The Madness of King James: Why America Can't Handle Its News Anymore

When Lebron James announces his new basketball home on a maudlin hour-long special, live from Greenwich, Connecticut, he will end an ugly saga that betrayed how brutally unprepared our country is to deal with matters of consequence as technology uncontrollably lurches forward.

On July 1, Lebron James became a free agent. In the preceding weeks (if not months and years), speculation had run rampant, but on that day his free agency became one of the biggest news stories of the Twitter era, rumors exploding from every corner of the internet. Journalists, fellow players, anonymous front office executives, friends of restaurant owners- anyone who could claim a degree of separation from the Source, advanced definitive clues to where Lebron was heading. No entity was more crippled by this phenomenon than ESPN.

ESPN’s embarrassing coverage demonstrated that despite being one of the world’s major news organizations, it was unprepared to handle a mega story that it has known was coming for two years. Desperate not to be scooped, its writers displayed a complete inability to decipher fact from rumor, or fact from relevant fact. Writers lunged from theory to theory- 'Lebron is going to Chicago', 'Lebron is going to New York', 'Lebron is going to Miami', often without any actual developments to bolster their case. One tweet lamented the news that Lebron’s agent had changed his LLC address to Chicago. Another gushed of Lebron’s reservation at a steakhouse in New York.

Information on flights, meals, hotel bookings and phone calls were bandied about, along with deep ruminations on Lebron’s inner psychology. Aware of the tenuousness of their claims, writers deftly pulled Orwellian hijinks with each new 'development', reflecting, 'Lebron was always going to stay in Cleveland', 'Miami was a done deal from the beginning,' 'the Knicks were never in play', only to discard such claims in subsequent posts. During rare, sane moments, a writer would admit that Lebron probably hadn’t made up his mind at all.

There are at least two reasons the complete botching of this story is more important than basketball.

First, we have long recognized that in most news reporting, the immediacy of the 24 hour news cycle is dangerous, allowing for little fact-checking. This problem has only been exacerbated by explosion of Twitter and the increasing number of professionals religiously consulting their iPhones and Blackberries. If the whole world can learn the one sentence synopsis of a story as it is happening, news agencies must have some substance to offer immediately as well. News organizations were all over the Stanley McChrystal story- before the Rolling Stone story was fully published. Most were reacting to excerpts or paraphrased summaries of the article. That is how the important point of the article- the collapse of our Afghanistan war strategy, got lost in the shuffle.

A less recent but even more poignant example would be the ‘balloon boy’ story, during which television news converged on live coverage of a boy in a runaway balloon- only there wasn’t any boy in the balloon. The rush to war in 2003 was bad enough. Can you imagine if rumors related to Saddam Hussein and weapons of mass destruction had proliferated more quickly and more wildly than they had? But examples should not even be necessary in stating a most obvious principle- a world in which newsmakers have no time to reflect before speaking, and policymakers have no time to reflect before acting is highly dangerous.

Our faith in experts is equally misguided, and in the case of 'political analysts', equally dangerous. In sports, inaccuracy is usually of no consequence. Neither the passive fan nor diehard junkie really cares whether someone on NBA.com accurately predicts the outcome of a game. It can be startling to see so-called experts predicting NFL outcomes with the same accuracy as a coin toss or doing worse in fantasy sports than the average online participant. But because such few figures in sports can tell longtime sports fans or former athletes information they don’t already know, the ‘experts’ main role is entertainment rather than analysis.

In theory, the purpose of political analysts is also entertainment. Listen to someone like ‘strategist’ Donna Bazile, for example. Has she ever said anything particularly insightful? In truth, anyone who reads history, frequents multiple new sources daily and owns the right make-up kit could make at least a guest appearance on a cable news show. Analysis is generally trite, with even smart guests stunted by the short, adversarial format. Yet, in contrast to their mastery of sports, most Americans are tragically dependent on the political news establishment. More Americans can debate Federer-Nadal on their own than critique Thomas Friedman’s inane observations on globalization. That is why Friedman is read all over the world as an economic and foreign policy expert despite being wrong with confounding frequency.

It is too late to wish for a world in which people do not crave penetrating analysis of events that have just taken place or hunger for further information that simply does not exist. As sports fans, our shortcomings in this regard have made the Lebron James saga particularly painful. Even as I write this, I peruse Twitter for clues that I know are ultimately meaningless. But at least basketball fans understand the sport well enough to ignore the chatter and make their own reasoned predictions. In politics, most Americans lack the educational background and interest to inform themselves. And so they recline on the couch, and let the talking heads yammer away.

