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Basketball Diaries, Afghanistan

Lineup: Nangahar (left) and one of the four Kabul teams on right. Photo by the author.

Back in the USSR in the 1980s, my schoolteacher warned me that if I didn’t study hard, I’d get drafted into the army and sent to die in Afghanistan. I studied hard. I moved to America. Twenty years later, I found myself in Afghanistan anyway.

After finishing my PhD in Biophysics, I realized that I didn’t envy my professors’ jobs. Instead of continuing on in academia, I shipped out to Jalalabad in December 2010 to join the Synergy Strike Force.

The SSF was assembled by a neuroscientist named Dave Warner, who has spent the past decade trying to apply science and communications to the problems of poverty and isolation, particularly in war-torn regions. The primary goal of the group in Jalalabad was to blanket the city with internet, to teach residents how to keep the internet functioning. The group was technically unaffiliated with the US government, but Dave had many contacts in the military, particularly at DARPA, and they knew we were there.

We operated “outside the wire,” that is, not inside the big military base on the outskirts of Jalalabad. We lived at the Taj Mahal Guest House, where the SSF had set up a powerful internet broadcasting system. Antennas on the roof beamed wireless signals to the tallest water-tower in the center of town. The signals reached hospitals, schools, and individual homes via a mesh network of aging routers and makeshift tin-can antennas. This citywide network had been assembled by local geeks trained at the Afghan Fab Lab. A few of the local geeks now worked with the SSF at the Taj Mahal.

When I first met Sudir he was about to graduate from Nangarhar University with a bachelor’s degree in English literature. His side hobbies in DIY computer networking, solar power installation, and blogging set him apart from other Afghan boys. Sudir had a spry demeanor and the physical frame of someone who prefers running to walking. A few weeks after we met, he noticed that I wasn’t getting any exercise and invited me to play pickup basketball with his friends. I had played some basketball in my hometown of Newton, Massachusetts, so of course I said yes.

The only basketball court in town was at Nangarhar University. Since the school was short on space, the court saw many uses. At sunrise and sunset it was a mosque. During exam time, the court was lined with desks and littered with cheat sheets. We’d clear the desks only to slip on schematics of chemical reactions annotated in Pashto. Beside the court, some Nangarhar University students lived in windowless spaces that resembled maintenance closets. There they did their laundry and defecated beneath the stands.

Most of the Afghan basketball players stepped on the court barefoot; a few wore sandals, others worn-out dress shoes. The vast majority of them wore traditional Afghan baggy pants that Pashtuns call partoug and the American soldiers have nicknamed “man jammies.” In time, the hazy fog of Afghan players coalesced into human beings with names: Big Boy Nasrat, Fleet-footed Sudir, Haji Najib, Young Azar, Engineer Izatullah, Lefty Ashoq.

Sudir and his friend Najib stood out. They wore shiny yellow sneakers embroidered with the logo of Afghanistan’s National Olympic Committee. The shoes had been distributed at the national basketball tryouts in Kabul the previous year; Sudir and Najib were among the participants. From the moment I laid eyes on those shoes, I wondered what it would take to get a pair.

Najib and I had a special connection; we both spent the ’80s in the Soviet school system. After the Mujahideen killed his father, who served as an officer in the Afghan National Army, Najib was raised in an orphanage in the Uzbek Soviet Socialist Republic. He’d lived in half a dozen countries and learned a number of languages, including my native Russian.

In the late 1990s, during the regime of the Taliban, Najib returned to Jalalabad to reunite with his mother and extended family. At the age of 31, he was now married with three small children.

Soon after we met, Najib became my driver, translator, and primary confidant. I relied on his insights and commentary while navigating Afghanistan.

You can learn a lot about a culture from how it plays sports. In Jalalabad, the overall court manner was selfish. The players rarely passed to their teammates, preferring to run head-on into a crowd with a prayer that something spectacular would happen. Instead of giving every call the benefit of the doubt, they argued vehemently for their side.

The bigger player tended to win, and the biggest player was Nasrat. His behavior was disruptive. At the second game, I confronted him over ball possession and immediately regretted it. I feared that I had initiated a showdown with the alpha male without having shored up support. Remarkably, Nasrat relinquished the ball without argument. He brought a whistle to the next match, and handed it to me, thereby conferring on me the role of trusted arbiter.

The court was in the ground path of an active runway at the US military Forward Operating Base Fenty. (It later served as the launching point for the attack on Osama Bin Laden’s hideaway in Abbottabad, Pakistan.) Like expert birdwatchers, we learned to identify the low flying specimens by their beaks, tails, and plumage. We distinguished the subspecies of drone (Predator, Reaper, and Global Hawk) by their tail configurations. The military helicopters flew in twos or threes. The terrifying Apaches, sleek Blackhawks, and monstrous Chinooks circled around, and occasionally I thought I could make out a hand waving from the cockpit. The big-bellied blue transport helicopters, owned by a Canadian firm that Americans code-named “Molson Air,” always flew alone. Less frequent visitors were the charters and cargo planes from Defense Flight Services, Embassy Air, and the United Nations. The rarest bird of all was the military jet.

Along with a young Englishman named Rory Brown, the only other foreigner playing on the Nangarhar court, I joined the Afghans in watching this dizzying aerial diversity with the awe-filled, wide-eyed stares that little boys reserve for heavy machinery and fire trucks. The drones were almost never out of sight, whether coming, going, or circling overhead. At first, their extremely loud engines puzzled me. But when the continuous buzzing became too commonplace to notice, I realized it was persistence, not stealth, that was their true strength.

A couple of months after our first pickup game, Sudir and Najib told me that a call had come from Kabul. The Afghanistan National Basketball Federation (ANBF) was organizing a tournament and had invited our team to represent Nangarhar Province. They asked me to come along as their coach. Our conversation went something like this:

– You realize that I know nothing about coaching.

– . . . still probably more than we know about being coached.

– All I have to offer is common sense.

– It might work well in combination with what we’ve got.

– I need time to consider.

– There is no time. The tournament is less than two weeks away.

Given the short notice, we had, at most, ten days of practice. I was worried about taking time away from the Synergy Strike Force but Dave Warner encouraged me to give basketball “all the time that it needs.” I called up Rory, the Englishman, and he was in, too.

Big Boy Nasrat—moody, bellicose, and belligerent—became our official team captain. The tallest among us, he was naturally suited for center. Instead, Nasrat fashioned himself a point guard. He dubbed us the Nangarhar Stars, ignoring the team’s opinion that the name was pretentious.

Security posed a challenge. The most deadly terror act in Jalalabad since 2001 had occurred just a few days earlier. Several recent graduates of Taliban training camps located in Pakistan had crossed the border, walked into the main branch of Kabul Bank wearing Afghan National Police uniforms, shot civilians and police officers who were collecting their salaries, then successfully blended with the victims and detonated suicide vests during the rescue operation. Two guards at the Taj Mahal Guest House lost their brother in the attack.

Living “outside the wire” meant being responsible for our own safety. Avoiding patterns was one of our core principles. We didn’t plan far in advance, and we didn’t advertise our movements ahead of time. Ten consecutive days of practice would constitute an unmistakable pattern. Therefore Rory and I decided to implement an experimental scheduling strategy and test the team’s battle preparedness at the same time. The two of us would agree on the time in advance but only share it with Sudir and Najib half an hour before practice. This triggered a series of calls: “Drop what you are doing and come play ball!”

To be less conspicuous, Rory and I came independently. We arrived in our Corollas with a basketball in the trunk. These elaborate precautions failed to deter our most frequent visitors, a pack of boys who seemed to emerge from the lot itself and whom I came to recognize in time. When a new face appeared in the crowd, however, I’d watch the person carefully and review the quickest escape route in my head: Jump over the stands. Luckily, at least at this time, these were harmless and excitable boys who cheered us on and fetched water for the players. After much coaxing, one of them, Azar, joined us on the court.

Rory and I had never coached a team before but we tried to cultivate a team mentality. We used a collective vocabulary even when addressing individual players: “Nasrat, you are the tallest and strongest, and your team needs you to rebound under the basket.” We asked players to value their contribution to the whole above individual performance. We tallied assists instead of baskets.

This message of team spirit had to stew in a pot of languages. We were in an ethnically Pashtun region where the most common language was Pashto. Dari, a dialect of Persian, is Afghanistan’s other official language. Rory, who was the regional manger for the Afghan NGO Safety Office and had studied languages at Oxford and in the region, was able to converse with the players in their own tongues. I communicated through an intermediary language—either English or Russian, depending on whether Sudir or Najib was closer. They were fitting translators, since they were also the natural leaders of the team.

Najib had previously played on a school basketball team at an orphanage in Tashkent, and later honed his street-ball skills in Kiev. He was worldly by Afghan standards, but among Muslims his biggest credential was having made a pilgrimage to Mecca. This earned him the designation Haji Najib. When he had the ball, his teammates shouted “Haji” instead of “pass,” and the stands cheered “Haji!” when he scored.

The ten practices ran like chapters in the CliffsNotes version of what Rory and I had to teach. Each session was divided in two: review drills with a revolving daily focus on a particular skill—jumping, layups, shooting, picks, or crossovers—were followed by scrimmage, where we expanded our repertoire of offensive plays and defensive strategies. Elaborating on the theme of team mentality, we introduced the concept of the huddle. The boys gathered around to pause, rest, and reflect on our play. Above all, we tried to inculcate respect for the referee. Rory, who had to stay in Jalalabad but would be with us in spirit, warned that arguing with the referee in the tournament would hurt the whole team.

On the eve of our departure, Sudir and Najib paid me a late call at the Taj Mahal Guest House. In the trunk of Najib’s car were a dozen shiny new yellow tracksuits with Afghanistan’s flag and the Olympic logo. And, better yet, matching indoor soccer shoes for our ramshackle, partly barefoot team. “We just got these through Nasrat,” they said. “Try them on and choose your size. You get first pick.”

