Lunn is no stranger to blogging, either. Some of his musings can be found on his personal blog "Thoughts From A Fat White Guy," guest appearances on Chris Cooley's blog portion of his personal site, and a blogger for the newly launched NESN.com.

A FITTING SEND-OFF

Ahhh my final column on the glories of Austrian football. Where to start? How about that we lost our last playoff game by literally 6 inches. As much as I have kept my emotional distance from the game here (call it being "professionally aloof") that pissed me off something wicked. Although maybe I should count my blessings seeing as how the next day I had a plane ticket marking the beginning of a 20 day Euro-trip. Coincidentally it also marked my uncanny ability to avoid dodge and deceive Daulerio —so I got that going for me, which is nice.

As always the "The Tales from an American Football Player in Austria" will have little to do with football and more to do with well anything that suits me. So sit back, relax, and enjoy my send off (cue the
trumpets).

COMPLETELY LOST IN TRANSLATION

I should let you know that because of all this wonderful writing I've been doing I've received my fair share of hate-mail. Apparently comparing the Red Sox-Yankees rivalry to WWII is a bit taboo over here.

But the ultimate in "ze ignorant American" came when a German reporter did a write up on me titled "What Has This Man Learned in College? Nothing". (That title, by the way, sounds even better when
shouted in your best German accent:"NAh-SSING!!!")

I asked myself, "Wher does all this anger come from? What exactly did I say? Had I looked over his shoulder at a party and saw him texting some frauline and let the world know?" I had not.

No, I was guilty of a far greater crime—using Google translator. Wit and comedic timing apparently
don't translate—so when a teammate asked me to translate the blog for an Austrian football forum. The aforementioned Red Sox-WWII joke translated to German then translated back to
English reads as "The Jews are in rivalry with the favorites. We must holocaust them." Yeah, that will do it.

EVEN THE AUSTRIANS DON'T RESPECT BLOGGING BLOCKING

My teammate Leighta has been a fixture in these columns. Our starting safety, smoking two packs a day, and dating a samoan girl twice his size. After our last game I got this message from him (read with accent and heavy lisp. Oh, and [Sic'd])

Subj: whuzzz up!!
Hope you enjoy your trip, i`m leaving in two days and mabe i write a
block for the time in africa. Ahhh I mabye call it "The only white guy
in the next 1000 miles" could work thanks for the year man, it was a
lot of funhave a nice trip mfg daniel (the only guy who`s interested
in your block :);

Insert gay joke here, who else is interested in my block?

THE ""ALTERNATE" HISTORY

You know how there's the history you learn in school, with the hardcover books, and the hot teacher (miss you, Mrs. Smith) and that "history" fits pretty well into your notion of the world. Than one night in your early twenties your up after a night of drinking watching the history channel—and all of the sudden our "friendship" with the Indians was less "honorable trading" and more "influenza-laden blankets. "

Yeah, same thing in the Austrian football league. About a month ago I got an email from a former player who detailed the "alternate history" of our organization. A tale of flying in extra players from America
before the first game, giving them Austrian names matching Euro-mullets and skinny jeans. A story of systematic cheating that would make Canseco blush. All this after our president gave a speech
about "the honor and integrity of European football." Mad? No. I won't channel my Bud Selig and express my fake concern or disappointment. No, rather I'm proud of this win at all costs mentality. Well played Austria, well played.

YOU THOUGHTLESS EVIL LITTLE BASTARDS

This is why we can't have nice things.

You animals. I post a picture of my sister, to please the masses, and what do you do? You post the most vile and disgusting things. For shame, for shame. I mean, if the internet has taught us anything, it's that the anonymity of the keyboard spawns only constructive and positive commentary.

Not to mention the e-mail I received from said sibling, complete with quotes from from her friends. Leave it to my sister the lawyer to cite and quote a hate email like the most thorough of research papers;

• "Wow could rob do that?" — Jessica
• "Immature. Just immature" — Amanda
• "File that one under lack of judgment and reason." — Dad

.... But my personal favorite?

