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They’re all Danish.  They give directions in Danish.  I do not speak Danish.  This is what I am thinking as I step out onto the court for the first time.  I have absolutely no idea what the instructors are telling me to do…I don’t understand a word they say.  I simply stare at them, entertaining myself with imagining what words could possibly coincide with the multitude of odd bends and movements they are performing.  Oh no, wake up!  It’s time to get started.  What to do?  Well we apparently need to pair up in threes and these two girls chatter about something and motion to me, so I interpret their chatter as an invitation.  Hope I didn’t screw that one up!

No but really, it is sports.  Sports have a way of uniting, much like music.  It doesn’t matter that I don’t speak Danish.  Hell, I could be completely deaf and I would still get along fine.  The people I was working around helped be understand the instructions and I even learned a few names.  Let’s see, there was Sophie.  And Christine.  And Anasophie.  And Sophie.  Oh, and Sophie.  I think I am just going to call every girl Sophie…at least that way there is a chance I’ll get it right!

By the end we were scrimmaging each other in a casual, no score game.  Being back on the court is wonderful, although I am quite out of practice!  There’s just something about stepping out there…I’m not an American in a foreign land anymore.  I’m not a student, an intellectual, a pensive fool.  I am just a guy hitting a ball.  No thought, no stress, just the game.  Just the game.