I was very moved. As I tried on a uniform, Najib mentioned rumors about an impending roadblock on the western edge of town, where the highway to Kabul passes by the university. Tensions between local factions of strongmen and Governor Sherzai—an outsider who was governor of Kandahar before Hamid Karzai appointed him to the helm of Nangarhar—had long been brewing. Seizing upon the sense of insecurity in the aftermath of the Kabul Bank incident, the opposition united in accusing the governor of failing to protect his people and offered themselves as alternate protectors and arbiters of justice. This meant setting up roadblocks outside town.

I had been trapped by a roadblock at the university before. Men in civilian clothes, armed with Kalashnikovs, corralled students and unwitting car passengers onto buses headed for the center of town. Everyone was let off at the center, where they formed a “protest.” If the rumors proved true, tomorrow the protesters would be demanding a public execution of the captured insurgent from the Kabul Bank bombing.

We evaded the blockade by leaving for Kabul before dawn, well before our scheduled 8 AM meeting with Nangarhar’s Minister of Sports, who was supposed to shake our hands, pat our heads, and send us off with a few words of wisdom. Nasrat had scheduled the meeting through his family connections, but we had a basketball tournament to get to.

Having successfully averted a delay in Jalalabad, we encountered another on the road to Kabul. Driving in Afghanistan is like playing a perpetual game of chicken with people who don’t place much value on their lives. Drivers plow into oncoming traffic with only a prayer for a plan to merge back into the flow of traffic in their own lane.  And when they can’t, they either crash or stall, leaving the other vehicles on the road frozen for kilometers. Najib shrugged off the several-hour delay necessary to dismantle the gridlock. “In Afghanistan we call this face to face.” He grinned devilishly. “During the time of the Taliban we did not have such encounters. Everyone kept to his lane.”

By the early afternoon, we were flying down a crumbling road in a progressively narrowing canyon. An hour later we wound up through the treacherous switchbacks of Kabul Gorge. Burnt-out tanker carcasses and mangled passenger vehicles were scattered cliffside, but we managed to get through.

The old city in Kabul is a living testament to the civil war that ravaged Afghanistan after the Soviet withdrawal created a vacuum of power and an overabundance of arms. Many buildings are still in ruins or without electricity. In the dead center of the city’s Olympic complex, run by the Afghan National Olympic Committee to train future Olympians, lies Ghazi Stadium, the preferred venue for public executions during the time of the Taliban.

A spiked iron fence, adorned with Olympic rings, encloses the soccer stadium and half a dozen other specialized gymnasiums. Only one Afghan has ever won an Olympic medal, but the confident athletes crisscrossing the quad in shiny tracksuits—rushing to archery, taekwondo, or soccer practice—clearly intended for this record to change.

The basketball arena itself was approximately the size of my high school gym in Newton, but by Jalalabad’s standards it was truly Olympic. Preparations for the tournament were still underway. Climbers without safety harnesses draped a banner from the rafters that welcomed us to the “Etisalat Basketball Cup.” (Etisalat is an Emirates-based cell phone company.) A huge poster behind the scoring table displayed a life-size stock photo of basketball players contesting the ball in mid-air. Their jerseys had Chinese characters and the players didn’t look like Afghans. The tagline read: “Champion Clubs from All over the Afghanistan!” We filed onto the court, tracking along mud and snow from the street.

There were eight teams in the tournament. Kabul fielded four of them: Kabul Municipality and Samandar Club, who were legitimate teams; and the Fireflies of Kabul and Logar Club, who were assembled to give young and developing players some tournament experience. The other four teams were from Afghanistan’s scattered provinces: Mazar-i-Sharif in the North, Kandahar from the South, Herat in the West, and our team, from Jalalabad, to the East.

Mazar-i-Sharif is in the Balkh Province of northern Afghanistan, bordering Uzbekistan and Tajikistan. Most of the players were ethnic Tajiks or Uzbeks, skinny and tall, young and cheerful, either in their last year of high school or first year of college. They sported spiky, disheveled hair reminiscent of Sonic the Hedgehog. I asked whether this was the result of a team outing to a salon. Their best English speaker introduced himself as Mury Emo and proudly informed me that he cut his own hair. “Emo, is that short for something?” I asked. “No, but Mury is short for Murtazo. Emo is what my friends call me because I listen to the Fall Out Boys.”

Kandahar is a southern Pashtun stronghold, and its players did not look particularly ready. They were either very fat or very thin. They carried themselves with the air of grownups wearing shorts for the first time. One of the players refused to shake my hand. The captain, who spoke broken English, explained politely, “He thinks you are a foreign infidel.”

The team from the western province of Herat, near Afghanistan’s border with Iran, actually looked like a basketball team. They were tall, athletic, healthy, and walked with the cocky swagger of the jocks in my high school. With a hint of resentment in his voice, Najib told me that they were Farsiwans, ethnically similar to the Persians of eastern Iran. They were the only team with corporate sponsorship. Their neon green uniforms advertised Big Bear, an Emirates-based energy drink, across their chests.

It was a long and exhausting day of meeting people, posing for the camera, showing off and slipping on the mud-slicked court. The collective hormones in the room would have fueled us through the night, but I corralled the team back to the hotel for some R & R.

From the windows of our hotel you could see the “eye in the sky,” an intelligence-gathering aerostat that looked like a big balloon hanging over the city, peering back at you through its mechanical eye and mesh of image recognition algorithms. Surrounding buildings lay in ruins or stood scarred by bullets or artillery rounds. On the nearest rooftops, boys played with their captive pigeons.

Kabul is at the same latitude as Los Angeles, but at 6,000 feet above sea level it is much colder. In Jalalabad it had been a dry 70 degrees and we played basketball outdoors; here winter was in full swing, the weather wet, sleeting, and chilling to the bone. None of the Nangarhar Stars owned cold-weather gear. We hurried inside, drenched and shivering in their traditional cotton clothing. Even our thin laughter condensed in the air.

A welcoming delegation from the tournament greeted us in our room. The ANBF president, Ustaz Sabor, was accompanied by several of the Kabuli players who were helping to organize the tournament.

We sat in a circle, and after reciting a passage from the Koran to mark the start of the meeting, Ustaz apologized for the condition of the hotel. The official athlete’s dorm at the Olympic complex was still under construction and this was the best that the ANBF could offer with their budget. He welcomed us to the tournament, handed us a schedule, and invited us to the opening ceremony in the morning.

The Nangarhar Stars were allotted two rooms. Nasrat placed the larger room under his personal administration and doled out invites to share his captain’s quarters selectively. To their credit, the others banded together in rejecting his invitations. Having failed at implementing his tiered housing plan and too insecure to sleep alone, Nasrat joined the rest of the team in the smaller room.

Considering that we all slept in the same room, the toilet malfunctioned, there wasn’t any warm water, and everyone in Afghanistan takes their shoes off indoors, it didn’t smell that bad. The lucky ones got cots with squeaky springs, while the rest huddled on the floor. As if to spite the squalor, the players remained remarkably cheerful. The Kandaharis, who had the room above us, seemed to be dribbling basketballs up there, but we didn’t mind.

Suddenly, I was startled to find myself face to face with an unfamiliar character making himself at home in the room. Nasrat introduced him as Ibrahim, a fellow Pashtun from the tribal areas of Pakistan, somebody’s cousin, and our newest teammate. I was a bit unnerved by this development, but Najib assured me that he checked out. Ibrahim turned out to be our best player: calm and disciplined with the ball, adept at drawing fouls and making free-throws.

Our starting forward, Engineer Izatullah, had washed our uniforms before leaving warm, sunny Jalalabad, but hadn’t had time to dry them. We jumped on the beds and whipped each other with the moist jerseys—a rare carefree moment in the players’ difficult lives. Sudir grabbed me excitedly to ask whether Americans ever have fun like this. A seasoned veteran of fun, he expressed concern that Americans were incapable of similar shenanigans: “Americans are always serious.”

Amidst the joyful clamor, someone noticed that Sudir’s armpits weren’t shaved. According to Islamic Shari’a law, a man must shave his mustache, armpits, and pubic hair. Many of the boys worried Sudir’s armpits might bring shame to the team. When Nasrat sent our youngest player, Azar, to purchase a razor, Sudir immediately turned serious, and for the duration of the tournament he wore a T-shirt under his game jersey.

When it was time for dinner, Nasrat sent Azar downstairs to fetch it. We used chunks of flat bread to scoop up Kabuli Pilau topped with fatty cuts of lamb, drank green tea overly sweetened with rock sugar, and relaxed into a food coma. This wasn’t the kind of meal a nutritionist would recommend on the eve of a tournament, but the other teams probably had the same fare. The hotel menu didn’t offer anything else.

The Taliban would not have approved of either our music or our card playing. Najib cheated, but came up with increasingly evasive justifications that grew into elaborate stories, instigating a whole group storytelling session. The Kandaharis continued dribbling basketballs upstairs. It was amazing we ever got to sleep.

The following morning, the eight teams lined up for the opening ceremony like columns in a spreadsheet. I surveyed the ranks and confirmed what I had suspected: the Nangarhar Stars were operating at a triple disadvantage. We were the oldest, shortest, and heaviest of the teams. And definitely the weirdest. Nasrat was holding our team’s banner at the head of the pack. He was beaming, wearing a #1 on his jersey and bright red knee socks. He had bought the rest of the team green ones.

On the court, a choir of girls dressed in traditional outfits that covered all but their eyes and mouth sang the national anthem. They were flanked by a team of bodyguards who ushered them off the court on the final note.

The show match was between Kabul’s premier teams: Kabul Municipality and the Samandar Club. We cheered for Samandar because it was home to our favorite player, Izat, a tall, handsome, tranquil man originally from Jalalabad who now played on the national team. He earned $250 a month as a blacksmith in Kabul. Though he could dunk, he was disturbingly thin. After sending money to his family outside Jalalabad and covering his own living expenses, there wasn’t much left for discretionary spending. A stipend from the national team helped pay for his basketball sneakers and supplemental food. Since his job wouldn’t give him time off, Izat had to quit to participate in the tournament.