• "Don't worry, only like 500,000 people a day visit that site" — Dan

So here's me in a Speedo. The Austrian Grape-smuggler. Now we're even.

Thanks for letting me entertain you for the last few months. With any luck ill be back. (Ed. note: He will.)

Robert Lunn can be reached at thefatwhiteguyATgmail.com. Share your thoughts with him. He's a big boy.

Lunn is no stranger to blogging, either. Some of his musings can be found on his personal blog "Thoughts From A Fat White Guy," guest appearances on Chris Cooley's blog portion of his personal site, and a blogger for the newly launched NESN.com.

SCENT OF A WINGMAN

I, like many a football stud (the term is used loosely), have enjoyed the residual benefits of college football: The "game after the game," so to speak. Earlier in this space, I was quick to call my Austrian teammate Peter a "man-whore." The reaction back in Storrs, Conn., was even quicker: "Well, ain't that the pot callin' the kettle black." OK, fine. But that all ended after three years of college. That's when I met my current girlfriend.

During my first three months here in Klagenfurt, she was back in Connecticut, finishing her degree. Me, I played the eternal wingman to my single American teammates. Sober Sally. All Swedish, no Finnish. And I was fine with that — I missed my girlfriend. Staying faithful is a part of growing up. But I also learned a very important lesson: There is no more powerful aphrodisiac on Austrian soil than a total lack of interest. It's almost as if they could smell the commitment on me. Never in my life have I been so attractive to women as I was during those three months. Tall ones, skinny ones, fat ones, short ones — all of them falling at my feet. There was one fräulein who asked to buy me a beer. I declined. Then she asked me if I was single. I replied, with expert timing, "No, but my friend Ryan is ..." She turned, gave him a once-over, turned back and said, "No, I ... ummm ... likes you better." Thus crushing Ryan's ego but proving my point: Disinterest can be most interesting.

FUBAR? THAT'S A GERMAN WORD, RIGHT?

Coach Bradley is an odd sort of coach. It takes a special type of man to come over here and try to teach this level of football to kids who have essentially no background in the game. Sure, you're coaching at the "professional" level — but you're coaching athletes whose sports background consists mainly of faking injuries and rolling around on the ground. You're coaching soccer players. So in a lot of ways, Brads was the one leading our "This is Austria" rallying cry. You remember the whole FUBAR thing in Saving Private Ryan? "This is Austria" was sort of our FUBAR.

Football coaches rarely just say, "Aw, fuck it," and Brads, sporadic Vietnam flashbacks aside, is nothing if not a football coach. But when he came over to our castle, drank a beer with us on the porch and told us he was heading back to America to tend to an emergency, what he was really saying was, "Aw, fuck it," and what we Americans collectively were thinking was, We're fucked. Getting drunk with your coach is one thing. Getting an entire organization dropped into your hands is another. FUBAR.

AMAZINGLY, THE NAKED REFEREE WASN'T THE LOW POINT OF MY CAREER

The most historic victory in the history of our entire organization was followed by the most embarrassing loss. The St. Pölten Invaders (an ironic name in the land of the invaded) are a class below us, and yet they completely outclassed us on the field. Fourth-quarter injuries forced me, the former collegiate defensive tackle, to play middle linebacker. I wasn't bad. Mike Ditka, or at least Todd Orlando, would've been proud of my "flow over the top." Still, it wasn't a good sign. When the final series degraded into a volley of cheap shots, I found myself getting an earful from the head referee.

"Yooou are allowing zees madness to happen. You are lozing con-trol of your team!"

"No sir, you have lost control of this game through a series of bad calls and overall awful officiating."

File that one under "Things Lost In Translation." Final score: 36-27.

In our locker room after the game, I caught an eyeful of the referee lathering himself in the the shower and thought my career had hit a new low. I was wrong.

The real low point was the six-hour journey back to Klagenfurt. It came shortly after the bus driver started selling beer to my teammates. He was sort of like the creepy older guy who parks outside your high school, selling weed and Genny Light out of his burgundy '92 Honda Accord. Soon enough, the bus was full of drunk Austrians, and a bus full of drunk Austrians is about as much as, well, a bus full of drunk Austrians. And all I could do was allow zees madness to happen.

