How to say basketball hoop in spanish

Basketball%20hoop in Spanish | English to Spanish Translation

basketball%20hoop

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el aro de baloncesto

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basketball hoop(

bahs

-

kiht

-

bal

hup

)

1. (general)

a. el aro de baloncesto

(m) means that a noun is masculine. Spanish nouns have a gender, which is either feminine (like la mujer or la luna) or masculine (like el hombre or el sol).

(M)

No matter how much I practice, the ball always seems to miss the basketball hoop. No importa cuánto practique. La pelota siempre parece fallar el aro del baloncesto.

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basketball hoop - Spanish translation – Linguee

Reddened - Basketball - Sports.ru

On Wednesday, the Moscow army team will play the second match in the Euroleague TOP-16 tournament - against the Turkish "Ulker". Today, like yesterday, like a week ago in the first game with Tel Aviv “Maccabi”, like a year ago or even thirty, CSKA will expect and demand only victory. CSKA is a team with an "excellent student complex", when every defeat is like a disgrace, a team built on milky rivers of great victories. And not just basketball. Above her Red Army name, the mythology of other victories dominates like fate: Perekop and Khalkhin-Gol, Stalingrad and the staff of the red banner in the hands of Yegorov and Kantaria. Such, at least, was the Soviet tradition - to interpret army sport as a peaceful embodiment of the Red Banner glory of Soviet weapons. From the taiga to the British seas, like a spell - all the stronger, all the stronger, all the stronger.

English, Russian, Spanish, Serbo-Croatian is heard at CSKA trainings. All three coaches, Valery Tikhonenko, Andrey Podkovyrov, Rutenis Paulauskas, alternate between Russian and English depending on the situation. Zakhar Pashutin and Andrei Fetisov, who played a lot abroad, Raymond Miglinieks, Nikolai Alekseev and Dmitry Domani, who studied in the States, and Nikolai Padius and Alexander Petrenko, however, tolerate English instructions without translation with varying degrees of ease. When, during a feverish break in the match with Maccabi, Tikhonenko quickly, loudly, with a fervor spoke to the team in Russian (Stirlitz taught us that during childbirth it is impossible to hide your native speech), only Ruben Volkovysky and Yoshko Polyak, who had recently arrived at CSKA, needed translation, the rest (Curtis McCants, Mirsad Turkan, Gordan Girichek) have already gotten used to it. Turkan, a Serb subject of Turkey, delivered his response speech, jumping, as if over potholes, from Serbian to English. The next speaker, Croat Giricek, limited himself to English in his speech. A native of New York, McCants, due to his non-Slavic origin, understands and speaks Russian worse, but on "Kurt, hello!" from him you can hear: "NATO is the aggressor." The Argentine Volkovyski (whose grandfather was a native of Russia), who played a little in the NBA, knows English only in general terms, but with Tikhonenko and Fetisov, who played for a long time in Spain, he communicates with pleasure and for a long time in Spanish. The whole team knows that Tikhonenko is from Kazakhstan, and the masseur Asker Barcho (“grandfather” in Russian pronunciation and “grandfather” in Serbo-Croatian and English), who has worked with different generations of CSKA basketball players for thirty years and three years, is from Adygea. Mirsad Turkan has already received an offer from him to play for Dynamo (Maikop) next year and, it seems, even agreed.

CSKA has not been an army club for three years. A normal professional team that can afford to spend much more than clubs from Croatia, Belgium or Germany, and a little less than the elite Real Madrid or Panathinaikos Athens. Seven years ago, on a newspaper assignment, I went with a photographer to an army studio to shoot CSKA basketball players in full dress military uniform. Igor Kudelin posed in a dull uniform of an ensign, worn, it seems, for the first time. All the players, the entire coaching staff kept a military ID somewhere at home, and at the pre-match installations, in addition to schemes, screens and runs, they were reminded of Khalkhin Gol and the glory of Soviet weapons. Many then believed that this made the eyes of the players burn brighter, the legs run faster, and the hand becomes more correct. It was a special status in Soviet basketball, a special legend about the exclusivity of CSKA, born in battles and campaigns. In the yellow and blue bus with the onboard numbers "777", on which CSKA goes to training in the Tel Aviv Yaad Eliuhu gym, Asker Barcho slaps Mirsad Turkan on the shoulder, who sings some lyrical Serbian song after the player, and says to him that he is a real soldier. Fighter.