We cheered Izat wildly from the stands. When the game ended, Izat approached us first. He didn’t blink when Najib and Nasrat asked him to start coaching the Nangarhar Stars without resting from his own match. That’s how we got Izat on our sideline, and with him Samandar Club’s remaining Gatorade as a hand-me-down.

Now it was our turn to step onto the court and face the team from Mazar. Wearing bright yellow uniforms and hip spiky hairstyles atop their lanky frames, they looked like anime characters.

After our pregame motivational huddle, I assumed we’d throw our hands in the air with a battle cry. Instead, Nasrat’s cousin Ibrahim led a short prayer asking Allah to grant us victory. While he prayed, the others instinctively opened their palms to the sky, and when he finished they said “amen” in unison and brought their palms to their faces in a gesture of ablution.

It almost seemed like our prayers had been answered when Nasrat won possession of the jump ball and we ran up a quick lead, which we kept through to the fourth quarter, when fatigue and foul trouble finally brought us down. The younger Mazaris ultimately won a hard-fought and evenly matched game. We parted on good terms, heartily shaking a long row of hands while iterating promises to stay in touch. Promises we’ve kept.

Most of the team went home tired but I stuck around to watch the Big Bear Club from Herat play the team from Kandahar. In their neon uniforms with black stripes, the Heratis resembled a swarm of bees. Fluid in their coordinated movements, locking down passing lanes, capturing and protecting the ball, they stung frequently while running up the score. As a display of efficiency in the use of human machinery, the Heratis’ aggressive play was a pleasure to watch, but the prospect of facing them was intimidating. They trounced the Kandaharis, 73–12. After a series of runaway dunks they pranced around like basketball demigods, gloating in the other team’s defeat.

The following morning, we faced the Fireflies of Kabul.

We all recognized that having a Pashtun game coach greatly improved the pace of communication, so Jalalabadi Izat recruited another player from the national team to share coaching duties for the match. With them at the helm, I felt very relieved, albeit a little displaced and sidelined. Freed from my coaching duties, I ran up and down along the court shouting words of encouragement.

Against the Fireflies, we again ran up a promising lead, only to wear ourselves out. We’d practiced throughout our two weeks of training with a view toward exercise and stamina-building, so we kept pushing. Run, run, run. In a tournament you need to work the clock, slowing down to conserve energy when you are winning, making the other team wear themselves out. Unfortunately, we had failed to cover this strategic point in Jalalabad boot camp. Ibrahim was the only one who had this discipline. He must have picked it up in a better training camp in Pakistan.

Again we fell prey to fouls and lack of discipline. While we were still leading in the third quarter, it almost seemed like Ibrahim could carry the whole team on his shoulders. I ran alongside the court, flailing my hands and screaming “slow down, slow down.” But such discipline takes training and isn’t born of unsolicited advice in a foreign language. When the buzzer rang, we had lost again by a narrow margin.

Prior to arriving in Afghanistan, my assumption had been that I should hide my Soviet origins, but it turned out I could not have been more wrong. Whenever I shouted in Russian, in the street or on the court, Afghans would approach me and tell me their life stories, as if I were a roving confessional.

One of the referees told me he had learned to play in Tashkent, then a part of the Uzbek Soviet Socialist Republic, and that his primary occupation was as a correspondent for a Canadian media outlet. He even offered me a whistle and asked me to referee the games my team wasn’t playing, but I declined.

Perhaps the officials managed to read into my agony over not being able to play. A couple of them independently hinted that the rules could be bent for our upcoming game. This prospect made me both excited and anxious. I had cycled through many roles, from puppet coach to motivator, number-one fan, bystander, and photographer; what I hadn’t done was actually play in the tournament. I could not say no.

The prospect of actually playing made me tense to the point of needing to use the bathroom, but the single one at the stadium was closed. Sudir did me the favor of asking around and returned with the explanation that the maintenance staff feared it would get too much use. I tracked down some toilet paper and did what it turned out everyone else did, as evidenced by the treacherous terrain behind the basketball stadium. As I squatted, I saw the uncanny sight of the Omar Land Mine Museum just across the fence.

Our starting power forward and laundryman Engineer Izatullah handed me a uniform, but I still needed sneakers. For no other reason than the fact that he had the coolest hair, I decided to borrow a pair from Mury Emo. They were a size and a half too big and made me feel like a clown, but I tightened the laces and stepped into the ring against the neon bees of Herat.

At our pregame huddle, I tried to set realistic expectations. Having lost our first two games we were out of the running for the quarter-finals. The chances of winning against Herat were zero. Only self-deception could even the odds. We needed to redefine our measure of success.

I suggested maximizing our total fun while minimizing the number of their runaway dunks—”Make them work for it.” This was our last game, so it was also important to give everyone an opportunity to play. These were things we could actually win at.

Most of the players responded favorably to my proposal. Nasrat seemed more dubious. But if he took offense to the suggestion of a third loss, he didn’t say so. Per our newly established tradition, Ibrahim led a quick prayer. The Kandaharis vigorously chanted “Nan-Gar-Har” from the front row, just as we cheered Kan-Da-Har for our fellow Pashtuns when they played.

I scored a couple of quick baskets and two more points from free throws, but my self-appointed priority was to protect, advance, and distribute the ball. I also took it upon myself to guard our opponents’ most arrogant dunker, who had caught an elbow earlier in the tournament and was playing with a black eye. I shared backcourt duties with Ibrahim, Najib, Sudir, and Azar, rotating frequently to keep our legs fresh.

Nasrat’s frustration was visible from the outset and only grew more intense as the game progressed. Expressing discontent that we were already down by double digits in the second quarter, he started sowing conspiracy theories. He explained the absence of an electronic scoreboard as an official scheme to rig the tournament.

“Bullshit,” I shot back. Though truth be told, weirder things were happening, and you didn’t have to go very far to see them. The seams of the very court we were playing on had literally come apart, exposing long narrow strips of bare earth. The building structure was a mere shell without foundation. Large rubber mats resting directly on the ground constituted our playing surface. Given that our home court had similar cracks in its concrete, Najib joked this might give us an advantage.

But Nasrat wasn’t amused. He argued with the referees and then yelled at them. In most tournaments this behavior would have disqualified him immediately, but by Afghanistan’s forgiving standards, it was still within the range of normal.

Nasrat was clearly tired. Instead of taking a breather on the bench, he stayed in the game and insisted on guarding the Heratis’ starting center. When Nasrat could no longer keep up, he resorted to dirtier tactics.

Engrossed as I was in the game, and trying to keep my player from dunking on me too much, I had a hard time seeing the bigger picture. The double technical foul called on Nasrat and his defender caught me by surprise. While the referees conferred on the official version of the events, Nasrat lectured our bench about what “really” happened.

Nasrat’s father was a local strongman in Jalalabad, and his family knew people in the regional Olympic Committee—that’s how we got the uniforms, and that’s why Nasrat was our “captain.” I knew that the other players on the team didn’t like Nasrat, but did fear him—not just because he was a bully, but because of what his family represented. When we were on the basketball court, some of this was forgotten or put aside. But now it came back again.

Though the foul was charged to both teams, Nasrat accused the referees of “nationalism.” He used it in the way we might use the word “racism.” “The Iranians and Northerners (Tajik, Uzbek, etc.) are ganging up on the Pashtuns,” he cried. And on the next inbound possession, he started a fight. He grabbed the nearest opponent and dragged him to the ground. It was an awkward gesture. Nasrat relied primarily on his weight to do the work but artlessly spent most of his energy in the process.

The stadium went silent. Even the Kandaharis’ chant petered away.

I froze.

I watched the pile of humans grow and the ball roll away, off the court.

The fight ended as abruptly as it had begun.

Nasrat packed his yellow duffel in a huff and paraded off the court. Eventually the rest of us followed. I returned Mury Emo’s sneakers. We were disqualified.

We regrouped at the hotel. On the way, Sudir, Najib, and I stopped at the bazaar for Afghan comfort foods–teacakes, cookies, candy bars, and a case of Mountain Dew. Najib purchased ten kilos of apples and oranges.

When we arrived at the hotel room, a feast of lamb pilau was waiting. Large plates of greasy meat and stacks of flatbread were served in the traditional manner, on a vinyl cloth unfurled on the floor. For the first time Nasrat fired up the propane heaters, which he had previously derided as dangerous and expensive. Tonight, it was hard to put a price on comfort and self-preservation. Jalalabadi Izat knocked on the door, having rightly sensed that we needed him. He took a seat and silently joined the meal.

In contrast to the chaos on the court, the atmosphere in the room resembled the solemn meal accompanying a wake. It was clearly the end of something, and the meditative silence betrayed our inability to articulate exactly what.

Nasrat couldn’t endure the situation for long. He felt natural in chaos and had no use for introspection. He began again with the rhetoric that marked our exit from the tournament, but his words failed to provoke the desired reaction. His teammates were in a reflective mood, and he didn’t provide an answer to their deeper questions. I felt their eyes expectantly converge on me. The tide had turned, and I was again in charge of my team.

Playing basketball was one of the last things I thought I would do in Afghanistan. Yet, there I was, in a foreign land, in a barely comprehensible cultural landscape, in a stinky hotel, mediating an inter-ethnic conflict in the guise of a skirmish on the court.

I remembered our internet connectivity mantra at SSF: The knowledge to maintain the network must reside with its users. As an outsider, I could only hope to frame the problem and leave the solution up to them.

“We’ve come such a long way from Jalalabad,” I said. “We were invited to join a national tournament in the capital. We faced the best players in Afghanistan. We made friends with the teams from Mazar-i-Sharif and Kandahar. Every aspect of this experience was beyond our imagination just a few days ago.”

There was something I had to say publicly to Nasrat. Since my words were inevitably skewed by translation, I needed to speak directly and simply so that my teammates could understand.

“Nasrat, we’ve heard your accusations, but what have your actions accomplished? A good captain doesn’t make unilateral decisions, but takes care of his troops. You clearly had your personal justifications, but the impact was on the whole team.