AND NOW, THE PART YOU'VE BEEN WAITING FOR: MY HOT SISTER

You guys asked. That's her in the photo above, with my mom. Enjoy, animals.

UPDATE:

Aj
Can you please take down the picture of the sister. Just got an earful
from her and how "inappropriate" what they were saying was, after she
read some of the commenters. Try growing up with three sisters.
Sorry
Rob

(Ed. Note: Done! You get shirtless dudes now!)

Robert Lunn can be reached at thefatwhiteguyATgmail.com. Share your thoughts with him. He's a big boy.

Lunn is no stranger to blogging, either. Some of his musings can be found on his personal blog "Thoughts From A Fat White Guy," guest appearances on Chris Cooley's blog portion of his personal site, and a blogger for the newly launched NESN.com.

...JUST FOR ONE DAY

In 2007 I was part of a UConn Football team that upset a 12th ranked South Florida on ESPN. As the final whistle blew our fans charged the field. In the chaos I had my mouthpiece, gloves, and helmet stolen. I also got several full-on make-out sessions from several beautiful babies, much to the dismay of my then girlfriend. I decided right then and there that football would never be that great. Up until this past Saturday, I was right.

The Vienna Vikings are an affiliate of the Minnesota Vikings. Their sponsors include Chrysler, Burger King, and a motley crew of private investors. My Team? Well, let's just say that the Bad News Bears Strip Club sponsor was a step up. The Vikings have every advantage, and it is reflected in their team history (8 league titles, and 5 Euro Bowl championships). The Black Lions website is designed, hosted, and managed by our right tackle.

Our team is viewed by many Euro football fans as a colossal joke. I even received this piece of "fan mail" (a special thanks to Daulerio for posting my email).

Channel your best Austrian-accent-inner-monologue for this:

"Do you know what a joke of your team is? Your could not play for a real city, like Vienna. Unimpressive is your play. The Carinthian Black Pussies suck, just like you do. Only your quarterback is good.'' [Sic'd]

-Cookie

So when we were down 20 points at half time, all was right with the world.

Maybe it was my pregame speech: "Don't give me this "Rudy" bullshit, let me tell you about what happens to Rudy in today's college ball. He gets his ass cut. Never to be seen nor heard from again. This isn't a movie, boys. This is real life. So take that hoo-rah, Remember the Titans shit and throw it out the window…" But at the half, guys did not have the usual downtrodden, defeated expressions.

So when the final whistle blew, and we were victorious (41-33) I had that whole "Do you believe in Miracles? Yes!"-type-moment.

For as much as I laugh and shake my head at 90% of what goes on in Austria (especially on a football field-"Coach, I have to leave ze game, I have University test at 5") this past weekend's victory was special.

Oh I almost forgot: Blow me, Cookie.

IF YOU TOUCH MY HOT SISTER I WILL KILL YOU

The post-game celebration moved from on the field and into the city. Which was awesome, as our team president bought us bottles of "Wahd-ka" and other beverages. I'd like to see UConn's athletic director Jeff Hathaway do that. Not to mention that our head coach joined us for drinks (again, where was Randy Edsall after South Florida? Kidding Coach-sort of).

Well as it so happened my sister (who so many have requested more pictures of) had flown to Austria for the game, joining my girlfriend in the stands. Terrific, now I'd have to fend off "Peter the Man-whore" all night. No such luck, Peter was too drunk to function. So instead I made one of our young players dance with her. I am an idiot for doing this. I don't know why I thought that in a country where the drinking starts in the crib and a three-pack-a-day habit is commonplace at age 12, and condoms are "only fur ze sailors" that our 17-year-old defensive end would be a good dance partner for my visiting kin. Instead, I watched as he proceeded to grab and grope her. Of course once I approached to intervene he stopped. He was scared shitless. Little punk.

