The Russian Pastime

One of the benefits of my parents' visit was that they brought baseball stuff. As a William J. Fulbright English Teaching Assistant, I am contracted to propagandize the American way of life in any way I can, and since repeated rants on the plagiarism have not accomplished this mission, I decided to offer the bat rather than the stick.

Inspired by the unorthodox teaching technique of Robin William's character Mr. Keating from The Dead Poets Society (which we had just finished watching) I decided that instead of movie class, we would have a hands-on language lesson in baseball. I ordered my students to grab notebooks and head to the park. Since the only boy in my class left for study abroad in the US, our team consisted of 10 girls and me. Immediately, a problem appeared: Russian girls tend to wear nicer clothes to school than their American counterparts, including high-heel shoes. Also, my students all "accidentally" left their notebooks at the university. I hadn't really expected to teach anything, but it's kind of impossible to explain baseball without some visual aids.

I ended up drawing the basic rules in the ground, showed them how to throw and gave a demonstration in hitting, which nearly resulted in a concussion. Eventually they decided that shoes off was the way to go and they all seemed to get the pitcher-batter-catcher relationship. I even taught them how to play pickle. Over their pleas to play lapta, the weird, not-fun, Russian version of baseball, I think they were enjoying it. At least we weren't sitting inside watching The Breakfast Club.

And as the cultural bonding started for my students, I got my own dose. An old lady started accosting my students. They pointed me out and she began accosting me.

Old Lady: I understand you are the teacher and you should know that this part of the park is the source of all of Ryazan's oxygen. Your horseplay will ruin it for everyone. You must stop playing now!
Me: All right, the period is almost over anyway. We're going.
OL: Wait, I'm going to report you. Give me your surname, name patronymic.
Me: Бернштейн, Сет Франклин
OL (Confused look): ...

Then she walked away, shocked that I would give such a blatant pseudonym instead of my real name.