''Before CSKA, Turkan played in Turkey, NBA and France. McCants, in addition to his native North America, drove through Venezuela, Israel, Ukraine and France. Fetisov, who previously played in Russia for the main rivals of CSKA - St. Petersburg "Spartak", Moscow "Dynamo" and Saratov "Avtodor", signed contracts with clubs from Spain, Italy and Poland. CSKA is now like the Foreign Legion in France, a group of highly paid mercenaries, no matter who was born where, in Bosnia or Adygea, New York or Sochi, the main thing is honest and professional service. In this - and for the first time this season - CSKA is no different from other wealthy European clubs.

The day before the match against Maccabi, we are standing with Anton Kazarnovsky, a 17-year-old player of the Israeli youth team, who was taken out of Moscow six years ago along with his older brother, also a basketball player. He studied basketball at the famous Trinta, dreamed of playing for CSKA, and now he trains with the main team of Maccabi. Anton watches the warm-up of his favorite club and recognizes in person (and then hesitantly, asking again) only Kolya Padius, I introduce the other 11 people to him. In response, he talks about how he trains with Nat Huffman, the main center of Maccabi and the main star of Israeli basketball, that he noticeably passed this season, and the army “big” should, in theory, cope with him. And also about the fact that he will root for CSKA, but cannot appear at the match in a red and blue army scarf, which he keeps at home in a place of honor - they will not understand him very much. When a day later, Huffmann, in the second attack in a row, receives an evil pot from Turkan and the lens flies out of the eye of the Israeli who beat CSKA in the Final Four last spring and rolls somewhere under the shield, I look around the hostile stands for Anton Kazarnovsky. He was right - both Volkovyski and Turkan and Huffman coped. In two or three years, Kazarnovsky himself will play here, at the ten thousandth Yaad Eliyahu, against CSKA. He should be the first player from Russia to be included in the main squad of Maccabi. He will also come to Moscow, where among the five thousandth hall of CSKA there will definitely be those who will tell him: "traitor".

Wartime laws with their clear division into "patriots" and "traitors" are poorly applied in peaceful professional life. For CSKA to win, its players do not have to be an integral team off the site, speak the same language, eat from the same bowler hat in the same restaurant, sing one song in unison, a group of twelve people falling into a disco. One for all of them is a basketball court. Here they have common victories and defeats - a common goal and a common cause. But in real life... Silent, restrained by the reaction of Ruben Volkovyski and quick-tempered, with an eternally jumping cap for a couple of Mirsad Turkan, who either sings, or argues, or jokes, or makes noise and talks, probably even in a dream, they are not at all obliged to coincide in tastes and interests. The former - "Ereminskiy" - CSKA, although it consisted mainly of Russian players, was not a simpler team in internal relations. Maybe someone would not have passed a plate at the table to someone, but the ball is in the game - almost always.

CSKA Tikhonenko probably now has more in common with Sergio Scariolo's Real Madrid or David Blatt's Maccabi than with Eremin's CSKA - that was a team of a different era, a different economic situation. The name and history uniting two different CSKA are good as a brand, as a marketing policy, as some additional means of emotionally spurring the players, but almost useless for creating victories. Personally, I don't believe in a "special army spirit" wandering around the CSKA locker room, ringing medals and orders, and moving into the players before the match. A special spirit, the spirit of the winner, in professional terminology - team spirit, is born in the work in training, the tedious everyday work of each employee of the club, is tempered in such matches as against Maccabi, when ten thousand fans, dressed as in uniform, yellow colors, they roar so that the plane will fly by - you will not hear. When the replaced McCants, a big vanity, hardly happy with his place on the bench, flies with a towel to the court, jumping and rejoicing at the point scored by CSKA. When one referee, five seconds before the siren, comes up with a foul that takes away the victory from CSKA, and another referee comes up after the match and says that, guys, don't be upset, you have a good team, but there was no foul - sorry. When, after such a defeat, the team does not break down, but unites. Although victories, as big sport teaches, still unite better.