“Consider the situation from the perspective of our Kandahari friends, the girls in the stands, or our supporters back in Jalalabad. What impression did we leave?

“Instead of honorably playing to the best of our abilities, we started a cowardly fight that we couldn’t possibly finish. We walked off the court in shame, snubbing the organizers who had invited us to Kabul and had treated us fairly, and the stadium full of our peers.

“Nasrat, in claiming to defend Pashtun honor, you disgraced it.”

With this barb delivered, I stopped. It’s possible that little of this reasoning permeated Nasrat’s hot head. But my objective wasn’t to moralize, and my intended audience was the rest of the team. I knew that, even though they agreed, none of the other players could speak so plainly to Nasrat.

Their eyes still maintained a steady gaze on me, wondering “What now?” That was no longer up to me. It really was time to remove myself from the equation.

I turned to Izat, who had been listening patiently. The whole team looked up to him. He was the kind of person you wanted around when the situation was calm and the appeal was to reason. I passed to him: What now?

That night, Izat and Haji Najib, our ambassadors, led a delegation to the Heratis’ hotel room. They were laden with peace offerings—apples, oranges, and a mixture of the remaining sweets. Given that Izat was a member of the national team, his presence provided additional legitimacy. The Heratis accepted the fruits and invited the Nangarhar Stars in for tea. Haji Najib, with his sense of humor and worldly charm, took charge. He whipped out his cell phone boombox, pressed play, and proclaimed it was time for a music party. The revelry lasted into the night, like an ecstatic ritual of allegiance between convening tribes.

The Nangarhar Stars washed their necks with cold water the following morning, packed the remaining fruit, and set out for the stadium repentant. The officials accepted us into the fold gracefully, referring to the whole affair as a valuable learning experience for everyone. Over shared pots of tea, they encouraged us to attend the final match. The tournament was won by Izat’s Samandar Club, which staged a late rally to beat the buzzing bees of Herat.

Part 2

As I write, I’m sitting at the deck of my lovely home in San Francisco. My atheist friends are gathering for a Rosh Hashanah potluck. My life is full of good news. I occasionally don my shiny yellow Afghan Olympic tracksuit and matching shoes and head out for a night on the town. It is always a hit.

Half a world away, in a place with which I retain a tenuous connection, kept alive by the old laptops I gave to Sudir and Najb and the Internet infrastructure we taught them to maintain, the news is less good.

On May 20, 2012, Sudir and Najib were playing pickup ball with the usual gang and two Canadians who had joined the group after Rory and I left. A larger than usual crowd of spectators was courtside. The previous day, a Pashto news organization—the Wahdat Daily—had denounced the Canadians’ NGO as a missionary organization. Unfortunately, none of the players had bothered to read the paper.

At a certain point, someone yelled “Allah is Great!” and a nondescript group of men emerged from the crowd. They were holding cricket bats. Without fully comprehending what was happening, the basketball players banded together. But they were outnumbered and unarmed. The foreigners tried to flee by climbing over the stands, but they were caught and dragged back onto the court. University guards arrived in time to prevent any fatalities, but when they finally took command of the situation, Sudir’s arm was broken and so was the post of the basketball hoop.

The following morning, students of Nangarhar University gathered around a poster that appeared in the main quad overnight. It denounced Sudir and Najib as traitors affiliated with Western infidels. Sudir, who was born and raised in Jalalabad and had become a professor of English at the university, was no longer safe in his hometown.

On August 11, two motorcycle gunmen surrounded the car of Mehrab Saraj, the manager of the Taj Mahal Guest House and opened fire. Mehrab died from a bullet to his chest.

As I read the news, I noticed that Najib and Sudir had deleted their Facebook accounts. Our waning connection was sustained by the laptops and the internet, beaming from the Taj. SSF pretty much left Jalalabad after Mehrab was killed, and we continue to pay for the bandwidth, but I don’t know how long we can continue to do it, or how long the network we built will remain alive.

On August 21, motorcycle gunmen targeted Sudir and Najib’s car. Sudir managed to accelerate away unharmed. The rear windshield was shattered and three bullets lodged inside the cabin, including one in the driver’s seat.

Najib wrote to share a rumor of a circulating kill list with forty names. All of these people are Afghans who have been associated with Americans. His family has asked him to leave Jalalabad because his presence presents a danger to them. His cousins have split up his land with a ritual rite of inheritance, as if he were dead. An old friend of his from the orphanage in Tashkent, whom he’s found on a Russian social network, has taken him in.

Sudir’s family’s land was also confiscated, by neighbors invoking Ghanima law, which says that you can pillage the land of your enemies. Sudir had been saving earnings from his work for the SSF, but supporting his displaced family has now burned through these resources.

I don’t know what has happened with Nasrat and whether he is supporting his old teammates. As for me, their former “coach,” I sit here and read their emails helplessly. There is little that I can do. I tried to leverage our government connections to help extricate Najib, but encountered technical hitches in reconstructing the paper trail connecting him to our mission. It seems he might need to flee Afghanistan to a third country, or to a refugee camp, and file his asylum petition from there. I hope I’ll get to see him again.

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Episode 10: Sports


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Tag Archives: indiana

43 Yr. Old Registered Sex Offender Charged in Afrika Hardy Murder

21 Oct

The Abandoned House Strangler has been identified by Hammond police as 43 year old Darren Vann of Gary. Vann is a registered sex offender who is current on his registration according to records maintained by Lake County Sheriff John Buncich. Vann was arrested on Saturday in connection with the murder of 19 year old Afrika Hardy. Charges were filed this afternoon for the Murder of 19 year old Afrika Hardy from Aurora, Illinois.

According to the probable cause affidavit filed in the case, Vann arranged a meeting with Hardy utilizing the site backpage.com. Hardy did not make the arranged meeting on Thursday night. On Friday at 5:30 pm Vann, who went by the screen name “Big Boy Appetite” on backpage.com, showed up at Motel 6 unannounced. After the “normal time” for such a meeting passed, Shameeka Cunningham and Eduardo Ayon, who helped to arrange meetings for Hardy, became concerned about Hardy’s welfare. The pair travelled to Motel 6 and found Afrika Hardy’s lifeless body in the bathtub.

Shameeka Cunningham dialed 9-1-1 and summoned police and ambulance personnel to the scene according to the affidavit. Upon arrival police found that “the beds were moved away from the headboards to suggest that there was possibly a struggle there.” A condom wrapper, a light colored shirt button and a fingernail were also found according to the report. Afrika Hardy had red marks on her neck, suggesting that “she had been strangled with something thin.” The coroner was called and the cause of death was determined to be strangulation. The manner of death was determined to be homicide.

During the interviews with Cunningham and Ayon, police were able to obtain information regarding a cell phone that had been utilized by “Big Boy Appetite” to arrange the meeting. Police supboenaed cellular phone records for the telephone and were led to a location in the 600 block of W. 49th Avenue in Gary according to the affidavit. Police then obtained a search warrant for that residence on October 18 and arrested Darren Deon Vann. A blue Jeep was towed and a search warrant was obtained for that vehicle. During the search, police discovered a shirt which was missing a button, an HTC cellular telephone in a pink case which matched the description of that owned by Afrika Hardy, and condoms of the same brand and type as the wrapper found in the motel room.

The affidavit states that Darren Deon Vann confessed to strangling Afrika Hardy with a cord when confronted with the evidence.

Governor Pence Authorizes Bonuses of up to $1,000 to State Employees

29 Dec

by Ken Davidson

Governor Pence has authorized one time, end of year bonuses to be paid to State employees. The bonuses of up to $1,000 will be based on performance reviews to be completed in January. The Governor states that the bonuses are in lieu of pay raises and will not affect the budget. We would love to hear your opinions, is this sound fiscal policy? Sound off in the comments section.

Here is the Governor’s letter to State of Indiana employees:

Fellow State Employees,
As 2013 draws to a close, I am writing to express my sincere appreciation for your service to the people of Indiana over the past year.
Through the efforts of dedicated State Employees like you, Hoosiers continue to receive quality service and support when interacting with our state government. Indiana is strong and growing stronger due, in part, to the commitment you exhibit every day in service to the public.
Because of your efficiency and commitment to fiscal discipline, Indiana leads the way with a balanced budget, AAA credit rating and a reputation for sound fiscal management.
While our present circumstances do not permit us to increase base pay, because your service to Indiana has been exemplary, I have authorized a bonus that you will receive once performance evaluations are completed in January.
Employees who meet expectations will receive a $500 bonus, those who exceed expectations will receive $750, and those rated outstanding will receive $1,000.
I hope this news will be an encouragement to you for a job well done in 2013.
Thank you for your service to the good people of Indiana. It is the greatest privilege of my life to serve alongside men and women like you.
God bless you and your family with a memorable holiday season and a healthy and prosperous New Year.
Governor Mike Pence

Breaking 26 Y.O. Gary Man Dies After Being Shot

27 Dec interstate 80 94 accident

by Ken Davidson

Gary, Indiana saw another homicide tonight. At approximately 9:00 p.m. the Gazette began receiving reports of a homicide in the 2100 block of Georgia Street in Gary. Gary police were reportedly searching for a suspect in a late model grand prix. The Gazette is awaiting official confirmation from the office of the lake county coroner but feel confident enough to report this homicide at this time. King Carter was the first to report this incident. Others have subsequently verified it, including family members of the victim.

Man Charged in Murder of Former Lowell Resident

27 Dec interstate 80 94 accident

by Ken Davidson

New details are emerging in the December 20, 2013 killing of an Indianapolis area woman and her daughter. Marylyn Erb and Kelley M Erb were found in their Westfield, Indiana home by husband and father Thomas Erb. Marylyn Erb is originally from Lowell, Indiana.