Images of an Epic Summer to Come Part II

Images of An Epic Summer To Come

There’s So Much to Look Forward To: 20 Reasons Why This Will Be An Epic Summer

Being in Liberia, for all its wacky adventures, has properly served its purpose as a self-imposed exile from the daily grind of New York City life. Things had hit the wall by January, when I could be found cursing loudly on subway platforms every time I narrowly missed a subway. I needed to get away and think, recharge, and pick up some good stories. So far, all has gone according to plan, sense of purpose is renewed and all that. But, like Dylan once sang, “I’m going back to New York City; I do believe I’ve had enough.” That’s from “Just Like Tom Thumbs Blues,” a stellar track of Highway 61 Revisited. When I was in the band George Carlin Must Die (don’t worry, he was already dead), we covered the song for our album, Jesus Freak Meth-heads. The band was only together for about six hours, but man did we rock.

I can’t wait to stomp through clouds of volcanic ash to get back to the New York scene. New York usually does the whole late spring/ early summer thing with superb gusto, and 2010 will be no different. My perspective on the local and national mood might be a little warped, but thanks to the magic of the internet I am probably reading the same garbage that you are, and I too live in fear of coming face to face with an earnest looking Wolf Blitzer every time I flip on my television.

Because lists are ideally suited for the 140 Characters or Less Era, I’ve compiled my “Reasons the Summer of 2010 is Going to Awesome.” My own biases shine through- I’m not sure how many of you will really stand to gain much from my high school reunion, for example- but this list ought to fire up any soul who just lived through an urban winter.

20. Midnight Spin (all summer): One of Brooklyn’s most rocking new bands, these guys are going to have a big 2010, and this summer you can catch them on the rise in NYC, Boston, D.C and wherever else. I’ll be road-tripping with them for at least one weekend this summer to write a dispatch on the dudes, who know how to have a good time on stage and off it.

19. Williamsburg (all summer): While Wburg is always intriguing, the lack of accessible subway stops can make it a brutal winter destination. Action spills onto the sidewalks, fun things go down in the parks, and Williamsburg is positively hopping and full of energy during the summer. After two summers as a resident, it’ll be a sweet homecoming.

18. The Flaming Lips (July): They are touring this summer. If you don’t know why this is so exciting, do yourself a favor and hit the Youtubes to see why they are considered one of the bands you have to see before you die (or, I suppose, before they die).

17. Financial Reform (May-June): Really, Republicans? The party of corporate thugs has always had masterful snake oil charmers, but this May we’ll have the pleasure of watching Republicans trying to fundraise on Wall Street while simultaneously blocking financial reform as a “giveaway to the banks.” The mental gymnastics required to execute this strategy are simply beyond the abilities of this Republican leadership, and should lead to some entertaining moments, provided corporate Democrats don’t ruin the fun like they always do.

16. All Good Music Festival (July): The preeminent jam-band festival for the laid-back, hang-out scene, this festival brings bands like Parliament and the surviving members of the Greatful Dead to the mountains of West Virginia. West Virginia is one of three states east of the Mississippi River that I have not partied in, and I’d like to check it off the list this summer; I’m currently 35/50, and #14 on this list will bump me up to 37.

15. West Coast Road Trip (August): For someone who loves the open road and adventures away from home, I’ve been shielded from the Left Coast for years by some mystic force. Other than a single night in Los Angeles on a 2007 wedding trip, I haven’t been to the West Coast since 2004. I haven’t been to Portland or Seattle at all, to my great regret, though in my defense, that is only because my car broke down on the 2004 Great American Road Trip. This lazy August jaunt should be a chance to reconnect with peeps, see some great progressive work happening on the ground and soak in two of America’s top cities for the first time.

14. Baseball Season (all summer): Baseball games have gotten too expensive, plain and simple. I’ll still try to get out to some good matchups this summer, but gone are the days of hopping on the subway spontaneously with a friend and grabbing an Upper Deck ticket to see the Mets battle whoever was in town. At Citi Field, a stadium name I won’t ever get over, the cheapest seats are called “The Promenade”, and they are not cheap. Nevertheless, baseball is still the ultimate background television dive bars, and it’s good to have it back. On the heels of my fantasy basketball success, I declined to enter a fantasy baseball league, and will thus be able to relax and enjoy, instead of being glued to my laptop to make seismic roster moves every few hours.

