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148. Cold War: Round 2

Day 148
Location 29: Kotor, Montenegro
Mar. 28, 2023

Today I ventured out to a nearby basketball court to play basketball. That might seem redundant, but after two minutes of shooting around, a teenager named Meninjo approached me and invited me to play soccer. Don’t bring a knife to a gunfight? Nah, don’t bring a basketball to a soccer game.

It’s been months since I kicked a soccer ball, so I happily joined his motley crew of players. The 2v2 game consisted of (1) Meninjo, (2) an 8-year-old, (3) a Russian ex-professional soccer player and (4) me, who played mediocre defense for the North Shore Vipers in the 4th and 5th grade. I was paired with the adult former Soviet, former pro. Meninjo paired himself with the kid.

Before the game, Meninjo bragged about his soccer prowess. He claimed there existed multiple Instagram fan accounts dedicated to his impressive footy skills. When we investigated for evidence of his claim, we discovered one “fan” account with 0 posts and 7 followers. What kind of goofy-ass Wile E. Coyote stunt was he trying to pull over on me? It was painfully obvious he had created this account. You know, like a psychopath.


During the game, Ivan Drago and I dominated. I attribute that mostly to half our team being a former professional soccer player. There were a few moments were I had to guard Meninjo on a one-on-one fast break and I poked the ball away. I’m not one to brag, but I felt pretty full of myself in those moments. After all, I’d never competed against anyone with a fan account before.

A defensive highlight including some square dancing.


People dunk on sports for being an excuse to drink 14 Coors Lights at 10am on a Sunday while lounging in a La-Z-Boy chair at a 160-degree angle. Or for riling up middle-aged men because a group of strangers don't have enough points.

Yet thanks to sports, gathered here was a beautiful international quartet spanning a 50-year difference in ages and multiple countries including former Cold War enemies that were, for an hour, united in sport. Our “good game” high-fives contained an undercurrent of celebration for the moment’s palpable wholesomeness. I’d never been so grateful to have not played some basketball.
 



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