Police arrived on the scene to find that the two women had been bludgeoned to death and their 2011 Buick Enclave had been used as the getaway vehicle. Police reports indicate that credit cards were also taken in the murder robbery and police were able to obtain video footage of an individual in a pontiac grand prix using the credit cards at various stores. The police report states:

It was determined that Chase credit cards were stolen during the home invasion and that those same credit cards were used at several locations during the afternoon hours of December 20, 2013. Video was obtained from several of these locations . . . The video shows a Pontiac Grand Prix pulling into the parking lot of the CVS.:

Police released video clips to the media and later received tips linking Christian Rene Haley to the crimes. An arrest was made and charges were filed in the matter on December 26, 2013. Police also were able to track a cell phone used by Haley to towers near the Erb home.

Those from the region who knew Marylyn Erb may leave their condolences at: http://www.legacy.com/guestbook/Batesville/guestbook.aspx?n=marylyn-erb&pid=168700621

Still No Charges for Thomas "TJ" Snow

27 Dec Clifford and Joyce Snow

by Ken Davidson

On October 21, Sheriff John Buncich held a press conference naming Thomas “TJ” Snow as the lead suspect in the death of beloved teacher Cliff Snow and his wife Joyce. The couple were found in their rural home on October 18, 2013 after a call for a welfare check from their out of state daughter. Officers reportedly discovered a grizzly scene upon arrival at the home. Later reports indicated that the couple were beaten and strangled but an official cause of death has yet to be announced. Thomas Snow was apprehended in Minnesota after a short police chase on October 18. Snow waived extradition to Indiana on October 22, 2013 and was transported to the Newton County Jail on December 11, 2013. Since that time, officials have been mum on details regarding the case. The Gazette has learned, however, that charges have yet to be filed in the matter. Snow has an unrelated warrant from Lake County which will hold him if he is released from Newton County. Snow would be eligible for bond on both charges absent filing of the murder charges.

The Lake County Sheriff still seeks information from anyone who may have had communication with Thomas J. Snow during the period October 4 through October 18, 2013. Anyone with such information should call the Lake County Sheriff at 219.755.3371

20,000 Hoosiers to Lose Unemployment Benefits on December 28

27 Dec interstate 80 94 accident

by Ken Davidson

Indiana Department of Workforce officials are warning that up to 20,000 hoosiers will not get unemployment benefits beginning next week. The budget deal passed by both houses of Congress and signed into law by President Obama does not provide for extended unemployment benefits. That means that hoosiers are eligible for 26 weeks of benefits under the Indiana plan. Those who have been receiving benefits under the federally funded extension will no longer be eligible for benefits. The Indiana Department of Workforce Development explains:

What happens to Hoosiers on unemployment when the federal extensions expire?
Unemployed Hoosiers will not be able to receive any further federally extended benefit

What can I do to help my situation before the federally extended benefits expire?
It is important for you to visit your local WorkOne as soon as possible to get help with
your job search. WorkOne staff can help you update your resume, recharge your job
search and interview skills, strengthen your computer knowledge, get your Indiana High
School Equivalency Diploma, become certified in a high-demand industry and match
your skills with new career opportunities to find a new job. All of these services and
more are free of charge. Log on to http://www.workoneworks.com to find out more.

Are there any other programs to help unemployed Hoosiers with food, rent, or other items?
Visit The Indiana Department of Workforce Development’s (DWD) website at
http://www.in.gov/dwd. Click on “Unemployment for Individuals”, then click on “Resource
Guide for the Unemployed” on the left side of the page. This guide provides information
about other programs that can help while y

As of June 25, 2013, Indiana University reported 25,000 Lake County residents as unemployed. While the overwhelming majority of those are not receiving extended benefits, it is clear that many local residents will be affected. Statewide it is estimated that 20,000 will lose benefits immediately with many more losing benefits in the coming weeks when the 26 week benefit expires.

Indiana Conservation officer saves Christmas

22 Dec

Yesterday evening, shortly before 7:00 PM, EST, Josh Byrd, Pike County Highway Superintendent, was placing road barriers on flooded Pike County Road 900 East, when he heard calls for help coming from out in the flood waters. He then contacted Pike County Sheriff’s Office Dispatch. The call came at 6:52 PM. The Jefferson Township Fire Department, Pike County Deputies, and Indiana Conservation Officers responded to the scene.
Conservation Officers Jon Watkins and Shane Cooper had been responding to similar flood related calls throughout the afternoon and were equipped to address this type of emergency. Arriving at the scene, they were able to launch their patrol boat from the roadway and begin a search of the flooded corn field. Christmas was found around 9:30 PM, approximately 100 yards into the flood waters, clinging onto a bridge abutment. By the time of the rescue, he had been in the flood waters about three hours.
According to the victim, Christmas was on his way home from where he worked in Otwell and decided to attempt to ride his 4-wheeler through the flooded roadway. As the water became deeper near a bridge, he decided to turn around. His vehicle began to float and got caught in the current separating Christmas from his 4-wheeler. Christmas was carried some distance with the current until he was able to latch onto some vegetation and regain his footing. Due to the darkness he was unable to find high ground. Now barefoot, he returned to the bridge, the only high point he knew.
Michael D. Christmas, 30, of Velpen Indiana. was transported to Jasper Memorial by Pike County Ambulance where he was treated for hypothermia and released.

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PORT ST. LUCIE — The Mets welcome into camp today an outfield prospect who has had more big hits than any rookie in recent history. Already, he makes more money and is a far bigger drawing card than Mike Piazza.

His name is Garth Brooks. His age, on the high side for a rookie, is 38. The scouting report on him?

“He can play second, third and left field,” Mets general manager Steve Phillips said. “Hustles. Works his butt off. First one to show up at the ballpark, last one to leave.”

Phillips then took the fifth when asked to break down Garth’s baseball tools.

Merv Rettenmund, Brooks’ hitting coach for the Padres last season, now works for the Braves. Give it up, Merv. What do you think of Garth’s bat?

“I think he starts it into the hitting area slow, then it slows down more,” Rettenmund said. “But to his credit, he was able to put the ball in play.”

Brooks struck out only four times in 22 at-bats last spring. He scratched out one infield hit, which computes to a .045 batting average. He hits to low places, mostly grounders to third and short. “No Fences,” the title of the best-selling album in country music history, best describes his power.

At third base, Garth is no Brooks. With a bat in his hands, Garth is no Iorg.

A javelin thrower at Oklahoma State, Brooks doesn’t approach camp in the fashion of a television sports anchor wearing a jersey and shagging flyballs for the cameras, the all-time spring training cliché.

“Something like that would be miserable if you had him in there just for the PR and not playing,” Rettenmund said. “My, oh my, he just worked and worked and worked.”

Brooks will dress in the Mets’ major-league clubhouse, wear No. 1 and go through drills with the rest of the outfielders, but won’t play the infield, if the Mets are wise.

During batting practice, infielders take grounders from coaches while live batting practice is taking place on the same field. It takes a certain degree of ingrained alertness. It can be dangerous for those not in the habit of keeping their ears tuned to the cage. Early in Padres camp, Brooks was concentrating on the ground ball sent his way when a line drive from the player taking batting practice bruised him in the back.

“I thought it broke his rib,” Rettenmund said. “After that, he just stayed in the outfield. He’s decent out there. He’s not going to embarrass himself. He’ll shag flyballs all day long. He’s got to play the outfield. To start out in the infield, the way some of these guys hit the ball, that’s not good.”

Players view spring training as a necessary evil. The ones whose families are not with them can become downright miserable. They sport long faces and are armed with pens to mark off one more day on the calendar that points to the season.

Star-struck ballplayers tend to like celebrities anyway. That Brooks is a mega-star unburdened by a massive ego will make the diversion all the more enjoyable.

“He’s so down-to-earth it’s gonna shock you,” Rettenmund said. “Having him in spring training is great for the team. His work ethic is incredible. He’s running all the time. His speed and his strength are his best tools. I might say he has average major- league speed.”

He has the makeup to handle the big crowds of Port St. Lucie. He could handle the pressure that comes with playing in New York.

“I think he could,” said John Franco, who has heard as many boos as anybody in New York. “He’s got friends in low places. And he’s used to playing in front of big crowds.”

Port St. Lucie never has been the hot spot it will be in coming weeks.

“People were bringing him guitars to sign,” Rettenmund said. “You’ve never seen so many people at spring training.”

Bobby Valentine first met Brooks at a cancer charity event and was impressed with how the singer did not increase his fee for the event after making it big. Valentine also liked the all-baseball scouting report he received from Padres manager Bruce Bochy.

“He doesn’t want to serenade the pitcher,” Valentine said. “He wants to hit him.”

And he’s disappointed when he doesn’t, which is 95 percent of the time.

Said Rettenmund: “He’d go up, make an out, come back to the dugout and say, ‘I’m sorry.’ Finally I told him, ‘Stop saying that. Everyone makes an out.’ I wish he was training with us, to tell you the truth.”

Best of all, Brooks makes no attempt to hide his mercenary motives. Unlike most players, he won’t say he’s not doing it for the money. He is, but he won’t keep the money. It all goes to his Touch ‘Em All Foundation, a children’s charity. The day Brooks called it quits at the end of spring training in 1999, he informed the team of his decision in a clubhouse meeting.

“They offered me the same contract as Trevor Hoffman,” Brooks told teammates, referencing the $7 million closer. “That was nice, but I just couldn’t afford it. I could make that much in one weekend.”

He cracked up the clubhouse with that.

Money can’t buy hits, but Garth Brooks won’t need any of those to be a hit in Port St. Lonely.


text:
Game 1 Mets 7 Rockies 5

The Mets’ magic number to clinch a wild card over the Diamondbacks was was 40 before the second game of last night’s doubleheader with Colorado. The reason the Mets seem destined to win because they can win pretty and they can win ugly.

Last night’s win in the opener was Joe Theismann getting his leg cracked in half by Lawrence Taylor ugly. But coming out “kind of lethargic,” Bobby Valentine’s words and still winning is the mark of a playoff team.

During Game 1, the Mets had, to understate it, perhaps put together the greatest scoring opportunity without scoring in the history of baseball and, again to put it in proper perspective, with perhaps the weakest comeback the history of baseball.

The lost-scoring opportunity came in the fourth. The Mets had no outs, the bases loaded and 3-0 counts on two batters and couldn’t put up a run against the Rockies.