AND AFTER THE JOYFUL CHAOS, A SWIFT RETURN TO COLD, COLD REALITY

Do you know how we (ze Americans) were rewarded for the biggest victory in the history of our organization and arguably the greatest upset in the 29 year history of the Austrian Football League?

"You must move out by Tuesday." I'm not going to point fingers, but apparently there was some dispute over our rent being paid on time. As in: not being paid at all. So our tour at "ze castle" was apparently over as of Tuesday. Our neighbor Ralph Wilson (true story), must be upset. Don't worry, we weren't about to be three homeless Americans bumming it Austria — other accommodations had been made.

The minute we heard "other" we were suspicious. But for our team, bad news always has a positive spin on it. This was no exception, as we found ourselves no longer in a 100-year-old villa but on the second floor of "Penison See-Haus" located in beautiful Krumpendorf (insert Harry Potter joke here). And as an added bonus, our new abode is complete with creepy, random taxidermy displays.

Hooray.

Robert Lunn can be reached at thefatwhiteguyATgmail.com. Share your thoughts with him. He's a big boy.

Lunn is no stranger to blogging, either. Some of his musings can be found on his personal blog "Thoughts From A Fat White Guy," guest appearances on Chris Cooley's blog portion of his personal site, and a blogger for the newly launched NESN.com.

DIAMOND MINERS IN THE SIERRA LEONE LAUGH AT YOUR PREDICAMENT

Daulerio: You're useless, where's my column?

Lunn: Sorry, it takes twice as long to type with one hand.

Daulerio: Take your time, no one cares anyways.

So why exactly did this column barely meet its deadline? Here's the story. Last game we beat the Falcons (I'd tell you their home-city, but I can't pronounce it and smart money is on the fact that you don't really care). Our four touchdown victory margin was overshadowed by the fact that at one point during the second quarter I looked down and realized my right thumb was now facing backwards and touching my wrist. My brief moment of curiosity gave way to panic, which then of course gave way to "What the fuck do I do now."

Our "training staff" consists of a professional masseuse with limited English and the Austrian Red Cross. My playing days at UConn this injury would have been met with instant orthopedic assessment, local anesthesia, and some post game pain killers. Instead, our head Coach grabbed my thumb and tried to "pop it back in" (wrong move, as it wasn't dislocated—-tendons were torn) and I got a few Tylenol Extra Strength for my troubles.

So our victory over the Falcons, whose opposing quarterback is so hefty he puts Jared Lorenzen to shame, was overshadowed by an inevitable visit to an Austrian Hospital.

Now my most useful appendage (I'm right handed and my girlfriend doesn't come for another week) is rendered obsolete. My thumb dangles from my hand like a flaccid penis, and just like that my career as a hitch-hiker is over before it began.

Now all that is separating me from less evolved mammals is my superior intellect and that I'm not slinging poop from my cage at the San Diego zoo (although metaphorically, this is pretty close).

BUT WE HAVE WINNING PERSONALITIES

I consider myself a career underdog, and that's fine with me. When I wasn't recruited in high school I thought my football playing days would be spent at a 1-AA (excuse me, NCAA Division I Football Championship Subdivision) school. But I caught some breaks and received offers from UConn and Syracuse. I chose UConn and my first two years were spent as a long snapper, but eventually I broke the starting lineup where I remained for my final two years. That being said, it came as no surprise to me that my team in Austria was not a league powerhouse or even a contender. Last year they didn't win a game. But as is often the case, our band of misfits has some of the more interesting personalities in Austria.

We have Daniel, our safety. Who dates a Samoan girl whose cousin is Shawn Merriman. Daniel called Merriman and asked him "Hey, do you s-ink you cood get me a Patrick Willis Jersey?" (He did).

Our center is a guy named Matic, a Slovenian who sounds like Schwarzenegger, who will tell anyone within ear shot how awesome his village of 40 inhabitants is.

Our head coach (and Boston native), whose pregame speeches seamlessly weave their way between WWII land acquisition references and the occasional Vietnam flash back: "Gentleman, the Carinthian Black Lions wear black. You know who else did? The man in the black pajamas. CHARLIE! — they were underdogs too. Well the Ho Chi Mihn Trail might also lead to victory. Let's get it!"