13. High School 10th year reunion (May) : Has it really been ten years? Yes, it definitely has. A full decade has passed since the Collegiate Class of 2000’s reign of terror ended with a wild and tumultuous spring of WWF-inspired populism and Gatsbyesque parties. If Facebook profiles are any indicator, the fifty some boys who made up that graduating class have largely gotten their shit together, which will make for a great contrast with the fifth year reunion, which was something of an unemployment bash.

12. Silk Road Palace (all summer): It’ll be another summer at the Silk Road Palace, one of my very favorite New York institutions. A Chinese restaurant that serves unlimited free boxed wine with every entrée, this place has been the bedrock of many a Friday and Saturday night for the crew over the last decade. I’ve celebrated at least part of my birthday there in 2001, 2004, 2005, 2006, 2008 and 2009. The typical Silk Road dinner involves 12-18 people from all different circles coming together to bond over a raucous dinner, replete with fun toasts and boat races. What makes it particularly fun in the summer is that when pre-seating gets too crowded you can wait outside, and likewise, once the meal is over, the buzz-killing cold doesn’t rush you into a hasty post-Road decision. This summer the Road will once again be the place to be, particularly with me moving within closer striking distance to the Upper West Side restaurant this June.

11. The U.S Social Forum (June): On June 22nd, progressive groups are gathering en masse for an organizing conference in Detroit. I could not be more fired up. Activism has deservedly taken its lumps for its disorganization and fractured nature, but thanks in no small part to online organizing, an enormous roster of standout local groups is getting together in one of America’s most beleaguered cities, one I’ve been meaning to visit for years. Did you know that New York to Detroit is only a ten hour drive? And that large organizations attending are told to consider buying a house rather than renting a lot of hotel rooms? This is a rare conference actually worth going to.

10. Sandinista (always): The Clash’s fourth album is so drenched in epic music and context that it remains one of the best things about the coming summer, thirty years after its release. Thirty years ago, Joe Strummer and Mick Jones spent much of the spring and summer throwing together 36 bewildering tracks that became the greatest triple album ever, and my favorite album, which Mick Jones called “a good choice.” The opening track, “Magnificent Seven”, is probably the first “white rap” song ever released. The album dabbles in dub reggae with Mikey Dread at the helm. It rocks out with “Police On My Back” and goes into a “Revolution #9” like sound collage on “Mensforth Hill”. It goes super political with “Charlie Don’t Surf”, a song that predicts September 11th, “Something About England”, which documents the collapse of national morale in England during the 20th century, and “Washington Bullets”, a song about American Cold War imperialism in Latin America, with a simultaneous rejection of Soviet, Chinese and British foreign policy. I mean, honestly, who the fuck writes songs like this anymore? And don’t say Immortal Technique. Titus Andronicus is only two albums into their young careers, so they could conceivably dig deep down the road and make an album this deep and spectacular. The Clash released Sandinista as a triple album (36 songs) so that they could escape their terrible record contract faster, a move that did not escape the record label. In the eventual compromise, the Clash gave up a large percentage of their royalties in return for the label’s pricing it like a double album, to make its purchase accessible to Clash fans. One of the disappointments of 2009 was our failure to put together a proper tribute concert for the 30th anniversary of London Calling. Well, we have a shot at redemption on December 12, for Sandinista’s official 30th. It’ll be a weirder, but more magical show, and we have a summer to plan it.

9. The U.S Open (August): It feels weird to rank a single tennis tournament over the entire baseball season, but the U.S Open has a trump card- the chance to see Roger Federer in his prime one more time. In the last twelve months, Federer has resolved the question of whether he has bested Sampras for the title of best tennis player ever (Yes, see French Open, 2009) and has set his sights on the next level, “Greatest Athlete of Our Time”. Federer’s prime has already lasted at least a year longer than most expected, and in a sport like tennis, you have to wonder how much longer R-Fed will be out there, now that he has statistically nothing left to prove. The heroics that the great ones summon at this stage of their careers, slightly past their physical peaks, are sometimes the most memorable- think Jordan’s Finals performances against the Utah Jazz.

