Just some of my random thoughts on NYC - not UN related, but I still thought I’d put them up……

As I’m in New York for a while, I thought that I’d better do the right thing by my body and keep fit through some sport.

My first attempt was to join a Greco-Wrestling Club. I was inspired by seeing inter-College Wrestling on TV. Now, I don’t remember my Curtin Uni Social netball games being televised nationally, so I figured there must be something special to this sport, so why not give it a go. I found a club on the lower East-side. However, this venture was aborted when at my first training session, I found a room of 2 metre tall giants, with more hair on their shoulders than on their heads. I also wasn’t too keen on the guy leading the class, stressing that I must call him “Coach”.

So I hit the streets of Manhattan in the hope of finding a game called Street Ball. On West 4th Street, I found it. Street Ball is basketball, but street-style. The courts are unassuming slabs of concrete surrounded by rusting chicken-wire, but on the weekends – with the help of booming hip-hop music – they are transformed into a feast of basketball at its best.

My hopes of taking part, however, were dashed when I realised that despite the smaller court size, the players were no smaller. On these tiny courts, there are more 200cm giants ducking, weaving and parading around the court. Apparently on many days, NBA players come down for a quick game, just for fun.

With their dark muscles rippling, they look like men the way god intended men to look. They play the way Mr and Mrs Basketball meant the game to be played….and don’t they know it. Most games end up being slam-dunk festival, followed by the equally (if not more) important high-fiving, chest-bumping and shouts of “who the man? Who the man?” Celebrations of scoring point were long, loud and elaborate.

I’d heard the rumour that white-men can’t jump, and I didn’t really want to test this theory with these guys.

Just next door to the rooster parade was an equally unassuming piece of concrete that on weekends is transformed into another sporting battlefield. Handball (and yes I’m talking about the game we played in school where you hit a tennis ball against a wall with your hand) was brought to America by the Irish in the late 1800s and is now played everywhere throughout Manhattan and Brooklyn. Here I was thinking that it was invented by the kids in the year above me at school.

In stark contrast to the game next-door, handballers are generally white, middle-aged, balding, and a little bit paunchy. They look the way god knew we’d all end up looking.

This is the game for the bankers, stockbrokers and lawyers from Wall St trying to transfer their professional prowess to their sporting world. But, don’t get me wrong – the stakes are just as high.

I was approached by a man who was intent on explaining to me the inracacies of his ‘sport’. He seemed like the Tony Greig of handball, I was almost expecting him to plunge a key into the concrete to test the pitch conditions. He explained to me (with a straight face may I add) that handball was “mainly a game of ego.” I couldn’t help but wonder what exactly about hitting a ball against the wall with your hand, required ego.

However to see these unathletic types throw their body around the court (some wore knee-pads), then jump up, strut and yell “who the man?”, helped me to understand his point.

Apparently next week the ‘World Series of Handball’ is being held on these courts with the winner receiving $15 000. No one seemed too concerned that the ‘World Series’ only contained players from New York. Well, it is a game of ego.

I decided that neither of these games were for me, and thought that I’d go and see if the chess being played in the local Washington Square Park was up my alley. Maybe I was just curious – “check mate……who the man?!?”