Of course there is our resident man-whore, Peter, who is always asking me "Rob, ven does your seestercome to Austria?" Studboy had to be picked up on the way to our last game because he woke up late after a night of drinking in a strange bed, 45 minutes away. He routinely finds his car tires slashed by angry boyfriends and never once considers any of this out of the norm. Just "ze price of doing bee-niz."

HOT WINGS AND CHESTY WAITRESSES ARE UNIVERSAL

I was a political science major at UConn (leisure studies wasn't offered). My 7th semester we learned about the "McPeace-Theory." This states that countries with McDonald's don't attack or start wars with other countries that have McDonald's (and it's actually true). Everywhere I go in Austria I try and see what part(s) of American culture have made their way into Austria. Typically it's New York Yankee hats, "Yes We Can," Flavor of Love and not much else. That said, our game against the Graz Giants revealed something new to me. Our teammates were excited about spending time after the game in Graz, possibly staying over. I inquired, "Is the Graz night life better than our city?" The answer was "No." Turns out the big draw for our team was that in Graz, Austria there is a HOOTERS.

Aha! So love of cleavage and fried food is global. So while SUVs and all you can eat buffets are taboo, HOOTERS has jumped the pond. God bless America.

Robert Lunn can be reached at thefatwhiteguyATgmail.com. Share your thoughts with him. He's a big boy.

Lunn is no stranger to blogging, either. Some of his musings can be found on his personal blog "Thoughts From A Fat White Guy," guest appearances on Chris Cooley's blog portion of his personal site, and a blogger for the newly launched NESN.com.

BEWARE ALL YE WHO ENTER THE "FITMAX"

The University of Connecticut's weight room is a testament to big time college football: 35 championship platforms, valued at $25,000 dollars apiece, a 70 yard running surface on the second floor, with integrated laser-timing technology and a staff of five full-time strength and conditioning coaches. 500lb bench presses, 700lb squats and stale sweat and tears fill the air as grunts and yells from the toil of college athletes echo of the concrete walls, adorned with the phrase, "Championships Start Here."

This is Austria. I train at the "FitMax."

The Austrian workout is simple. Before entering said FitMax make sure to light up that one last Marlboro Red (don't be caught up in the irony of this), proceed to locker room where upon entering, you will witness three things:

1) Circumcision: not big in Europe

2) Banana hammocks are a recession proof investment

3) Judging by that tribal tattoo-the early mid to late 90's were not kind to you.

After all this, it's time to get your swell on.

You will then time it so that every important business call you could make, must be made in between sets of bicep-curls, thus making it is utterly impossible for you to finish your work out. Run outside to your Fiat, Alfa-Romeo, Pugeot, or Volkswagon, light up another cigarette and be on your way.

There really is nothing like a good sweat.

THE CANADIAN TUXEDO IS ALIVE AND WELL AND LIVING IN AUSTRIA

Spending a lot of time "researching" the bar scene has taught me a few things. Austrians are incapable of saying, "excuse me" and that's fine with me. Nothing like getting muscled out of the way by a faux-hawk and a pair of skinny jeans. The other thing I have learned is that, there will always be the one guy who looks like the poster boy for Levi-Strauss. The jean jacket warrior, the Canadian Tuxedo; I understand that denim is expensive here, but draping yourself in it ala George Costanza-velvet-obsession doesn't make it okay. But then again I am sure he's thinking the same thing about "ze Americans" who are wearing Larry Bird jerseys and Red Sox hats to the bar (in my defense, it was an Irish bar).

BYE WEEKS USED TO BE FOR THE WEAK

At some point I had to remind myself that all my preconceived notions of football and how it is played in America need to be thrown out the window. Things have changed significantly for me in the past two months. I graduated college, gave up my dream of playing in the NFL, moved to Austria (as previously noted, I don't speak a word of German), I now write for what amounts to "sport-news-smut-peddling," and my teammates rip cigarettes at half time.

