Serenity Now.

It's fitting that the episode of "Seinfeld" that I watched right before leaving my house to walk over to this Internet cafe was the one about George, Step 9 and Rage-aholics Anonymous. The little "problem" that so often left my parents ashamed, embarrassed, or both throughout the course of my childhood has apparently still not managed to work its way out of my system.

It's sports. My demons reside in the effects they have upon me. Sports are my anti-Prozac, my anti-Zoloft, taking me either sky high or Danakil Depression low, depending on who's winning and how many outs to go. In a way, it's an emotional see saw that is actually quite poignant. I've been told that I go heavy on the superlatives, all shades of gray being morphed into either "the best" or "the worst," so it's cute that my relationship with sports (a.k.a. the only thing that keeps me sane in an increasingly insane world) forms a perfect parallel to my rather intense personality as a whole.

For the purposes of this story, though, we're going with the low end of the see saw -- where the demons come into play.

When I was five years old, my favorite "game" pushing Weel Brasseux around in the backyard. By ten, I'd moved onto baseball, but the No. 1 memory that comes to mind when I recall that dreadful 4-12 season with the Jaguars was when the head coach yelled "Foul!" at the top of his lungs just before a rope I'd sent down the third baseline skidded from fair territory into the corner of the outfield. In the time it took me to run to first, stop, casually jog back to the plate, pick up the bat, hear the umpire say "That ball was fair, son," and run back to second, I could've rounded the bases twice. But instead of getting my first career home run, I was left stranded, and I didn't talk to my coach for the rest of the day. The coach was my dad. By the age of 15, I'd retired from baseball, but I kept playing soccer, only to become the yellow card king of the West University club circuit. My pent up aggression could probably be attributed to some type of Freudianesque frustration -- I was a "late bloomer" coming into my own around that time -- but my behavior on the field was still embarrassing to my teammates, coaches and parents. Don't ask The Bob to bring up the time I yelled something in the middle of the game when I snapped my right arm in half -- it may have also started with 'F,' but it wasn't the word "foul." And I didn't scream it just once.

Since high school, I've really missed that rush of adrenaline that only competitive sports could provide. For example, even though it's been five years since I last played a lacrosse game, I'd give anything to take just one crushing blow from a jacked up defenseman right now -- nothing used to get my heart pumping like that, especially if I made a pass or a shot right as I got sent flying.

College was four years of bingers and inactivity, and my seven months in the Balkans and Turkey could be summed up as one big cigarette smoke filled room. A "five year sabbatical" from exercise, as I like to call it, has left me looking and feeling like a week old banana. That Freudianesque frustration I mentioned feeling as a 15-year-old full of hormones? Same sensation now, but more like when you've been sitting on an airplane forever and you are battling that uncontrollable urge to get up and do a Russian high step dance. Before my five year sabbatical, I could release my pent up energy through violent acts of aggression on the lacrosse field; during my retirement, I found myself resorting to picking fights with a 70-year-old man who unsuccessfully snubbed my attempt at a peace-making high five during Game 3 of the 2005 World Series.

It was far overdue that I start being physically active again when I came to Africa. It was like four New Year's resolutions overdue. Just like I hate taking showers until I'm actually in the shower, at which point I never want to stop, I find it difficult to gather the critical mass that is going to get me off my ass and into the ready position. But once I'm ready, I'm ready to go. And since I don't have the attention span for jogging, naturally I envisioned the village soccer field as the site of my African fitness redemption to come.

Never did I prepare for the possibility of a place like the Soweto basketball court.

Soweto isn't close. We live in Patandi, a smaller village within a larger village called Tengeru, and from there it's about a half hour commute to get to town. To save money and time, Hunter and I hitch rides -- they're called "lifties" around these parts -- every afternoon on the way to the court. Games last until sunset; we don't waste our time trying to flag down lifties on the way home. Instead, we pack into one of the thousands of public transport Hiace vans, known colloquially as dala dala's in Tanzania, and matatu's in Kenya, and hope to get a seat.

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Quick dala dala side note

Rare is the dala dala that doesn't come with a tacky decal -- think of those dudes in America who find it stylish to slap a huge Nike Swoosh or a No Fear sticker on their back windshield, and you've got the genre down pat. While half of the dala dala's go with pop culture decorative themes, though, the other half go with religious motifs:

You've got your Muslim dala dala's.

Inshaallah, "God Willing" in Arabic, taken into the East African Waislamu vocabulary over the years. A very popular dala dala selection.

You've got your Jewish dala dala. (*Notice I went with the singular there, since there are zero Jews in Tanzania, and I don't know quite how they decided upon this one).

"Shalom y'all"?!?!

And you've got the ubiquitous Christian dala dala's, who provide a divine alternative to seat belts for safety on the roads.

So... does that mean Tanzanian Muslims are freeloaders?? They should pay at least 25 percent more than the fare for those of us who've been saved.

Not being particularly religious, though, I prefer the dala dala's that really speak to me.

Your variations of Bob Marley/Rastafari dala dala's.

My favorite Marley song ...

And the destination of the Zion Train, finding refuge in the one who shall break every chain (the term Rastas use for the same dude whose blood protects me on more traditionally religious dala dala's).

