we made a point to get to the foul line and attack,” Brumagin said. “That way we were able to get some free throws and less three-pointers today.

“It’s one of those things that goes game to game. If guys are feeling it then they might string off a few, but tonight we were just having success getting the ball inside.”

As I transcribed those post-game quotes from Brumagin and Brown, I remember thinking how chilled out I seemed. And why not? Why be nervous about talking to UMKC’s best played when I’ve interviewed CU’s best player? Why get sweaty-palmed about UMKC’s coach when I’ve interviewed a former NBA coach? It was after that UMKC game when I realized that interviewing wasn’t simply not annoying. It was fun.

But now, in China, interviews are even more laborious than they were with that mom back in high school. Just with one big difference: It’s not that I’m scared that the conversation won’t be fruitful or that I’ll flub questions. Over here, I simply can’t ask questions.

Interview Request, II

I don’t know if he was trying to deck me with a ‘bow to the face and just missed, or if he was indeed simply trying to send a warning shot into my ear. Either way, he elbowed me in the head. I grabbed my ear and took a few steps back; he drew near for more.

I get to Shandong Normal at about 4:30. It’s a nice day, sunny and probably 55 degrees. I buy a bottle of water from Wang – “Refreshment Man” in previous chapters – and walk over to Court No. 1. I set down my bag, untie my shoes and peel off my corduroy pants. Under my trousers are a pair of maroon Florida State basketball shorts. (I think the official color is “garnet.”) Two bottle ladies – you know, the women described at length in the post “Trash Springs Eternal” – sit a few feet away, and they start jabbering at me.

At first I think they’re asking me the standard 20 Questions I always get in Jinan – what country are you from, what are you doing here, etc. Even when I don’t know what someone is asking me, I just start answering these questions. I’m from America. I’m an English teacher. Usually it’s what they’re looking for, and if not, they conclude that I’m too much of a dolt to bother talking to. That’s what I do with these ladies – start telling them my abbreviated bio – but they just chuckle. They’re still jabbering. I don’t understand, I tell them with a smile, more defeated than annoyed.

Finally one of the ladies reaches her hand out and touches my bald, unclothed knee. That same moment one of the players on the court – they’re waiting for me; I’m the eighth man – comes over and translates: Are you cold? he asks. The ladies laugh, realizing that I now realize what they were asking. I smile, shake my head and trot on out to the court.

We gather around in a circle, and I am struck by the fact that I recognize about half the players. Recognize – but don’t know. And this is where the interviewing thing comes in: I can’t talk with these guys. My Chinese is atrocious; my girlfriend still isn’t confident that her Chinese is up to snuff; my bilingual co-workers haven’t warmed to the idea of playing translator for me.

Thus, while I know these characters, I don’t so much as know their names. Just faces and past encounters.

One of them is guy who tried to fight me last fall. At the start of a game to five back in November, he waved off his teammate who was guarding me and declared that he would take me. He sought me out – that should have been a clue.

A few minutes in, we were tussling for a rebound under the basket. The way I remember it, he was pushing me in the back; I reached blindly to toss his hand off me; I got more body than hand. As I jumped for the rebound he gave me an out-and-out shove. The ball bounced out of bounds, and I turned to stare at the guy. I flipped my hands upside-down and furrowed my brows, asking non-verbally what that was all about. He shouted some things in Chinese then, out of nowhere, whirled his right elbow into my left ear.

I don’t know if he was trying to deck me with a ‘bow to the face and just missed, or if he was indeed simply trying to send a warning shot into my ear. Either way, he elbowed me in the head. I grabbed my ear and took a few steps back; he drew near for more.

At this point some of the other guys grabbed him, which seemed to invigorate him. His arm-waving and yelling was that of someone who wanted to throw down. I, however, have never been in a bona fide fight, and I wasn’t about to have my inaugural bout in a setting where I was in the minute minority (I had gone to the courts by myself, friendless and without allies). So I walked off the court and grabbed my things to leave.

After several seconds he calmed down and reached out to shake my hand. I wasn’t infuriated enough to fight, but I was ticked enough to scoff at his peace offering. I shook the hand of another player, a guy who had befriended me that day and left.

Luckily, it now seems to be water under the bridge. I’m sure he remembers, and I’m sure he’s sure that I remember. But it’s not a huge deal. This is one of the virtues of basketball – it has reconciliatory powers.