But the biggest change? I actually enjoy the bye week.

The "bye week" is a myth in the NCAA. The notion that any fan has of players using this time to "rest and recover" is complete bullshit. For players, the bye week means that training camp is back in session in the middle of your season. But that was before; now the bye week allows me to take 4 day trips to Spain (with Daulerio tracking me down via Blackberry).

THE NIGERIAN HOOKERS IN SPAIN ARE AGGRESSIVE

This is something I can't wait to tell my kids, "when Daddy was out of college, he played football in Europe, visited Spain and got attacked by Nigerian prostitutes as he exited a bar at 4am drunk off of CruzCampo." Who thought that the stories of my days playing football in Europe would have so little to do with football and so much to do with European night life.

I left this bar in Spain at closing time, and to be honest it was time for me to go. There's only so many times you can fall off a barstool and still be served. I make my way to in the street and immediately received what the Austrians call "Luft-Schlagen" or "the air slap" Meaning when the cold night air hits delivers an immediate, sobering blow to your rosy cheeks. Imagine my continued surprise, when in the post luft-schlagen moment I was mobbed by no less than seven Nigerian whores.

Should I issue the "my best friend is black" disclaimer on this next part? Probably. But these women were dark. Like Wesley Snipes black. Like the guy from "Blood Diamond" (or was it "Amistad?") black. Next thing I know I am being hounded for sex, each one offering a more competitive price than the next, then sweetening the deal with claims "No AIDS, baby!" and "I don't have The Germ." Next thing I knew I felt hands reaching in my pockets; grabbing, touching, stroking. Then one of these night walkers found the ultimate prize.

No not my penis. My Orbit gum. It should be noted that good gum is impossible to find in Europe. So this package of winter mint was worth its weight in gold, and like piranhas to an injured calf, they were off of me and tearing apart a package of chewing gum.

I laughed all the way home. Then I woke up on the kitchen floor the next day.

Robert Lunn can be reached at thefatwhiteguyATgmail.com. Share your thoughts with him. He's a big boy.

Lunn is no stranger to blogging, either. Some of his musings can be found on his personal blog "Thoughts From A Fat White Guy" ,guest appearances on Chris Cooley's blog portion of his personal site, and a blogger for the newly launched NESN.com.

I REALLY JUST WANTED SOME EGGS

In high school I used to ridicule the kids who took German class, I mean when the hell are you ever going to speak German? Well after 6 years of Spanish, here I am in Austria completely fucked. But our teammates have been trying to teach us the basics-counting, please and thank you, I like (insert food here). Well like any football team, the ball-busting never stops. Recently at a breakfast place I was foolishly confident that I could order my entire meal in German. Daniel, our free safety and Austrian native, fed me the lines as I rehearsed over and over in my head. The waitress approached our table, "Bitte?" (Whaddya-havin?), I calmly answered, "Du hast schöne Augen. Ich möchte fikken." Instead of ordering eggs and toast, I politely told our waitress, "You have pretty eyes, I want to fuck." A stunned look on her face, the Austrians blew up with laughter-and I never got my eggs.

WELCOME TO RED SOX NATION, YANKEE

Don't call an Austrian "German." Trust me on this — you'll open up a floodgate of criticism about "Ze ignorant Americanz." At a club one night, I made some comment along the lines of "Wow, you Germans have the best beer." Looks of horror and disgust followed, along with a stream of German dialogue that seemed pretty angry. Our teammate, Leite, broke it down for me: "Calling ze Austrian German, is like calling ze Red Sock-Yankee." While I certainly appreciated his attempt to make me understand, either the whole "genocide" thing is understated here, or the Red Sox/Yankees rivalry is pretty well understood.

