The last standing pick-up game I took part in was during my semester in Venice, 2003.
Every Sunday evening, my roommates and I would hoof it out to Arsenale to take on our very own Washington Generals: a team of Filipino doormen whom I dubbed, "The Filipi-netians."
They would practice on the same court we used for their rec league and their coach reveled in the level of competition that a rabble of corn-fed, state school, American college kids could provide.
We teamed up with guy on Duke's women's team's practice squad (with lots of Duhan Ping-Pong stories), a Wake Forest chick whom was better than any Asian service industry workers in Europe, guaranteed.
I can't think of a more perfect setting for dominating small Asian men in sport than
playing on a court where the lines are white marble inlay, the backdrop is a sunset over the Lido, and any nasty Filipino smack can be countered with untranslatable hip-hop vernacular, "Slob on my knob, MF-er."