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Ch 3: A Thousand and One Turn Back the Clock Nights
 By Jim Caple |
When the Prince of Mubai initially offered Jill Thomas and two teammates the opportunity to play for his country’s Olympic team (see 24 College Avenue: “Summer Abroad”), she considered it the opportunity of a lifetime. After the ACL injury her senior year at State College, Jill fell into that gray area of basketball ability: good enough to make a decent living playing overseas but not good enough to qualify for the U.S. national team. Thus, Mubai afforded the only possibility of playing in the Olympics.
But after the past weeks, she seriously questioned whether Mubai was a country she wanted to represent.
The problems began when she and teammates Chardonnay Knight and Camila Brabrickovich traveled out of the country for a road game in Brno, Czech Republic. When they returned, they found that the country had gone from the most Western and liberal in the Arab world to among its most conservative. As they periodically did, Mubai’s mullahs had reasserted their religious authority and taken de facto control of the nation. While the Prince still officially maintained his role as head of state, he was forced to submit to the mullahs’ wishes or risk losing the throne. The Prince had assured Jill and the others that the f undamentalist crackdown was only temporary but if anything, the policies had grown only stricter.
While the women still were allowed to play (at least for now) they were required to wear uniforms that bordered on the ridiculous. Because the mullahs decreed that women could not show their bare legs, arms or face in public, the players were forced to wear uniforms that resembled the costume Barbara Eden wore in “I Dream of Jeanie.’’ These were pajama pants, coordinated long-sleeve blouses that covered their torsos, silk scarves that covered their faces and a Fez-like cap. Designed by Athena athletic wear, the uniforms provided more comfort and ventilation than you might expect from such garb but nonetheless were an uncomfortable and cumbersome outfit that left each player coated in sweat within 10 minutes. The team quickly learned that it needed to build a commanding lead heading into the final period of play because by then they were usually drained from wearing the uniforms for so long.
Even this wardrobe, however, no longer appeased the mullahs, whose power cravings grew with each passing day. The mullahs did not believe women should be competing at all no matter what they wore and were constantly threatening to outlaw the team. Fortunately the Prince still maintained some power and had been able to persuade the mullahs to keep the team until after the East Asian/Middle East qualifying tournament for the Olympics. He convinced the mullahs that nothing could hurt Mubai’s reputation abroad more than by pulling out of an Olympic-qualifying tournament that the country itself was hosting. They agreed, albeit reluctantly, and the Prince hoped that power would shift back his way in time for the Olympics.
Meanwhile, the other restrictions on women increased. Women were banned from driving cars or from appearing in public without escorts. They were not allowed to own or inherit property, run businesses, marry without the permission of their parents or divorce without permission of their husbands.
“Word is they may return to stoning women for certain ‘heinous’ crimes,’’ Chardonnay complained in the locker room as she and her teammates pulled on their hated uniforms for their first game of the tournament. “You know, like a wife committing adultery against her husband. But, of course, there ain’t no such punishment for a man cheating on his woman.’’
“Is disgusting,’’ agreed Camila as the broad-shouldered Polish center secured the headpiece into her short-cropped hair with a safety pin.
“You know what really chaps my ass?’’ Jill asked. “It’s that women aren’t even allowed to attend our games anymore. Is that insane or what? I know the Prince doesn’t care about losing money on our team but hell, women were the majority of our fans. Now they’re all gone and they’ve been replaced by a bunch of lurk-balls who get off watching us run around in these ‘I Dream of Jeanie’ getups.’’
Chardonnay nodded. “Only you know they ain’t dreamin’ of no Jeanie. They’re fantasizing some three-way where we tie them up with our scarves and give them three wishes. And all three are blow@#$&.’’
“They want tied up, I tie them up good,’’ Camila said. “And show what real woman can do.’’ She pantomimed an involved sexual act not described in the Kama Sutra, provoking snorts of laughter from Chardonnay.
“Go ahead and laugh but it’s true,’’ Jill said. “I was talking to my old housemate – you know, Higgins? The old guy who is the senior V-P for Athena? He said these uniforms are so popular they can’t keep on the store shelves here. Men are buying them up so their wives can wear them at home. That’s a pleasant image, huh? They even have a marketing slogan for them: ‘For the Hardwood or the Harem.’ ’’
“Well, they got that half right,’’ Chardonnay said. “Because these things plain old suck on the hardwood. And they expect us to win in these things?’’
“I don’t know if they expect us to win. And I don’t even know anymore if they want us to win. The Prince still has our back but I think the mullahs would just as soon get us the hell out of the country.’’
The three were silent as they finished dressing and joined the rest of their teammates by the entrance to the court for warmups. As Jill looked at the stands, she could see several men leering and pointing at her. She reflexively checked her uniform to make sure that nothing had come unbuttoned or unhooked before realizing how absurd the situation was – that she was about to take the court to play an Olympic qualifying basketball game and yet was worried that someone might be able to see her legs or forearms. And that no other women were even allowed into the arena to watch them play.