8. Pick-up Basketball (all summer): Between devastating injuries, the bar exam and assorted trips abroad, I haven’t been in a regular pick-up basketball groove in years. While part of me feels that I’ll never be quite the same player post-knee surgery, I’m still not a guy you want guarding you. Sippy and I first took the street-ball court together fifteen years ago, and its long due we racked up some wins on 76th street along with the surviving members of the Hung Jurors, and whoever else is around.

7. The Death of Conservatism (all summer): Conservatism is wrecked. A total joke. Remember when conservatives you knew would bask in their intellectual superiority, snide oozing with every painful conversation. Unfortunately, a combination of world class bumbling by President Bush (How’s that Project for a New American Century going?) and the recent decision to sell their intellectual capital for some short-term Tea Party outrage has left the conservative movement bankrupt in every sense of the word. Now I’m no fool, please don’t mistake my claim to suggest that Republicans will never return to power. Massachusetts voters elected Scott Brown to “break the gridlock in Washington”, when the strength of the Republican opposition is the source of gridlock, a lapse of rational thinking that just makes you have to sigh and get back to work on that civic education. But when the Republican base is a throng of backwards, bigoted fanatics, driven by irrational fear and dare I say, loathing, their days as a majority party are forever threatened.

6. The NBA Play-offs (May and June): The caliber of play in the NBA right now is simply at a level unmatched since I became a fan of the game in 1992. Everyone is hoping for the Kobe v. Lebron matchup that Nike promised us with its incessant commercials last year, but there will plenty of intrigue on the way, including the last gasps of the 2008 champion Boston team and the 2007 champion Spurs team, and the post-season debut of Kevin Durant, perhaps the most prolific young scorer the league has ever seen, and the captain of my 2009-10 championship winning fantasy basketball team. Ultimately, however, the biggest spotlight will be on Lebron. The chattering classes have been waiting two years for this moment (See #4 below).

5. Marathon Day III (May): This twenty-six drink romp through all five boroughs of New York is a day absolutely unlike any other. Conceived of as a way to celebrate my 26th birthday, the tradition is now in year three. There is nothing like the anticipation of the Staten Island Ferry Terminal at 10:45am on a Saturday as the team, a mystery till boarding time, assembles for the first leg of the journey. Did you know that not only is the Ferry free, but you can buy cans of beer for $2 and drink them on the deck? Marathon Day takes about 14 hours, and it has only been completed by three people, but the ebb and flow of merry travelers is part of what makes it special. Sign up to join here!

4. Lebron Lebron Lebron!!! (July): On July 1, Lebron James will become an unrestricted free agent for the first time in his career, giving him his first opportunity to escape the dregs of Cleveland and make his mark as the biggest sports icon in the world, holding court at Madison Square Garden 41 nights a year (plus playoffs) and single-handedly save the Knicks franchise. Nor is this just a sports story- the allure New York has on Lebron has little to do with basketball; in fact, joining the Knicks would probably be a career setback. But at the last Cavs-Knicks game at the Garden, Jay-Z, Spike Lee and Chris Rock schmoozed with members of the championship Yankees team, which was honored during the first quarter, with Grand Master Flash dj’ing. You just can’t have moments like that in Cleveland, and Lebron knows that. When he visits New York this July, he will be a highly sought after recruit for the whole city, which is guaranteed to put on a spectacular show for him.

3. The World Cup (June-July): Part of me is shocked and disappointed that I won’t be in South Africa to witness this spectacle in the flesh. South Africa, aware of its product, has priced people like me out of attending, but no matter. The quadrennial event that pits nations against each other with much more nationalistic potency than the Olympics will be coming to a local pub screen near you. There will be a lot of subplots at work- for Americans, the desperate need to atone for our dreadful performance in 2006, and a spotlighted June 12 match against England that hundreds of millions around the world will be watching. The World Cup also always has its share of the “traditional powerhouses” vs. “upstart nation” subplots, and with the Cup being hosted in an African country for the first time, a run by Ghana or Cameroon would be particularly awesome. South Africa is expected to fare worse than any host country in the Cup’s history. Even from our far away perch in New York, the World Cup will be thrilling to watch. I’ve even imported a Brit from Liberia to educate us on the finer points of the game. Cheers!

