Baller Bloggin'

Playing basketball most afternoons on San Pedro La Laguna's new centertown court is a hybrid of fun and frustration. Losing in any competition -- from card games to eating to, especially, sports -- is known to provoke my transition from Smiley to Satan as suddenly and uncontrollably as a muscle spasm. So it's problematic when one's teammates' idea of defense is ball chasing so rabid the only logical conclusion is that the opposing team is tossing an orb that grants immortality upon touch. The inevitable procession of uncontested layups equates to afternoons of one-and-done. Man-to-man defense: such a simple concept. How many times can someone commit the same mistakes without learning?

And then I consider my Spanish studies.

Right.

Otherwise, I've settled into a routine, which suits the order-lover in me. Study, eat, exercise, and sleep. To spice a boring afternoon gouge a shallow, five-inch long gash in my scalp on rusty barbwire, failing to remove all the flakes of grime during the post-injury shower, leaving that up to my alcohol and gauze armed spanish instructor cum sexy nurse the following morning, when the wound had turned greenish. Seriously, what's an adventure without the threat of lockjaw?