I AM LT

Last game against Salzburg I had 3 sacks and 12 tackles. I now know how Lawrence Taylor felt on Sundays (minus the cocaine hangover); being the best on the field is a thrill I hadn't felt until now. It is my duty as an American (and New Yorker) to inform everyone around me of this fact. And the Austrian media eats this up. On the official site of Austrian Football (Football-Austria.com) you'll find a feature dedicated solely to the things we say. "The Trash Talk Box" (left hand column, after the break) features the stupid shit we tell the opponent during the game. Apparently our team is a fan favorite, as our Americans have been featured regularly in the past three weeks. Just don't let them catch you referencing Hitler or Nazis in your trash talk; last week one such comment was grounds to eject a player in Vienna.

KEEP AWAY FROM THE GREEK BATH

Our teammates think it's funny (and I'd have to agree) to toss the prude Americans into uncomfortable situations. Well "spa day" would be no exception. To be fair, it's not really a nudist colony-"Greek Bath." Whatever, there was enough man meat there to make Andy Dick (Mike Piazza?) blush. When we heard spa, we thought pools, steam rooms, massage. I couldn't have been more right, and more wrong. Sure there were steam rooms, little huts that looked like the "pods" from Star Wars. But it was very different from the YMCA back home. At one point I was chased down by the staff, screaming "You must remove yow trow-zes." Imagine some slight European chasing three large American football players, imploring them to drop their drawers. The further we walked into this place, the more it was like descending deeper and deeper into Sodom and Gomorrah. Don't let delusions of beautiful naked European women dance in your head. At one point I blindly turned a corner and was met with a face full of awful-two 50-somethings completely naked, sweat pouring over their 250lb strechmark-laden bodies. The Jaws-of-Life couldn't pry that image from my brain.

MY BLACK TEAMMATE

Playing at UConn (like the majority of Division I football) our roster was primarily African American. Over here-that's not the case. Dave, our linebacker from UMass is the only black person I have seen so far. And apparently the only one the Austrians have seen either. On a recent ski trip to the Alps, a store clerk informed me that he was, "the first ‘Schwärze' (black) I've seen in 15 years." This could explain why the next day on the slopes, people were stopping to take pictures of Dave. Literally stopping in their tracks, jaws dropping, fumbling for cameras. It's not a matter of being racist; it's a matter of curiosity.

Which might help to explain their curiosity with President Obama:

Believe it or not, this is an advertisement for the local bus system in Klagenfurt. "Yes, we can!-be on time every day." I can't make this shit up.
Robert Lunn can be reached at thefatwhiteguyATgmail.com. Share your thoughts with him. He's a big boy.

Lunn is no stranger to blogging, either. Some of his musings can be found on his personal blog "Thoughts From A Fat White Guy" ,guest appearances on Chris Cooley's dick-free blog portion of his personal site, and a blogger for the newly launched NESN.com.

MY AUSTRIAN TEAMMATES PUT THE "WHORE" IN "MAN WHORE"

Any fan of football at any level-pro, college, high school (even peewee for that matter)-should realize that football players get more girls (and/or pussy) than the general population. Simple fact; as old as time, as consistent as gravity. It's no different in Austria. My teammates are more concerned with getting laid than they are with tackling, hitting, or any football fundamental. In fact, when pressed about how girls felt about having sex on a couch (Pete doesn't have an actual "bedroom"), my Austrian teammate replied, "Yez, but I am not interested in this-their-feelings." It's a misogynistic society to boot; an American teammate had a girl over the first night, and the post-coitus conversation amounted to her begging him not to kick her out. Our Austrian brethren informed us that it was par for the course, to make a girl leave after you "were done." I knew I loved this country.

AMERICA, INC.

So in Klagenfurt there exists a shop-"My America Shop" that sells everything American: From Mountain Dew, to Kool-Aid, to Butterfingers, to Zippos, and Bruce Springsteen albums. You really get a sense of what other countries think of America, when there is a shop that has boiled down the essence of the USA to Mountain Dew and Zippos (unfortunately, no handguns).

THIS WILL NOT QUENCH MY THIRST

As player/coach, I called a water break. I ran over to the cooler and I saw the other players drinking a brownish liquid. I thought to myself, "Well, this is unlike any Gatorade I've ever seen." And then I noticed there was steam coming from the water cup. It was not Gatorade. It was not water — it was hot tea! ! I never thought I'd see that in any of my years playing football. It lends legitimacy to the Americans' rallying cry: "T.I.A., This. Is. Austria!"

