“In Russia, we like to shoot basketballs and Chechen rebels!” Being an international player.
As we Americans grow ever fatter and more sedentary, we must increasingly rely on importing foreign players to play our games for us. Soon leagues will consist of nothing but foreign-born players, hired mercenaries from another part of the world paid to represent your preferred locality. I can’t wait. If you’re a talented expatriate from a former Soviet republic that is constantly teetering on the brink of anarchy and you have a neck beard, chances are you’ll find yourself playing on our side of the pond at some point. In which case: guten Tag, Comrade!
As an international player, it’s important that you assimilate into American culture as quickly as possible. Don’t expect your teammates to adapt to you. This is America. The world adjusts to us, not the other way around. It’s much easier that way. Oh, and don’t bother staying in contact with your family back home. They’re so lame now. Do they even have running water in Haiti? Losers. Our shallow and depraved pop culture will be all the family you’ll need. Some quick notes on what to expect depending upon your country or region of origin.
EUROPE. Yes, I know what you’re thinking: Wow, the play here is so physical! I know. It’s gonna be a bit of a culture shock from the world of European sports, where each player is granted a three-inch imaginary force field that no opponent is ever allowed to enter. You’ll also notice that flopping is discouraged here in the United States (unless you play for the Spurs). I know you’re used to soccer. Or, as it is known over there, football, or the beautiful game, largely because all the players remain so clean throughout the contest. But we don’t give a fuck about that sport here. So don’t bother lying down and flopping around like a freshly caught marlin should an opposing player gesture toward your general vicinity. The refs won’t have it. Should you grow to miss some of the comforts of your home nation, don’t fret. We Americans are sure to have a bastardized version of whatever it is you crave. Jonesing for one of the morning cappuccinos you enjoyed back in Italia? No problem. You can grab one at Starbucks for a mere $8. Yes, it is supposed to smell like vanilla syrup!
AUSTRALIA. Get ready for a whole lot of American women (a) testing your accent to make sure it isn’t fake, and (b) throwing themselves at you once they realize it isn’t. Seriously, milk that accent for all it’s worth. I was born in Australia, but I only lived there for one year. Oh, if I had just lived there long enough to pick up that accent, or at least long enough to justify affecting it. Holy shit, would I have gotten some serious trim. Fuck. See, Australians are exotic enough to entice American women while also providing the comfort of being just as lazy and obnoxious as American men. Best of all, you live a hemisphere away. If you dump an American woman, the flight to Sydney is too long and expensive for her to stalk you. Bonus points if you live in Perth. That place is farther away than Andromeda.
SOUTH AMERICA. Is your family still back in Venezuela? Are you out of your goddamn mind? They’ll be in the hands of rebel kidnappers by sundown. Do you really want your family hauled off to an undisclosed holding pen in the jungle for eight months while you bargain for their freedom? Seriously, get them on a fucking plane. Once the details of your contract hit the press, they’ll be a riper target than Hayden Panettiere.
DOMINICAN REPUBLIC. No need to assimilate. You’ve got at least three fellow Dominicans on your team. Don’t even bother trying to learn En-glish. In fact, don’t even bother to acknowledge the white people in the clubhouse. What’s the point? They’re all more or less alike. Go ahead and look right through them when they wave hi. The same goes for your manager. You’ve had the same swing since you were eleven months old. Where does this maricón get off telling you you’ve got a hitch on your follow-through? Is not right.
CUBA. The first thing you’ll notice once you get off your raft is that America has roads that are paved. Pretty sweet, eh? Many Cuban athletes come to the States with the intention of using their newfound fame and fortune to improve living conditions back in their homeland. But they soon realize that Castro will never die, that the proletariat is too low in morale to start a revolution, and that cigars, in reality, taste like shit. They never go back, and neither should you. Defect. In fact, have a press conference announcing that you are defecting. You’ll feel just like Ramius in The Hunt for Red October. It’s pretty cool. Oh, and vote Republican. Cuban immigrants always vote Republican. Why? No one knows.