Pedro Astacio came back from 3-0 counts against both Todd Zeile and Jay Payton before fighting back to strike them out on 3-2 counts. He then got Mike Bordick to line up to short

“Some teams say that was our chance, we’ll get them tomorrow,” Valentine said after the Mets’ 7-5 Game 1 win, which was perhaps the ugliest game of the season. “This team says that was our chance; we’ll get them next inning.”

These Mets, winners of 17 of their last 21 after Game 1 and playing without a rested Mike Piazza, came back from a 4-2 deficit in the seventh by scoring four runs on two hits.

The were aided by a Rockie relief staff, which had more trouble finding the plate than a supermodel. Three Rockie relievers walked four batters.

The Mets deserve credit for being patient and for the leadoff double into the left field corner by Todd Pratt, Piazza’s very capable backup, and the pinch-hit single Lenny Harris sent up the middle to chase Astacio.

“Once we get a big hit, things are bound to go our way,” said spot starter Pat Mahomes, who pitched a solid 6″ innings to keep the Mets in Game 1.

With the two men on and no outs, righty Craig House came in and walked Darryl Hamilton on four pitches to load the bases. After striking out Derek Bell on three pitches, House walked Edgardo Alfonzo – who supplied the Mets first two runs with an opposite-field double in the fifth – to bring Pratt in.

Next came Robin Ventura, who entered his at-bat with a .351 average with the bases loaded in his career and a .240 average for the season. He barely foul-tipped a 3-2 pitch from lefty sidewinder Mike Myers before walking in the tying run.

Hamilton, who benefited from new righty reliever Jose Jimenez’ wild pitch to slide across head first. Jimenez would go on to re-load the bases by walking Zeile.

Alfonzo was moved to third and came home as Jay Payton hit into a 6-4 fielder’s choice for the second out of the inning.

“It’s an experience and you have to hope it doesn’t happen again,” manager Buddy Bell said of his young team’s meltdown.

Yesterday in the fourth, Astacio walked the first two batters, Bell and Alfonzo, before Robin Ventura loaded bases with a well-placed single into the hole between first and second.

So with the bases loaded Zeile came up and Astacio promptly fell behind 3-0. But Astacio fought back to strike out Zeile with a 3-2 change.

Payton followed and as if Astacio were teasing the Mets, the right-hander fell behind Payton 3-0 before, coming back and striking out a hard-swinging Payton on a 3-2 change.

With his fun over, Astacio got Bordick to end the inning on a liner to short, which Niefi Perez caught in sort of Rickey Henderson-like snatch catch.

The Mets nearly evened the game at three in the fifth. Down 3-0, Alfonzo came up with a two-run two-out double, which one-hopped the opposite way, off the right field wall.

Ventura followed with a grounder up the middle, toward the second-base side. Todd Walker scurried to his right and picked up the ball, but his off-balance throw was up the line past fist base. Helton didn’t let it get behind him. He retrieved it and fired home to nail Alfonzo.

Alfonzo was out because of a brief pause he took between third and home as base coach Cookie Rojas signaled for him to come home. This brief delay made sure catcher Brent Mayne could place down a tag as Alfonzo slid in feet first. The Mets had to settle for a 3-2 disadvantage. They could’ve been taken the lead if not for some of the most unfathomable missed opportunities of the season, an inning earlier.


text:
THE music of “Pet Sounds,” one of the greatest albums of the ’60s, has transcended time, the Beach Boys and even Brian Wilson’s inability to perform his own music.

During a live re-creation of the album at B.B. King’s Blues Club Monday, Wilson – a Beach Boy grown old – sat at a keyboard (hands off the keys) flanked by a pair of computerized lyric prompters and sang flatter than road-kill.

Somehow, songs like “Wouldn’t It Be Nice,” “Don’t Talk (Put Your Head on My Shoulder)” “God Only Knows” and “Caroline No” saved the performance. The beauty of those songs and their spirit of youth are timeless, evocative of the happiness and the sadness that drove Wilson to write them 36 years ago.

The other night, he gave them no help conjuring that emotional territory.

His face, as he croaked the lyrics, was expressionless except when his brows knitted, and he looked as scared as a deer caught in the headlights.

Hard to know whether he played the keyboard he hid behind, but when Wilson sang, he never sang alone. Everyone in his 13-piece band does backup vocals and most even sound like Brian did when he was a kid.

Probably the most annoying element of this performance was the band’s porcine guitar picker, who often spoke for Wilson, as if he was the legend’s inner self.

He cracked jokes, trying to be Mr. Showbiz and keep the program moving. Despite his fine falsetto – so necessary to Wilson’s music – and his abilities with an ax, the guy was poison.

In fact, at least three times during the concert Wilson briefly looked as if he wanted to tell the guitarist to shut up and strum, but then he blanked and seemed to forget what was bothering him.

Of all that is good and great on “Pet Sounds,” the towering love song “God Only Knows” topped the set. This melancholy ballad was the one song that seemed to draw Wilson out of his haze, and for those few minutes he seemed to understand the lyrics he wrote so long ago.

The show was fattened by “Good Vibrations” (not on “Pet Sounds,” but of the same era), and classic Beach Boy tunes such as “Fun, Fun, Fun” and “Help Me, Rhonda.”

This was the kind of show you were glad to see and hear, but you wouldn’t want to do it again.


text:
A 41-year-old Argentine woman acknowledged having a relationship with South Carolina Gov. Mark Sanford, saying Sunday that widely published e-mail correspondence between the two was obtained from her account without permission.

In a brief statement sent to news network C5n of Buenos Aires, Maria Belen Chapur said she will not talk about her private life, which has already been the focus of intense media scrutiny in the United States and Argentina.

“I have decided to send this statement to clear up certain incorrect things that are being reported, and put an end to a matter that, as you imagine, is very painful to me, my two children, my entire family and close friends.”

Chapur said someone accessed her Hotmail account without permission late last year and leaked e-mail correspondence that described a relationship with Sanford to the South Carolina newspaper The State.

But she denied the hacker is a friend of hers – as has been widely reported here – saying he is as much a victim of the media frenzy as she.

“I have a strong suspicion of who is responsible for this evil act that was directed at me but also destroyed the lives of so many others,” Chapur said. “But without sufficient proof, and for legal reasons, I am obligated to not reveal the name.

“It is not for me to judge anyone. I leave it all in the hands of God,” she concluded.

The statement was addressed to C5n anchor Eduardo Feinman, who read it on camera. Feinman was Chapur’s editor when she worked briefly as a television reporter in 2001.

Chapur has been widely reported to have been Sanford’s mistress after the governor admitted to the relationship following a secret trip to Argentina earlier this month.

But he did not say identify Chapur.

Reporters staked out Chapur’s building in an upper-class neighborhood in the Argentine capital for days trying to locate her, and pressing for information from neighbors and the owner of a bar that Chapur and Sanford reportedly visited.

People who know Chapur describe her as an elegant, well-mannered, soft-spoken woman who speaks several languages. She is a graduate in political science from the Catholic University of Buenos Aires and a divorced mother of two sons.

Heber Alvarez, a doorman at her building, said she often rises early for morning jobs through the neighborhood.


text:
Vanishing tiger

KATMANDU, Nepal — The world’s tiger population is declining fast, despite efforts to save the animals, and new strategies are urgently needed, wildlife experts said yesterday.

“We are assembled here to save tigers that are at the verge of extinction,” Nepal’s secretary of forest and soil conservation, Yuvaraj Bhusal, told a conference of tiger experts from 20 countries.


text:
Following a very successful weeklong March 2010 studio/workshop by Pratt Institute planning & architecture graduate students to São Paulo, Brazil, we have formed a committe to propose and organize a similar Return Exchange program to bring the host Brazilian housing activists to New York. The primary goal is to broaden the range of effective policies and tactics available to housing rights advocates in both cities. This goal will be accomplished by meetings between the visitors and their counterparts in housing organizations, tenants’ rights advocates, homeless shelter providers, residents’ associations, and architectural and planning technical assistance organizations. Visits will be conducted to several types of housing around NYC: homeless shelters, squats, public housing, senior housing, rent-controlled apartments, subsidized homeownership, and coop housing. A public forum would be held for the Brazilian guests to present their approaches to housing issues in São Paulo and to respond to questions by the general public.

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All hotels in Meta, Italy
1 room, 2 adults
You can collect™ Rewards nights here

Villa Sorrento Resort - B&B, Meta, Italy

Via Caracciolo 20/bMetaNA80062Italy

Meta B&B with outdoor pool
  • Free WiFi and free parking
Very Good8.4
  • I'd like to add that our experience was not at the fault of the hotel staff. It was just…Sep 18, 2017
  • The only negatives were kitchen ...having to share fridge cooker with other guests no…Sep 16, 2017
18See all 18 reviews
From 109 reviewsTripAdvisor Traveller Rating

Villa Sorrento Resort - B&B, Meta, Italy

from NZ$64
  • Single Room
  • Double Room
  • Triple Room

At a glance

Key facts

Hotel size

  • This hotel has 4 rooms
  • This hotel is arranged over 1 floor

  • Check-in time 2 PM-8 PM
  • Check-out time is 11 AM
  • Express check-in/out
To make arrangements for check-in please contact the property at least 24 hours before arrival using the information on the booking confirmation.
Airport shuttle service is available on request. Contact the property in advance to make arrangements. This property offers breakfast only during high season (April 1 - October 31). For more details, please contact the property using the number provided on the booking confirmation email.