2. Bonnaroo (June): I assume folks have had at least had the decency to ogle this year’s lineup. It actually be less impressive than last year’s unhuman roster, which included an evening of watching Al Green, the Beastie Boys, Phish, Nine Inch Nails and MGMT back to back. It wasn’t even fair. When you’re too wiped out from watching Wilco and Bruce Springsteen to finish watching Public Enemy perform “It Takes A Nation of Millions”, it’s time for karma to spread itself more equitably. This year the headliners include some busts (Kings of Leon?), but it’s hard to argue with Stevie Wonder, Jay-Z, Weezer, and, wait for it- the Flaming Lips, who will be performing their own set and also covering Pink Floyd’s The Dark Side of the Moon in its entirety. If that’s not the place you want to be on Earth, I don’t know what is. It makes the entire festival worth it, even if you aren’t sold on the best punk act of its era, the Dropkick Murphys, one of the best young bands in America, the Gaslight Anthem, or John Fogerty, all of whom will be there. Even Conan is listed as a headliner, though I don’t know what he brings to the table. Maybe they’ll pair him with Dave Matthews Band, though in fairness to the long loathed dudes of DMB, we’ve all grown up a little, and I just might give ‘em a look from the back of the crowd. I am sure that some of the Roo faithful will read the previous paragraph with some disgust. After all, Bonnaroo was supposed to be the mecca of jam bands, where people in tie-dyed shirts got stoned and nodded their heads every now and then to 15-minute cover songs (not that there’s anything wrong with that). Things were awkward for a few years- did Radiohead really make sense as a headliner? Rap, too, was brought in gingerly. But all things must pass, and ‘Roo is not really a jam band festival anymore. It is, however, a great time with great people, with enough great music that everyone in attendance will find a reason to make it one of the most memorable experiences of 2010.

1.Bull Moose Movement (all summer): Zombie parades, working with community groups, generating camaraderie across the digital divide…there is so much to look forward to in the nascent Bull Moose Movement. The project is a collaboration of progressive activists across the country, centered in Brooklyn, which seeks to empower communities against corporate influence through civic education. And it will be epic- as any group named for Teddy Roosevelt’s renegade third party candidacy would be. Did you know that the Wizard of Oz is an allegory for 1890s anti-corporate populism? Come find out when we screen it at the Bull Moose Tavern, our hub pub in Hell’s Kitchen.
Progressives are back in a big way right now. We all stumbled a bit in the transition for George Bush to Barack Obama. But the this summer should feature some strong activism, including the teachers movement, which is pushing back hard against the ridiculous charter school impositions from on high, and the citizens united against Citizens United, who are calling on Americans to rethink how corporations should be treated under our laws while they seek to undermine our democratic process. The Bull Moose Movement will be partnering with plenty of sweet groups along the way, and celebrating an optimistic future along the way. Dear Summer of 2010, Let’s do this. Sincerely, Janos and Friends

The Enemy is Everywhere: Review of new Titus Andronicus album

"From whence shall we expect the approach of danger? Shall some trans-Atlantic military giant step the earth and crush us at a blow? Never. All the armies of Europe and Asia...could not by force take a drink from the Ohio River or make a track on the Blue Ridge in the trial of a thousand years. No, if destruction be our lot we must ourselves be its author and finisher. As a nation of free men we will live forever or die by suicide."
Abraham Lincoln, Address to the Young Men's Lyceum of Springfield, Illinois on January 27, 1838.

The crucial element missing from the progressive resistance to the George Bush era and the rise of the corporation was a meaningful soundtrack. Titus Andronicus, a fiery punk band from New Jersey, may not define themselves as activists (neither did Bob Dylan), but their second album, The Monitor, delivers a much-needed blistering rebuke to contemporary society.

For those of you who missed their 2008 debut, An Airing of Grievances, Titus Andronicus’ debut was packed with anthems about finding purpose in the doldrums of New Jersey. In their second record, they revisit that idea through the prism of the U.S Civil War. The album is fantastically ambitious, an adjective used to describe few major bands today; in fact, when asked to describe the album, front-man Patrick Stickles offered, “Through and through, it is a whole-hearted and potentially ill-advised grab for some sort of imaginary brass ring, the sound of a band desperate for success and defiantly unafraid of failure.”

The opening song, “A More Perfect Union” unleashes a torrent of emotions- distaste with culture, the depressing escapism of alcohol, and the difficulty of figuring out what exactly you’re looking for: “I didn’t want to change the world, but I’m looking for a new New Jersey,” to a musical background dripping with influences from Bruce Springsteen to Civil War melodies.