BODIES ARE NOT TEMPLES

I live in Portchach. Which is 15 minutes outside the city of Klagenfurt. And 5 minutes from the town of Graz. Why is this important? Arnold Schwarzenegger is from Graz. Let me say this — the last physical specimen left Austria when the Governator jumped the pond in 1968. The millions of dollars spent to keep pro athletes' bodies in top shape, or even working order, is completely lost here. Half our starting offensive line has a two-pack-a-day smoking habit, and our starting kicker — affectionately nicknamed "Schnapps" — is a flat out alcoholic. Schnapps' "practice" consists of kicking a few balls, then hitting the shower because, "Coach… I'm sweating."

PRACTICE HAPPENS WHEN IT HAPPENS

The biggest challenge is getting the Austrians to show up to practice on a regular basis. Apparently the fact that I flew 5,000 miles to a country I don't understand, and make practice every day, is completely lost. My inspirational speeches are also ineffective. A heart to heart, your Disney-sports-movie-moment, where I explained that we needed players at practice, rain or shine, and how I held a 3.1 GPA and played major college football… The next practice? Even more guys missing. (The moment must have gotten lost in translation-helps me sleep at night.) At some point, frustration has to give way to laughter, and like a beaten man I laugh my way through practice, with several "How the fuck did it come to this?" fuck-my-life-moments.

COACH MANFRED IS A PILLAR OF DISCIPLINE

I have a coach that could write the book on Former Athletes and Obscurity (with a foreword by Pac Man Jones). Manfred (just Manfred…like Madonna) was a famous Austrian soccer goalie, and after that I don't know much more. I use the term "coach" very loosely. Truth is, while he has a heart of gold, I have absolutely no clue what Manfred actually does. I want to sit him down in one of the "Office Space" moments: "Uh yeah... what would you say you do here? Besides Dutch Oven your office in a thick cloud of cigarette smoke 5 days a week?" Compare this to my former head coach, Randy Edsall, whose clean living and boy scout mentality is legendary. And while Edsall runs at 4 a.m. every morning , Manfred wheezes uncontrollably after walking a flight of stairs.

THE REFS ARE SURPRISINGLY AMENABLE TO MY INTERPRETATION

Rushing the QB in this league is an absolute free-for-all. The Austrian offensive linemen are not used to the speed of the American pass rush. And while I'm not exactly DeMarcus Ware, I did play 4 years in the Big East. It should also be of note that Austrian offensive linemen, like all offensive linemen, are cheaters. That being said, a mild holding call (that never would have been called on American soil) had me fired-up, especially since I was one step shy of recording my first sack of the day. I turned to the ref and complained (like all defensive linemen are trained to do), "Come on ref, make the fucking call — that's a hold!" For the first time, in all my years of football, he agreed with me. And he dropped the flag.10-yard penalty. Just like that. Like we were discussing politics over lunch, "Yah, I coo-d see how zat might be a hold, yah…okay."

BE PREPARED TO GET INJURED

One thing I have had to realize is that the Austrians have not grown up with American Football on TV. Their dads didn't take them to games, and the Superbowl isn't shown every year. Their only impression of the game comes mostly from Madden, NFL Blitz, and "Any Given Sunday." To them, "cheap shots" are part of the game. Which explains why when our American wideout was getting his arm cranked after being tackled at our own 25, the refs did nothing. Their coach, only yards away on the sideline, clapped in unabashed admiration. Of course, after seeing this I was filled with typical American rage and ran over and began screaming, "That's fucking bullshit, and you know it. Do it again and I'll fucking kill you." 15 yards, unsportsmanlike conduct. Oddly, the ref was more concerned about my yelling. "Dis iz American foot-ball. NOT a South Central gang fight." His unintentional humor completely disarmed me. I just laughed and trotted back to our huddle.

Robert Lunn can be reached at thefatwhiteguyATgmail.com. Share your thoughts with him. He's a big boy.