Required at check in

  • Credit card or cash deposit required

  • Government-issued photo ID required

  • Minimum check-in age is 18

Travelling with others

  • One child (6 years old and younger) stays free when occupying the parent or guardian's room, using existing bedding

  • Pets stay free

  • Free WiFi in public areas

  • Free WiFi in rooms

  • Free train station pickup *

  • Cruise terminal shuttle *

  • Ferry terminal shuttle *

  • Free extended parking
* See small print for additional details or extra charges

In the hotel

Food and drink
  • Local cuisine breakfast daily (surcharge)
  • Room service (during limited hours)
Things to do
  • Outdoor seasonal pool
  • Outdoor pool
  • Bicycle rentals nearby
  • Ecotours nearby
  • Scuba diving nearby
  • Pool sun loungers
  • Pool umbrellas
  • Front desk (limited hours)
  • Tours/ticket assistance
  • Number of buildings/towers - 1
  • Garden

In the room

Home comforts
  • In-room climate control (air conditioning)
  • Air conditioning
Sleep well
  • Down comforter
Things to enjoy
  • Balcony
Freshen up
  • Private bathroom
  • Rainfall showerhead
  • Shower only
  • Bidet
  • Free toiletries
  • Hair dryer
Be entertained
  • TV
Stay connected
  • Free WiFi
  • Daily housekeeping

Villa Sorrento Resort - B&B, Meta, Italy’s small print

Also known as

  • Villa Sorrento Meta
  • Villa Sorrento Resort B&B
  • Villa Sorrento Resort B&B Meta

All guests, including children, must be present at check-in and show their government-issued photo ID card or passport.

Cash transactions at this property cannot exceed EUR 2999.99, due to national regulations. For further details, please contact the property using information in the booking confirmation.

Only registered guests are allowed in the guestrooms.

  • The seasonal pool is open from May to October.
  • For transfers, guests must contact the property before arrival at the number on the booking confirmation.

    We have included all charges provided to us by this hotel. However, charges can vary, for example, based on length of stay or the room you book.

    What’s around Villa Sorrento Resort - B&B, Meta, Italy

    • Villa Fondi (16-minute walk)
    • Piazza Tasso (2.8 mi / 4.5 km)
    • Frantoio Ferraro (2.5 mi / 4 km)
    • Museo Correale di Terranova (2.5 mi / 4 km)
    • Frantoio Gargiulo (2.5 mi / 4.1 km)
    • Piazza Lauro (2.7 mi / 4.3 km)
    • Sedile Dominova (2.8 mi / 4.6 km)
    • Sorrento Lift (2.9 mi / 4.6 km)

    Getting around

    • Naples (NAP-Naples Intl.) 50-min drive
    • Salerno (QSR-Costa d'Amalfi) 61-min drive
    • Meta Station 13-min walk
    • Piano di Sorrento Station 20-min walk
    • Sant'Agnello Station 10-min drive
    • Free extended parking
    • Free train station pick-up
    • Ferry terminal shuttle
    • Cruise terminal shuttle (surcharge)

    Villa Sorrento Resort - B&B, Meta, Italy

    Is the description of this hotel not correct? Tell us


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27 Realistic Marriage Vows You Didn't Think To Make At Your Wedding

Kelsey Borresen

Newlyweds are often idealistic on their wedding day, blissfully unaware of all the annoyances, frustrations and less romantic moments of married life that lie ahead.

The traditional “to have and to hold from this day forward” vows may sound nice, but they don’t fully capture the realities of daily life as a married person

We asked some of the hilarious husbands and wives of Twitter to share the honest wedding vows that most couples don’t think to make on their wedding day but should. Here’s what they came up with:

1. “I promise to tell you I don’t care where we go out to eat, yet when you choose the restaurant, it will always be the wrong one.” ― @3sunzzz

2. “I vow to not lose my sh*t when you seriously think that’s how to load a dishwasher.” ― @yenniwhite

3. “Do you promise to love and cherish him, even when he can never find his keys?” ― @sarcasticmommy4

4. “I vow to never complain about the noises you make in the bathroom every morning as long as you vow never to complain about my hair in the drain.” ― @Parkerlawyer

5. “I will never fart under the covers before you climb into bed.” ― @moooooog35

6. “I vow to always hate the same people on ‘House Hunters’ as you do.” ― @simoncholland

7. “I promise to listen to that one story from college that you’ve told 100 times, and still laugh.” ― @FatherWithTwins

8. “I promise that every time I go shopping I will hide half of my purchases in the back of my closet.” ― @3sunzzz

9. “I promise to never think about or even attempt to wash your clothes or put them in the dryer.” ― @deegeemindi

10. “Do you promise to cherish this woman and let her adjust the thermostat to whatever temperature suits her mood and outfit ’til death do you part?” ― @Lhlodder

11. “Do you promise to love and cherish her, even when she turns into a complete monster because she’s hangry?” ― @sarcasticmommy4

12. “I promise to never abandon you in order to sit on the toilet for 45 minutes or until the shape of the toilet seat is permanently tattooed on my ass just to get a break from the kids.” ― @WalkingOutside

13. “I promise to let you look for your lost stuff for hours and hours and then find it for you within 30 seconds.” ― @Cheeseboy22

14. “I promise to call and confirm that you really don’t want anything from the store.” ― @iwearaonesie

15. “I will always tell you if I’m falling asleep during a movie so you don’t watch 45 minutes of it before realizing it and then have to rewind and rewatch the same parts all over again.” ― @moooooog35

16. “My commitment to you is that I will never leave my food wrappers on the counter inches away from the trash bin.” ― @WalkingOutside

17. “I promise to always complain about the way you squeeze the toothpaste.” ― @3sunzzz

18. “I promise to keep the house full of wine, especially after we have kids.” ―@FatherWithTwins

19. “I promise to warn you that there are nachos on the bed before you sit down.” ―@iwearaonesie

20. “I promise not to ever think about or touch the decorative towels hanging up.” ― @deegeemindi

21. “Our wedding vows should have included a limit to the amount of shampoo bottles in our shower.” ― @simoncholland

22. “I vow to walk through life with you side by side, always together as we scroll on our phones.” ― @WalkingOutside

23. “I promise to throw away my old mix tapes if I don’t listen to them for more than 10 years.” ―@FatherWithTwins

24. “I vow to always breathe the other way in bed.” ― @WalkingOutside

25. “I promise not to move anything on the counter that isn’t mine.” ―@iwearaonesie

26. “In sickness and in health, but I’m going to need a note from a doctor first because you’re a hypochondriac.” ― @Parkerlawyer

27. “I promise not to get a mohawk without telling you beforehand.” ― @FatherWithTwins

  • This article originally appeared on HuffPost.


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Al Iaquinta – ragin’ against the machine

When I watched UFC Nashville, I didn’t quite get ‘Raging’ Al Iaquinta’s post fight interview. The man seemed unfocussed, off point and totally random with his comments. He showed annoyance, mumbled something about selling real estate, and that was it. I felt like he’d wasted his on-air time, and failed to say anything relevant.

In the days that have followed, we’ve seen Al really live up to his nickname and spew fire about the problems he’s been facing with the UFC. It started with him ranting about low pay – an issue he’s brought up in the past as well. What really pushed him over the edge though, was overlooked for the Knockout Of The Night bonus. His performance against Diego Sanchez was amazing, and produced a highlight that the UFC is going to use for long time.

Al Iaquinta KO Diego Sanchez

Hard to argue with that.

Then, there was the issue of sponsorship money he’d lost thanks to Reebok. And then, there was the matter of the UFC being selective in the fighters they promote. He took at aim at everyone’s favourite hate magnet – Sage Northcutt, then Mike Perry and then a whole bunch of other fighters, but most surprisingly, Al went after the boss himself.

Now there’s nothing passive aggressive about the manner in which Iaquinta is calling out Dana White. From telling Dana to “go f*ck himself” to declaring himself the new President of the UFC, to calling him a wannabe fighter – Iaquinta is mincing no words.

Whether you’re on his side or not, it’s bloody hard to look away now. This is an employee taking it to his boss in the most aggressive tone we’ve seen since Stone Cold Steve Austin. The UFC has been silent but it will be interesting to see how they deal with this. Do they simply ignore this disgruntled employee, or will they let this thing turn into a hero vs establishment kinda thing that will get fans interested in his next fight. Post acquisition, we’ve seen the UFC become a lot more.. corporate. Will they fan a few flames and try to generate marketing content out of this, or will they simply have HR send Al a warning letter?

Let’s wait and watch.


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The Truth About Locker Room Talk

As I’ve gotten older, one of the pet peeves in life is people who think they’re better than other people.

It might be an ego thing, a status thing, a color thing, an educational thing, a financial thing. There are a lot of different reasons behind it, but it bothers me.

In the long run, we are no better than anybody else. Yet still we judge and, when we can, we jump into the fray to make ourselves look better.

We all came into this world buck naked and bloody, greeted with a slap on the ass, and handed to a family that was expected to mold us, form us and send us off on this unpredictable journey called life.

A locker room can be an ugly place ... but usually not as ugly a place as Donald Trump described it.

A locker room can be an ugly place … but usually not as ugly a place as Donald Trump described it.

Most of us had 10 fingers and 10 toes when we made our grand appearance. We hope we stay intact until the very end.

It’s what happens from Point A to Point B that defines us, but it doesn’t stop others from ridiculing us because they see things differently.

People make mistakes and they pay for them every day. In homes. In courts. In the public eye. In private.

We forgive, we forget. We allow certain people to climb to the top, only to rise up against them and knock them off their pedestal. And, sometimes, if they’re lucky we let them climb again because we love a good comeback story.

Then there are people like Donald Trump. Filthy rich and divisive. Hated and beloved. A man who has good hair days and bad hair days. And a man who, generally, comes off thinking he’s better than everybody else.

He’s proven he’s not, though, time and time again.

I’m not a Trump supporter. Not even close. As a joke poking fun at mainstream media, I’ve “endorsed” a candidate in this very space and that is who I’m going to vote for. It is not The Donald.

But when Trump used the phrase “Locker Room Talk” when apologizing for his latest verbal gaffe, being caught on a hot mic during a TV appearance 11 years ago,, I knew exactly what he was trying to say.

So too did most people, regardless of how indefensible it was. It was common sense. At least that’s what I thought.

Then the tweets started flying from a number of pro athletes, saying they’ve never heard of such things in their locker rooms. That, of course, made sense to me simply because those locker rooms are the athletes’ offices and board rooms, and the place where they turn their athleticism and talents into their some big money-making business.