In late December of 2008, I was playing ball at a local gym in Kansas City. We were playing a five-on-five, full-court game, and I was hot. In a contest to 15, I hit three straight three-pointers (which count as two) on the slouch who was guarding me. After my team got up something like 8-1, a tall black dude on the other team waved off the slouch and insisted upon guarding me. He was a good player – tall, athletic, springy – but his defense consisted of little more than fouling me every time I tried to shoot it. I’d call the foul, he’d gripe at the top of his lungs, seemingly expecting me to relent on the call. Then it would happen again – foul, gripe, our ball. Foul, gripe, our ball.

Eventually, because you don’t shoot free throws, the other team caught up and took the lead; the guy guarding me scored the winning bucket, and he let me know about it.

For some reason, I was totally convinced that he wasn’t going to fight me. Berate me with cusses, sure. Tell me to get the $^%k off his court, sure. Act like a total punk, sure. But I for some reason, I knew he wouldn’t actually hit me. If he did, he’d likely do some serious damage; I knew he wouldn’t. So, in a rather uncharacteristic display of hostility, I unloaded on him with a flurry of vulgarity that had never crossed my lips. I pulled out everything I could think of short of the N word. I am not usually so brazen with my words on the court – a skinny white kid who’s never been in a fight needs to watch what he says, especially in a gym full of black dudes. But my better judgment was swimming in a pool of rage.

More than a year later, someone asked me the moment in my life when I had been the most angry. I thought about it, and listed this instance – when this guy fouled his way to a victory, and then yakked about it like he was some stud.

I remember well when I saw him again, about two weeks later. I had just laced up my shoes and popped onto the court between games. He approached me…I gulped…he said: “Hey, man. Sorry ‘bout the other day. I got a little worked up.” Before he said this, I considered him one of the most vile pieces of trash I’d ever played with. After he said this, we clasped hand, gave a little man-hug, and that was that. This is the guy who had recently caused me to be the most angry I’d ever been in my life; now we were man-hugging. The power of basketball.

Sure, without basketball we’d have never gotten into it in the first place. But without basketball, we’d have never reconciled either. The same phenomenon played out with the guy who elbowed my ear. It was basketball that prompted our hatred, and basketball that buried it.

Another player today is a lanky dude wearing glasses. He plays with abandon, like a hyena. Like the guy with the elbow, this lanky fellow has treated me as something of a challenger in the past. He sought me out on defense the last time we took the court, and the first time I ever played with him he barreled me over on the way to the basket. I remember that play well: he was dribbling on the right side of the lane, and the put his head down to drive. There are lots of whirling-dervish drives on these courts, moves where the philosophy seems to be, I’m going to get to the basket, and it’s in your best interest not to get in my way. Well, I must have underestimated his zest to score, for I subsequently took an elbow square to the chest, a blow that sent me to the ground in a heap. I didn’t call a foul, but the on-court consensus was in my favor; my team took the ball out of bounds.

As irked as I was by that move – if you can call it a move – all ill-will faded when, as I was leaving, that same guy pointed to the spot where he laid me out and said, “Sorry.” Hatched buried. I told him it was no problem and that he was good at basketball – which he is – and then proceeded to leave. I have seen him since then, but hadn’t actually played with him. Not until today.

Then there’s the baller with the slick Derrick Rose shoes. This is the guy who, back in mid-March, had summoned me upon my arrival at the courts. His shoes are markedly dirtier than they were then, as are mine; our white trim is now a sort of gray, sullied and stained by Jinan’s inescapable dirt. In America, basketball shoes are generally treated with a little more TLC. At indoor courts that I used to frequent, people would usually wear a pair of tennis shoes or boots or whatever to the gym, and only once they were inside would they bust out their basketball kicks. At many indoor gymnasiums in the States, sneakers line the side of the court, like an entryway to a Japanese household where you must take off your shoes when you walk through the door. The only difference was that people would take off one pair and slip on the next.

When we played back in March, the guy with the Roses was easily the best player on the court, and as I left I got the sense that he had invited me to join his game for the mere purpose of tearing up some foreigner – which he did. He’s up to his tricks again today, springing into the air and lofting soft shots through the netless rim, or deciding at the last moment to dart a pass to a teammate. He’s the type of player who is good enough to thwart whatever defense you play, an annoying combination of basketball acumen and the physical prowess to execute. As was the case last time, he’s the best player on the court.

These are all guys I’d like to cultivate relationships with, guys who I’d like to talk to about basketball, college, what they do for fun, their families, etc. (And, you know, what’s with the elbow to the head.) But I can’t. I can tell them that they made a good play; I can apologize for making a bad play; I can ask them if they like basketball. But I can’t really talk to them. I can’t really interview them.

Oh, well. I can still write about them.