The second track, “Titus Andronicus Forever,” ends with a passage from a letter Lincoln wrote to his law partner in 1841: “I am now the most miserable man living. If what I feel were equally distributed to the whole human family, there would not be one cheer face on earth.” This is a striking quote. First, you would think Lincoln said it during the Civil War, as the Union’s exhausted Commander-In-Chief. In fact, he was simply another 30-something lawyer struggling for meaning. Lincoln was deeply melancholy for much of his life, and was subject to tremendous mood swings even as president. Depression, when it strikes, is a major obstacle to most of us achieving our goals, as it often leads to unproductive feelings of self-pity and nihilism. Yet the same man who expressed his own sadness so dramatically went on to become not only a great president, but one of the most important figures in American history. It makes my own bouts with dark moods feel petty by comparison.

I love this album as a history lover and an activist. Nearly every sprawling track on the album starts or ends with a quote from Shakespeare, Lincoln, or Jefferson Davis. The album is titled after the U.S.S Monitor, the first ironclad ship commissioned during the Civil War. The fourteen-minute closing track, “The Battle of Hampton Roads”, is named for a naval battle involving the U.S.S Monitor in 1862. Who still writes fourteen minute epics? Who references history so effusively in their garage rock song? Who asks this much of their fans to simply get through the album? One terrible review I read didn’t even realize it was a Civil War concept album- I guess singing “Glory, glory, hallelujah” and tracks called “A More Perfect Union” and “Four Score Part Two” didn’t ring a bell. I think it’s great to ask people to think harder, and the demands of this album, musically and lyrically, are refreshing.

I agree with the album themes to an extent. On “Four Score Part Two”, Stickles rails,
“It’s still us against them, it’s still us against them, it’s still us against them, and they’re winning.” So true, but it’s not over yet, Patrick, it’s not over. Modern history has been a constant struggle for fulfill Tennyson’s exoneration, “Tis’ not too late to seek a newer world.” In the last century we as a people have emerged from the wreckage of the worst war in human history to expand the rights, opportunities and comforts of men and women all over the world. None of it is has come easy- the civil rights movement, the women’s movement, the liberation of Africa and fight against apartheid, acceptance of gays, social welfare for the poor, a new middle class all over the world, medical and communications advances. ‘You’ve got to admit it’s getting better, all the time,’ as the rarely profound Paul McCartney would tell you. That’s why no matter how ‘bad’ things are, I tend to believe they will eventually get better, even if it very much still is us against them, and they’re winning.

During “No Future Part Three: No Escape From No Future”, the band harshly chants, “You will always be a loser!” a thematic reprise from their first album, though this time Stickles ends with a piercing yell, “And that’s ok!” Not only is it ok, but I’ll re-raise Stickles- the era of the loser is on its way out. Kurt Vonnegut’s fantastic campaign theme from Slapstick, “Lonesome No More,” has been realized in the internet era. Never has it been easier in the history of human history to find people who look like you, think like you, share your values, enjoy the same music, root for the same teams, and just generally like you. Perhaps I’m conflating being a loser with isolation, but inasmuch as I’ve ever associated the link, we are entering a true “Lonesome No More” era.

If Titus Andronicus could pick one quote to define the album, it would probably be the chorus line from “Titus Andronicus Forever” (incidentally, also written on their t-shirt): “The enemy is everywhere, the enemy is everywhere. No one seems to be aware or care, but the enemy is everywhere.” They are right, of course, as cynics often are. But I’m simply not going to leave it at that gloomy message; I’m just too pumped up after listening to album. So I’ll counter with a verse that we all know and love, which just as easily could have fit with the spirit of the album, and which speaks to the effort we need to make as a society each day:

“Let us dedicate ourselves to what the Greeks wrote so many years ago: to tame the savageness of man and make gentle the life of this world.”
Robert Kennedy, Indianapolis speech, the night of Martin Luther King’s assassination, April 4, 1968.

Pick-up in Liberia

March 18, 2010
Amos, my government driver, had just sped away with my laptop and clothing in the backseat, leaving just me and my $15 dollar supermarket-purchased basketball on the side of the road in Monrovia, Liberia. I laced up my sneakers on a rock, trying to look inconspicuous and unattached to the Amos’s SUV, which had disrupted the local pick-up basketball game.