Besides if you watch ESPN or FOXSports1 you know most assaults and sexual assaults by athletes seem to take place at home, in dorm rooms, or hotel rooms or in elevators.

Jockeys are the only athletes who should truly get up on their high horse, I suppose.

But I’ve spent a lot of my life in locker rooms … dating back to my own days as an athlete and through my days as a reporter. I’ve probably seen and heard things that, if shared, could stop people from becoming an elected official … at least if this is the barrier we are going to sink to in order to pick our next commander in chief.

As such, when somebody uses the phrase “locker room talk” as a cliche, I know exactly what they mean.

Trump wasn’t being literal. It was obviously a general term he was using to describe doing what many men of his generation have done countless times in the past over seven decades … demean women through verbal attacks because they think they’re better than the fairer sex.

“Locker room talk” was a phrase … something akin to “potty mouth.”

If you say somebody has a “potty mouth” are you insinuating that the person actually drinks the urine and feces of toddler children?

As Trump keeps self-destructing in such an embarrassing fashion, it saddens me to see those trying to use such a depressing figure to prop themselves up.

And, last night, I just wasn’t very impressed how people from a vastly different generation decided to make themselves look better by publicly defending what actually goes on in a locker room.

Finally, for the record, for those of you who snapped a wet towel against my bare rear end just for laughs — and you know who you are — you have not lost my vote for any office you might seek.

Not yet anyway.

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Step 1 · Step 2

I’ve got a little list

I was cleaning up my files today and found this:

Things I have learned while studying for the boards:

  1. All broken bones are due to child abuse.
  2. All black people have sickle cell.
  3. All white people have cystic fibrosis.
  4. All Native Americans have wacky cholesterol.
  5. Ships are made of pure asbestos.
  6. Every woman is a carrier for about fifty genetic diseases.
  7. Way too many people marry their siblings.
  8. Belligerent patients are employing some sort of defense mechanism. They are never just plain jerks.
  9. If you have sex, you will get gonorrhea. In your knee.
  10. The best way to treat an arrhythmia is to put the patient at risk for another arrhythmia.
  11. And if that doesn’t work, just go in with some electrodes and kill off bits of their heart muscle.
  12. Smoking is a risk factor for everything, including cervical cancer. Maybe that’s why there was a cigarette in the peritoneum.
  13. It’s always lupus.
  14. The most common cause of gout is “partying.”  Ben Franklin: the original Animal House dude.
  15. The only effect of Tylenol is to keep dialysis companies in business.
  16. Cruise ships are sailing time bombs for Norwalk virus.
  17. People who lose weight have cancer and/or depression.
  18. If it hurts, it’s just inflammation and you’ll be fine.  If it DOESN’T hurt, it’s cancer and you’ll be dead in 5 years.

Good times.

Step 1

Here goes

At noon today I closed my books for good.  What I know, I know.  What I don’t — well, that’s just too bad.  (But please, God of Step 1, keep the musculoskeletal stuff to a minimum.)

This has been the most surreal month of my life.  I am very, very glad that tomorrow it will be over.

Step 1

End of Week 1

I’ve gone through all the basic sciences/general principles type material (Section II of First Aid), and tomorrow I’m going to take an NBME practice test to see where I stand before starting my systems-based review (the next two weeks).  And then I’m going to take another practice, probably at the test center, before a week of hardcore last minute review.

Starting to lose energy.  Part of me wants to take the damn exam now and get it over with — except I would most certainly fail, and then I would have to do it all over again.

Step 1

Day 3

I like this idea someone gave me of alternating difficult subjects with easy ones.  Biochem was demoralizing, but today I whizzed through musculoskeletal, derm, genetics, and embryology like no one’s business.  I even had some time left over in my afternoon session so I went back to the storage diseases.  They say you shouldn’t go back — once you’re done with a subject, you’re done — but my attempts to cram a year’s worth of biochemistry into 7 hours was, shall we say, impossible.

Hopefully it won’t rain tomorrow so I can go for a run.  I haven’t gone outside in three days and am starting to turn into the Madwoman in the Attic.

Step 1

Day 2

The plan for today was to get through First Aid and Rapid Review Biochem.  But then I woke up an hour late, so I had to skip my Goljan run, and even though I technically made it through the books in 3 sessions of 3.5 hours each, I haven’t memorized the storage diseases or the lipoproteinemias.  Or done QBank.

There you go, day 2 and I’m already behind schedule.  This is turning out a little like my New Year’s Resolutions, broken within a week.

MS-2 · Step 1

Day 1

Today was my first real live, honest-to-goodness Boards Study Day (TM).  I listened to a Goljan lecture on my morning run (yes, they are awesome and no, don’t ask me where to get them), then went to the public library from 10 AM to 5 PM to go through BRS Behavioral Science and First Aid.  There is a quiet study area with cubicles, so I camped there for the day, but it turned out to be an airless, stuffy room, and the woman in the cubicle next to me kept answering her cell phone.  I think I’ll have to find somewhere else to study, which might prove difficult — I checked for “best places to study” in my suburban home town and the only result was … Spa World?  Maybe coming home to study wasn’t the greatest idea after all.

Anyway, I came home when the library closed, had dinner, answered about fifteen emails, and then did two blocks’ worth of Kaplan QBank, which I bombed.  As first days go, it wasn’t awful, but I could definitely do better.

Tomorrow is biochem, which will be more hardcore.


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Monday, January 23, 2017

The Storm Cover Reveal Giveaway!

The Storm
R.J. Prescott
(The Hurricane #3)
Publication date: March 21st 2017
Genres: New Adult, Romance, Sports
Marie Kelly is a survivor who doesn’t know when to quit. Against all odds, she’s living a life she never dreamed she could have. It was enough… until a stubborn boxer makes her want more.
Irish charmer Kieran Doherty has been a fighter at Driscoll’s Gym for most of his life. He’s been content to let his best friend take the spotlight, now it’s his turn to make a name for himself in the world of heavy weight champions. Falling in love is the one thing he vowed never to do, but meeting Marie changed everything.
It’s easy to imagine a happy-ever-after when the sun is shining. But when the storm comes, and all hope seems lost, they both learn that if you want something badly enough, you have to be willing to fight for it.
Previous books in the series:

Author Bio:
R.J. Prescott was born in Cardiff, South Wales and studied law at the University of Bristol, England. Four weeks before graduation she fell in love with a crazy firefighter and stayed in Bristol. Ten years later she convinced her husband to move back to Cardiff, where they now live with their two sons. Juggling work, writing and family doesn't leave leave a lot of time, but curling up on the sofa with a cup of tea and a bar of chocolate for family movie night is definitely the best part of her week. Her debut book "The Hurricane" is a USA Today Bestselling duet novel concluded in "The Aftermath".

1 comment:

  1. The colors on the cover are perfect for this book! Can't wait to read this one.


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Motivational desktop download!

free desktop wallpaper download

It's Thursday, and what better way to celebrate mid week by giving you a free downloadable motivational desktop wallpaper to brighten up your day with a positive vibe! This hand drawn motivational quote wallpaper is perfect for adding a bit of style to your computer screens and iPhones! The wallpaper has been illustrated with the hand lettered positive quote 'start somewhere' - so true! We love to see these downloads in use, so tag us in your snaps via Twitter, Instagram or Facebook using the hashtag #oldenglishcompany

How To Download:

Keep your eye out for new downloadable offerings from us in the coming weeks.

downloadable motivational desktop wallpaper

 motivational desktop wall paper

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Casey and Jaclyn: A Love Story Olia Zavozina Blog

I was a bartender at Buffalo Wild Wings. Casey (my fiancé) came in really late one night to my bar with another woman. He was being extremely rude complaining about the food and no matter what I tried to do to make it better he just kept complaining.

Finally, I had enough of his attitude, gave him his check, and told him in some less-than-lady-like words to pay his bill and get off my bar!

He came in the next day and apologized to me. He said, “I’m sorry for the way I acted last night. I was raised better than that.” I accepted his apology and apologized for my own choice words.

Then, he asked me to dinner. He said, “I would really like to take you to dinner for the way I treated you.” I said, “No. You don’t get a date for being a jerk!”

He said, “Okay. Then I am going to prove to you that I am not a jerk and that I am a nice guy worth going out with.”

Casey and Jaclyn: A Love Story Olia Zavozina Blog

He came in every single Wednesday during my shift for the next two months! He would help me close the bar down by sweeping and putting the chairs up on the tables.

Every week he would ask for my number and every single week I would tell him no.

One night, he told me his birthday was coming up. He was going to play a golf tournament in Atlanta, but he asked me to send him a birthday text. At first, I was reluctant, but I eventually caved in and promised to send him a birthday text.

He said, “So I need your number then.” I said, “What?” He said, “If you’re going to text me on my birthday then I need to know your number so I know it’s from you.”

I said, “You tricked me!” But since I promised him a text, I ended up giving him my number.

I sent him his birthday text and when I finished working that night I decided to ask him out for drinks. He later told me, he grabbed his golf clubs, said goodbye to his friends and hurried to meet me.

We’ve been inseparable ever since.

We’re getting married April 8th.


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Graffitti Day

It was one of those rare moments I had last weekend: instead of my typical schedule of workout, reading/replying to work emails, doing some errands, I decided to have a spur-of-the-moment brunch with one of my friends I have not seen for long time.

It was good to see an old friend and catch up on her life and realizing the importance of friendship in the midst of crazy work life. After promising each other that we would be better at keeping in touch (“once again”) in the future, I decided to take a leisurely walk along the Bloor Street, instead of my usual approach to getting on the closest subway station.

The weather was amazing….not too hot or cold, just right! After walking for sometime along the Bloor Street towards Yonge Street, I saw IT!: the graffiti wall with a splash of colours and images. I almost missed seeing it if I walked in my usual “let’s get to subway quickest as possible” mode….however with my “new” weekend approach of “enjoying the moment” walk, I did not miss it. With my minimal black and white   outfit, I absolutely had to be in the photo with this great image.

What do you do on the weekend?

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