Jazz open camp full of strangers

Greg Ostertag I recognize.

Beyond that, I am uncertain.

I wander aimlessly, a stranger in a strange land. Faces appear and move on, their eyes flat and unseeing. They are foreign to me.

It is Tuesday, the first day of Jazz training camp, and I think I'm lost. For starters, I'm not in the Delta Center, where the Jazz held their media days for the last 11 years. I'm in the Zions Bank Basketball Center. I don't know whether to interview a player or apply for a home equity loan.

I strain my eyes, trying to find a familiar face and what do I see? At least a dozen guys I don't know from Adam — and I don't mean Keefe.

He's gone, too. I wonder if we should have an encounter session: Hi, my name's Brad and I like Cat Stevens, pasta primavera and the writings of F. Scott Fitzgerald. I dream of one day owning a dry cleaning chain. And I'm looking forward to getting to know you, one and all.

That sort of thing.

Near the bleachers two guys are speaking Spanish. One wearing No. 30 is said to be planning a visit with the president of the United States.

The president! Is he the ambassador from Panama? I can't say. Another guy is packing a thick Russian accent. He looks familiar. With the brush cut, he looks like an emaciated version of Drago in Rocky IV.

The roster says there are guys who have lived in Puerto Rico, Spain, Serbia, Russia and Greece. I believe it, because they have names like Handlogten, Okulaja, Pavlovic, Arroyo, Lopez and Kirilenko. I wonder if I took a wrong turn and stumbled across a session of the United Nations.

No. 19 is doing a stand-up TV interview with a reporter he has never heard of. Someone wearing No. 33 is posing in an action shot for an A.P. photographer. A guy in blue sneakers and a huge tattoo sits alone. He might be Michael Ruffin, Mo Williams, or is it Lavor Postell? For all I know it's Humphrey Bogart.

Near the basket is a guy in a Jazz uniform, saying this should be a pretty good team. I'd have more faith in his opinion if he had been here last year.

There have been other years with new faces, but nothing like this — at least not since the days of Gentle Ben Poquette and Tom Boswell. For the past two decades this franchise has been as solid as a mountain. People came and went, but the regulars were always there: Eaton, Thurl, B-Russ, Stock, Mailman, Horny. Only guy with any real tenure now is Ostertag. He shows up in shorts and sandals; everyone else is in uniform.