Tel Aviv -- Moscow

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The city hospital was located in the building of the former elementary school and did not look like a hospital at all. A long one-story building with huge windows and a decrepit wing clinging to the back. Becker climbed the cracked steps.

It was dark and noisy inside. The waiting room was an endless narrow corridor with folding chairs lined up in a row along its entire length. Mounted on a tripod, a cardboard sign with the inscription OFICINA indicated the direction with an arrow.

Becker moved down the dimly lit corridor. Everything here looked like an ominous set for a Hollywood horror movie. There was a heavy smell of urine in the air. There were no lights at the end of the corridor, and for the last twenty meters only vague silhouettes could be distinguished. A woman bleeding... a young couple crying... a little girl praying. Finally, Becker reached the end of the dark corridor and pushed open the slightly ajar door on the left. The room was empty except for a haggard old woman on a bunk, trying to slip a ship under her.

Pretty sight, thought Becker. “Where the hell is the front desk?”

Becker heard voices behind a barely visible curve in the corridor. He followed the sound and stumbled into a glass door, behind which, judging by the noise and uproar coming from there, something like a fight was going on. Overcome with disgust, Becker opened the door. Registry. Bedlam. So he thought.

A queue of ten people, jostling and shouting. Spain is not known for its efficient bureaucracy, and Becker realized that he would have to stand here all night to get information about the Canadian. There was only one secretary at the desk, striving to get rid of annoying patients. Becker stood at the door, unsure of what to do. It was necessary to urgently come up with something.

– Con permiso! shouted the orderly. A gurney swept by swiftly.

Becker managed to jump aside and called out to the orderly.

Donde está el telefono?

Without slowing down, the man pointed to Becker at the double door and disappeared around the bend. Becker followed in the indicated direction.

He found himself in a huge room - a former gymnasium. The pale green floor shimmered in the glow of the fluorescent lamps, now coming into focus, now as if falling through. The lamps hummed ominously. A basketball hoop hung crookedly on the wall. The floor was littered with dozens of hospital beds. In the far corner, just below the scoreboard that had once shown the scores of matches played here, he saw a slightly rickety telephone booth. God forbid that the phone worked, Becker mentally pleaded.

As he moved towards the booth, he groped for money in his pocket. There were 75 pesetas in nickel coins, change from a taxi ride, enough for two local calls. He smiled politely at the worried nurse and entered the booth. Picking up the receiver, he dialed the help desk number and thirty seconds later received the number of the main office of the hospital.

No matter what country you are in, in all institutions the same rule applies: no one can stand the ringing of the telephone for a long time. No matter how many visitors are standing in line, the secretary will always drop everything and hasten to pick up the phone.

Becker hit the six-digit number. Another couple of seconds, and he was connected to the hospital office. Surely only one Canadian with a broken wrist and a concussion came in today, and his card would be easy to find. Becker understood that the hospital would not want to give the name and address of the patient to a stranger, but he was well prepared for the conversation.

Long beeps sounded on the receiver. Becker decided that the phone would be picked up on the fifth ring, but it was picked up on the nineteenth.

“City hospital,” the plague-stricken secretary muttered.

Becker spoke Spanish with a strong French-American accent:

– My name is David Becker. I'm from the Canadian embassy. Our citizen was taken to your hospital today. I would like information about him so that the embassy can pay for his treatment.

“Fine,” said a female voice. – I will send this information to the embassy on Monday morning.

- It is very important for me to receive it right now.

“That's impossible,” the woman replied irritably. – We are very busy.

Becker tried to speak as formally as possible:

- The matter is very urgent.

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