There is a dearth of pavement in Monrovia, and as a result, basketball courts are scarce. This hoop, on Ninth Street in the relatively middle-class Sinkor neighborhood, rose out of the dirt above the road that took people from main drag on Tubman Boulevard to the residential compounds by the swamp. The road was wide enough to accommodate a good half-court, about as deep as the three point line; the catch is that the game had to stop every time a car or motorcycle comes down the road.

I approached the court with some trepidation. Rolling up to a pick-up game by yourself is always a little butterfly-inducing. People on the court could be way better than you. The teams could be set. Calling ‘next’ is always awkward when no one has your back. Here, of course, those concerns were magnified, because I was the only ‘white’ guy on the court. Liberia is the only place in the world I’ve been called “white.” It used to throw me off, but after a trip to up-country, where little kids shrieked “white man” everywhere I went, I’m getting used to the social experiment.

I stood by the court watching what appeared to be some kind of shooting contest. Various players asked to mess around with my ball, which was clearly the best one available. One dude practicing post moves with it reminded me of a young Kevin Garnett. I began to question whether I was ready to play with these guys. But judging by their appreciation for my ball, I figured I would be on the court soon enough, an assumption that proved correct.

After the shooting contest ended, though, a man came out with a broom, barked at the kids to get off the court, and started sweeping around the free throw area. I thought maybe he owned the store the court was in front of or something. Soon two teens were joining him in the sweeping process, and it became clear they were clearing enough dust from the road to create a half-court, no small task. During dry season, everything in Liberia is just caked in dust, and the pavement was slippery in areas that weren’t swept.

After about ten minutes they were done, and we were ready to play. Left open for a mid-range jumper, I knocked down the second basket of the game. It was 3 on 3. I did not know my teammates’ names, what we were playing to, or why they wouldn’t give me the ball after I made my shot. It turned out this court practiced “loser’s ball”- giving the ball to the team that is scored on, rather than the team that scores, as is the universal streetball practice in the United States.

Basketball is basketball, and for most of the afternoon I was able to contribute with my usual strengths, and was held back by my usual weaknesses. There are a couple things that make Liberian pick-up a little different than New York pick-up, however.

First, loser’s ball makes the pace of the game very frenetic. As soon one team scores, the other rushes to inbound the ball before the scoring team can set defensively. This leads to a lot of scrambling, and you often end up picking up the guy closest to you at the time of the basket, rather than guarding a specific opposing player. The play was made no less frenetic by the panoramic nature of the inbounds pass, which could come from any sideline, including right underneath the basket. When things settled down, however, like after a foul, we could make more appropriate defensive assignments.

Second, defense was very lax. There was decent one on one defense, in order to respond to the flashy, show-em-up one on one offense. Team defense was non-existent however, so you had to make sure not to let your man beat you off the dribble. I didn’t mind the lax defense, of course. It gave me plenty of open looks near the basket, and as people got tired later in the afternoon, even clear paths for driving lay-ups. I learned to drive from the right side when possible; the blackboard was tilted such that any attempt to bank a lay-up from the left side would send the ball sailing past the rim. The lack of defense also didn’t prevent me from playing defense, and given the sizeable community crowd that had gathered to watch, I wasn’t about to let everyone watch the white man get showed up.

While my defense was solid, I was called for a lot of fouls. A lot of fouls. If ever asked to define street ball, I’ve always cited its rough and tumble nature- a system in which you call your own fouls leads to more bumping and grinding, hand checks, over the backs and loose elbows than a regulated game. It’s just something everyone lives with, unless the situation gets egregious. One of the main reasons New York pick-up games get ugly is the perception that a prima donna scorer is calling too many fouls. Not an issue here. One player I was constantly matched up with was quick off the dribble with a low center of gravity. Whenever we made any kind of contact, even if there was no way I ultimately altered the shot, he’d raise his hand to signal a foul call.

This was not the first time that foul calls had befuddled me in an international pick-up game. I played several times in a small gym in the basement of my student dorm in Hungary back in 2000, and was straight-up astonished the first time I was called for an offensive foul. I am not a big guy, and back at age 17, I was rail-thin. Nevertheless, Hungarians would perfunctorily stop playing to call me for a charge, over the back or offensive hand check. At least in this Liberian game the foul calls were not personal- I was whistled no more or less than anyone else, whereas a Hungarian box score would have made me seem like some Shaq-like menace.

The games were up to five, a quick and preferable option to the New York style seven or eleven given the hot African sun. The second game in particular dragged on and on, as foul calls by both sides on nearly every play were driving me to the point of exhaustion. It wasn’t just the heat- I’m also in terrible shape, a function of my reluctance to go running when it’s too hot out, which is often. On and on the foul calls went, and I wondered how I’d play another game if we won.