“This is ridiculous,’’ she said to Chardonnay. “It’s beyond ridiculous. It’s offensive, degrading and immoral. And I’m going to do something about it.’’
# # #
Brewster Winlock knew the wide world of basketball the way Larry bird knew the parquet at the old Boston Garden: He knew the location of all the dead spots.
In his 25-year coaching career, Winlock had worked in a more than a dozen leagues (most of them no longer in existence), in 17 states and 13 countries. He coached in the CBA, ABA, WNBA, ABL, NBDL, IBL, USBL and every other possible acronym. He coached a club in Israel that simply went out of business one day while the team was on the road, leaving the players and staff stranded with no way home. He coached a team in Gdansk for a suspicious “grocery store magnate” who missed the first three paydays before finally promising to pay Winlock “on my grandmother’s soul’’ the next morning. When the coach walked into the office the next day, he found the owner lying in a pool of blood and the police beginning their investigati on of his gangland murder. Worse, although the owner had written out the check to Winlock he had not been able to sign it before a rival gang shot a bullet into his brain.
Winlock had once coached for a Himalayan king who loved basketball. No one was allowed to look at the king, however, so the games were played privately with the king watching from a portable throne room above the court. Which wasn’t the oddest thing. No, the oddest thing is that even though there were no fans, the king insisted on cheerleaders. That job ended when the military mounted a bloody coup and overthrew the king during the playoffs, forcing Winlock to search for another job.
Thus, Winlock was delighted with his current job coaching the Mubai national team. The Prince dreamed of bringing the Olympics to his desert nation one day, and in the meantime he was focused on winning a gold medal. In that pursuit, the Prince had granted dual citizenship to a team of women’s basketball players from around the globe, paying them all handsomely and providing them with lavish accommodations. Winlock enjoyed such treatment as well, including a rent-free, penthouse condo. On many nights, the coach would pop open a beer, take in the condo’s commanding view of the Persian Gulf and congratulate himself on finally striking it rich.
The problem was the nation’s mullahs who had reasserted their religious authority. They had little interest in sports, even less in a sport associated with America and none whatsoever in a sport played by women. On the eve of the East Asia Middle East Olympic qualifying tournament, the Prince had informed Winlock that the only hope the team had was to win the tourney and reach the Olympics. Otherwise, the mullahs would ban the team and Winlock would be out of a job once again.
Winlock was confident he could do so. He certainly had the talent, led by his two guards, Jill and Chardonnay, plus his center, Camila. The issue was keeping them focused during the nation’s turmoil. Jill, in particular, was incensed over the restrictions placed on the women. The other players were offended as well but were willing to accept the conditions temporarily in exchange for the chance to play in the Olympics. Winlock worried that Jill might not be able to keep her feelings in check.
But he wasn’t worried while watching his team blow out its first-round opponent, East Trygistan. He didn’t even have the usual concerns of the players fading in the final period because of the uncomfortable, sweat-drenched uniforms (long-sleeved and long pants, plus veils to cover the faces as required by the mullahs) because East Trygistan only had five players on its entire team, two of whom already had four fouls, and all of whom were wearing down dramatically.
After Jill hit a trey to extend Mubai’s lead to 31, Winlock pulled his starting five and congratulated them on their fine game. Jill finished with 18 points and seven assists with Chardonnay scoring a game-high 22 and Camila adding 12 with as many rebounds.
“Good game, girls,’’ Winlock said as the team huddled by the bench after the final buzzer. He winced when he saw Jill arch an eyebrow at the term ‘girls.’ He never knew what to call his players when coaching a women’s team. Girls? Guys? Women? Ladies? All he knew is that no matter what he said, it would sound awkward and someone was sure to get a little bent out of shape. “Anyway, get showered, get dressed, enjoy this one for a couple hours. And then start thinking about the next game.’’
Before reaching the locker room, the players were required to file their way through a “mixed zone’’ where normally there would be a crush of reporters waited eagerly with microphones and notebooks. Due to the mullahs’ crackdown on journalists, however, there were almost no reporters in the mixed zone. Which was a relief for Winlock, who had learned that one poorly-considered quote could lead to a season of ulcers. He was speaking to a correspondent from the East Trygistan national paper, heaping praise on the team’s heart and competitive spirit when he overheard words that sent a chill down his spine.
“Can you believe that they won’t let women attend these games?’’
It was Jill, speaking to a reporter from American Public Radio who was doing a report on human rights in Mubai.
“It’s bad enough that we have to wear these ridiculous uniforms but the real crime is that female fans are banned. I mean, it’s disgusting that half the population can’t watch these games. Are we living in the 21st century of the 12th? The country should be ashamed of itself. What are the men so afraid of? That women and girls might learn that they can be athletes, too? That they can be strong and beautiful and not have to hide themselves behind a stupid veil? Besides, we could use the support. We’re trying to get into the Olympics and the arena was half-filled tonight. We had tons of mothers and daughters coming to our games before and their support was a big help. I just wish they could come back and cheer us on to the Olympics.’’
This, Winlock realized, is going to be bad. Very, very bad.
Next: Ring My Bell
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