There's also the free dala dala that takes us to school.

Maybe not the most appropriate decal for a school bus

And the dala dala's that I outright boycott, for obvious reasons.

Visions of a sweep...

...everywhere I turn!!!!

But at least I have some positive reminders of championship sweeps, too.

Clutch City.

Enough about getting to and from basketball. Let's talk about actually playing. (Sorry, no pictures yet).

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The only people "allowed" to play at Soweto are the regulars; Bariki Mkubwa will either kick you off or give you a tryout of sorts on your first day, depending on how you look when you're shooting around. But of the ones not told to scram after layup drills, you can break them down into three categories: the guys who come every day (Rahim and Bariki Mkubwa), the ones who come at least a few days a week (me and Hunter, Mehmet, Mr. Dennis, Bariki Mdogo and Robert), and the ones who go through spurts of coming either a lot or not at all for weeks at a time (Ice Pee, Abdallah, "Yao Ming," Elia, Mohammed). Hunter and I fall in the middle category; we play about three or four days a week.

Ramadan sucked -- most of the players are Muslim, and we never had enough for a full court game throughout their Festival of Laziness, which is understandable seeing as you're not allowed to eat or drink from sunrise to sunset the entire month. But other than that, the games are usually pretty competitive. Absolutely no D, and fast breaks galore. It's like going to training camp with the Suns, only no one can dunk and the guy with long hair (me) is not named Steve Nash.

No, my name is not Steve Nash. It's Hatari Parsley, and like George, I may be a Rage-aholic.

"Wapi? HAPA?!" Where? HERE?! That's what I wanted to know after I got whistled for my fourth foul of the game last Saturday when Hunter and I were making our debut for the Kings. The first two, okay, they were fouls. But the third, definitely not. And the fourth ... I mean, the ref was standing less than two feet away. Abdallah went up, he came down, and simply due to that fact, I got whistled for the push. It was total bullshit.

"Ndiyo, foul," the ref muttered back indifferently.

"Kweli? KWELI! Sitanii, bwana, umeita foul?" I just wanted to make sure he wasn't kidding, that he really thought looking at someone's follow through was a foul.

He said nothing. The ole' silent treatment, kind of like the one I imposed upon The Bob after the foul ball debacle.

I started to walk off the court; Hunter was waiting to sub in. But I was steaming.

"KIPOFO KABISA!" I screamed to whoever was listening, calling the ref completely blind.

That's about a normal day for me when having to deal with these ref's. It's got to be quite the sight for the dozens of spectators who come to chill and watch us play, not because they know anything about basketball, but because they've got nothing else to do. A Mzungu who is not only playing, and not only speaking Swahili, but talking shit to the ref in Swahili -- and loudly.

"Dude," you're probably saying to your monitor, "it's just pickup basketball. Chill."

That's what I'm saying to my monitor, too, trust me. But I don't know how to chill when it comes to sports, don't you see? I've never known how. It was okay when I could chalk it up to being young and immature. But I'm two months away from my 24th birthday, and I'm still dealing with the same temper problem Weel Brasseux had to bear the brunt of when I was two months away from my fourth birthday. I'm starting to worry that I'm going to become "one of those dads" who takes his children's Little League games just a little too seriously.

It's one thing to get into little tiff's here and there when you're playing against players who need to get smacked around -- like the ones who complain in English that I play "too hard" just because they don't like the sensation of me ramming my ass into them (within the rules) to box out on the boards. I don't feel bad about getting in those guys faces when they start pouting and walking up the court, muttering to the people on the sidelines that I think I "push, sana," and that I'm "B Show."

Forget those dudes. No pity. Who I do need to lay off of, though, are the ref's. I know that .... but ...... I just ................ can't. I can't!

I've got nothing against a ref; it's just that I think it's stupid to have one if he's not gonna run up and down to court to make sure that he can actually get himself into a position to make the right call. Handing some random African dude a whistle and telling him how to blow it doesn't mean he knows about basketball; it just means that he blows. I'd rather have the honor system govern fouls if that's the case.

Especially whenever Saluum gets the whistle.

"Foul, B Show!"

Saluum always calls fouls on me when he gets the chance, and he always calls me "B Show" -- it's his way of getting payback for months of hard box outs and taunting volleys (Saluum is the king of crying over my "rough play," despite the fact that he's the biggest dude out there).

"Kwa nini??" Why?

"Foul."

"Hujui basketi bwana!" I yell back, as the ball is being inbounded, letting him know that he doesn't know the rules of basketball.

"Wendo B Show kabisa," he throws back; I'm playing D on the blocks, but I'm still trading insults.

"Saluum, HUJUI SHERIA YA BASKETI," I insist, still keeping my eyes out for backdoor cuts. "Unaweza kumsukuma mtu ukitumia mkundu peke yake!" You're allowed to push someone if you use just your ass!

"Foul, B Show. Foul."

As I take the ball upcourt, I'm still jabbing. "Hujui, hujui kitu kuhusu basketi, Saluum."

It's gonna give me an early heart attack, my sports rage. But I think "Seinfeld" may have taught me the perfect solution.

SERENITY NOW!!!