Finally, we lost, and I was sitting on a stump nursing my water when Amos’s SUV rolled up. He handed me my laptop bag and was off to further errands. I announced my impending return and sauntered up to Jung’s apartment to drop off my laptop bag. The AC felt great, and I slumped to her flooor, drenched in sweat, mumbling to myself. I hope I didn’t freak her out.

I dragged myself back to the court, and soon was in another 3 on 3 game. Our heavily favored team fell behind 4-1 due to a complete lack of defensive effort, rallied to tie it at 4-4, only to have our dude have his behind the back pass in traffic intercepted for the game-clinching lay-up. I was displeased, but also ok with the prospect of more rest.

At this point I was asked to referee the following game. Referees were generally players waiting to play next, who would watch the game from below the basket. The referee’s primary function was to keep track of the score and make decisions on foul calls. Reffing was no joke. Even though I kept score quite loudly to avoid protest, my announcement of ‘3-1’ brought howls from one player, even though his team was leading. I think some of them just wanted to howl. A major shouting match over the score occurred nearly every game, actually, usually at moments so early in the game that anyone paying the slightest bit of attention would have known what the undisputed score was.

Players from both sides muttered at me all game to ‘keep my eyes open’ because the guy defending them was ‘shoving them around.’ I’m sorry, but this is still street ball, and I was not about to call away from the ball fouls. I called what I felt was an appropriate share of shooting fouls, let the boys play a bit, and kissed the sky when a deep jump shot ended my stint as referee.

I don’t like reffing at all. Over the years I served as a soccer line referee a few times, and it was most unpleasant. Some plays just happen so fast that you have to go with your gut and know you’ll be wrong a decent amount of the time. Things are particularly brutal for refs in pro sports that provide all their television views multi-angled instant replay, but don’t allow the access to refs, except in a few circumstances. Basketball and football both seem to be managing this process better than they used to, while baseball not so much. The moral of the story when it comes to refereeing mistakes is that any team that puts itself in a position where a single incorrect call from a ref can cost the game has to acknowledge their own complicity in creating the situation. A football drive that comes down to a single catch, a basketball game that comes down to a single shot, or a tennis ball grazing the line on a tiebreaker only matter because the two sides have basically played to a draw. It is a rare call that actually “cost them the game.”

During my first three games I had scored several baskets, but as the afternoon sneaked into evening, the already lax defense had pretty much conceded me any shot outside of 8-10 feet, sometimes from even closer. Sticking with straightaway shots, which minimize the rim situation, I began draining mid-range jumpers with ease. No one seemed interested in stopping me. Some players had decent skills, but low basketball IQs, refusing to use pick and rolls offered to them or box out properly. The same player who’d work himself into a frenzy to beat me off the dribble would let me coast deep into the paint without much resistance.

It was getting dark, close to the pointing of calling it a day, but we were using my ball, and I didn’t want to be the guy that shut things down. All of a sudden, midway through a game, a ruckus broke out on the court. Shouting angrily in Liberia seems like a national pastime, and given the track record of violence, it is quite unsettling to be in the middle of. My teammate, Pacy, explained that a group of players on the sidelines wanted to start gambling on the games, while one of our opponents, the original court sweeper, was yelling about a pact they had made not to gamble on the 9th street courts. Hessen, the sweeper, later explained to me that gambling on the games had led to police crackdowns before. That is not a crime I expected to get in trouble for in Liberia, so I appreciated his desire to keep things clean.

We finished the last game some time after the sun had set. I shook hands with a few of the guys, including Hessen, who I had been guarding for the last two games. Even though he called me for about a half dozen fouls, he expressed his wish to play as my teammate next time. Maybe he wants someone else to guard him. I appreciated the perhaps compliment.

I wandered to the local supply store and picked up a coca-cola. Glass bottle. It was great. I knocked on the compound door, and soon I was on my way up the stairs to air conditioning, a shower, work clothes, 30 Rock, and the memories of my first day of Liberian street ball.

Check out the Bull Moose Movement

Dear Roving Storm readers,
Please check out a new project I've been working on, the Bull Moose Movement. The group and site are both new, and "pre-launch," but we'll be doing a lot of interesting work in the months and years to come.
-Janos