Alex Ovechkin and Pizza

Luneberg is a Southern suburb of Hamberg that has a rich history of big cathedrals and big old-money houses. back in the day when salt was a major commodity and in high demand, Luneberg, Germany was the place to be. I've been told at least twice on each trip there (2) that Luneberg sits on top of an old underground salt flat and that if i look hard enough, i can still see old sink holes throughout the city. (i've yet to find any, but I'll keep looking because i know you're dying to know where they are). Luneberg is also home to the Woodlarks of German baseball's 3rd division, this means they use metal bats instead of wood. this was a game for our 2nd man's team, the younger, less experienced squad. the first pitch I saw in the visting half of the 1st inning resulted in a lazy fly ball to deep centerfield. jogging to first not wanting to waste too much energy on an easy out, i watched as the camped centerfielder, dropped the ball and it roll back to the fence. turning on the jets, i raced into 2nd with what i thought to be a error-enduced standup double. but in an effort to catch me napping as a rounded the bag, they threw to 2nd and an arrant throw bounced off the glove of the 2nd baseman and into shallow right. running to 3rd i watched the 3rd baseman's eyes and i could see him gauging where the throw would end up on his end, a little short and outside judging by his positioning on the bag so i took an inside route with my slide. popping up, i saw the 3rd baseman leave his feet and the ball sail over his head into left field. out of breath and legs burning, I jogged home for an error-filled homerun. Not the way you draw it up in the books, but the end result was still the same...3-0 good guys.

that would set the stage for the rest of my day at the plate; not that i reached on an error, but in all 5 plate appearences I made it safely on base. on the mound, in 3 innings of work, i gave up 2 hits, 1 walk, i pulled a page out of Jay Caldwell's book and hit a guy...in the helmet...my first pitch out of the stretch since May. and i had 5 Ks.

Ok enough about baseball, I'm sure you're wondering how Hockey went Friday night. there will be a video posted at a later date, but for now suffice it to say it was Apolo Ohno meets Brian Boytano, meets Alex Ovechkin...a artistic display of grace, power, and skill one even has a difficult time dreaming about, its that rare. My first strides on the ice took me back to that little pond behind our house where me and Dad used to skate for hours shooting pucks into an old net, where he taught me that famous Meyers double fisted slap-shot. I was just at home on that ice as i was in my own bed. Taking a few laps around the rink, smelling the ice, feeling the cool air run across my face, ahh, I was home again. It was evident to me at first glance the other players werent quite on my level, so i decided to play left handed. By the end of the first period, i had become accustomed to playing southpaw and had sliced and cut my way through the defense for a hat trick and 3 assists, well on my way to MVP of the game.

(screeching record noise) cut to reality...i was wearing rented skates 2 sizes too big, I had worn every pair of sweat pants and hoodie/jacket I could find, not for warmth, but as padding, and for good reason. I didnt have gloves, my hands were freezing, and im still not sure if i am right handed or left handed when it comes to Hockey. This was the first time on the ice with a stick in my hands and my 3rd time ice skating ever. I was a fish out of water to say the least and i believe it showed in my performance. I had one "shot" on goal, an pass deflected off a skate and into the open ice infront of me...needless to say it never found the back of the net. I did learn that falling on the ice isnt that bad, if you turn a 360 or two to slow yourself down first; this became my trademark move as the beer flowed and the game went on. I'll stick to the dirt and cleats of baseball.

After convincingly earning the OHACPH (Obviously He's American and Cant Play Hockey) award, a handful of us decided to stay in the city and go get some food. We settled on a pub called September, a welcomed english word after 2 hours of German on the ice. the 1st thing i noticed as i sat for my first German restaurant experience is that gay German men stick out just as much as gay American men. Next to us sat a table of limp-wrists, all bleach blond hair, trendy, small framed glasses, and tight black turtlenecks. that is except for one who was wearing a magenta silk shirt unbuttoned except the for the bottom two who kept hugging everyone and rubbing their backs for an awkard amount of time. but it was fine, because all of us made fun of them at our table. I've found that despite the American stigma that Europeans are more accepting, the people of Dohren didnt get the memo. We've made jokes about women drivers, Asains, Mexicans, gays, there have been black jokes, jew jokes, and a group I had no idea there was such a distaste for in Germany-- the Turkish. Its just like being in the halls of ATO.

By the time the waitress had gotten there, i had rehersed my order countless times so as not to look quite so out of place. Pizza Salami- easy to say and nice on the taste buds. she came to me and like i had done in my head so many times before, I said it, Pizza Salami. everyone at the table started chuckling and it was only then brought to my attention that we were ordering drinks first...i had overlooked the liquid portion of the menu and had no idea how to order a beer. luckily the kind souls at the table ordered for me, a Luneberger. Its a good beer, not one i would get again if given another option, I much prefered the 2nd beer i had, a darker, heavier one, though i have no idea what its called (that one was ordered for me as well).

the food came out and i could feel the eyes turn to me as i cut my personal handtossed goodness into 4 equal parts, folded the first and took my first cheesy bite. I had thought it a bit odd when i noticed the waitress give forks and knives to everyone who had ordered pizza a few minutes prior but dismissed it as September protocol that everyone got silverware. So you can imagine my shock when i saw everyone cutting their pizza into bite-sized pieces and eating it with a fork. Dont get me wrong, i've eaten pizza with a fork, Chicago style deep-dish demands it, but not the 10 inch pie that sat infront of me on this night. I thought about following suit but stuck to my guns and ate my Pizza Salami like a true, red-blooded American, with my hands.


A-Ron