Bites and Elbows

This past weekend, I walk into a gym teeming with 7-to-9 year old boys, who are jumping out of their shoes with excitement. They're warming up for an evaluation session, where they will be divided up and put on teams for a league. I'm told to go cover a basket and am the only female on the floor. I pick a hoop and feel the pressure to say something to a bunch of rugrats, but I'm not fired up to bust up their little party, filled with running, crashing and tackling, and throwing the ball with no respect for any rules of the game or a civilized society.

Two little guys who look alike are beating up on a lefty in a Ray Allen jersey. Three other boys are buzzing around them and the hoop, and it's a train wreck waiting to happen. I say, "Guys, why don't brothers stop beating up on Ray Allen and you start a game of 3-on-3." Three buzzing boys look at me and run away from our hoop. I ask them to come back, they run faster. Smiling Brother #1 looks up and says, "They don't want to play with a girl."

I let it go, look around at the masses, and say, "All you need is one!"

Smiling Brother #1 yells, "You're on!"

I guard Ray Allen, and totally shut him down.

I record another hoops sound bite for the books the next day when I'm coaching my 6th grade boys' traveling team. We do okay in the first half, despite not having any players that understand why great athletes play to win and sometimes get emotional about it. We basically have a bunch of nice boys from the upper east and west sides of Manhattan, and their collective indifference is going to force me to take drastic measures soon. I'm just not sure I have the pipes or the energy to blow my top like the coach from the other team does during a timeout. The coach yells at his guys so loudly that my boys come to the huddle shaking.

And it works. We lose by 15. At the end of the game, we shake hands. I am a good sport on the surface, and a coach says to me, "Well, at least you're the prettiest coach in the league."

"Thank you," I say. "But too bad that counts for absolutely nothing."

Next game I'm going to have one of the boys ask the official if it's okay if our pretty coach subs herself in. The boys will do it. They do everything I say except show any dramatic, even desperate signs of needing to win like a starving dog needs food.

That night I go to the gym and play pickup, which is always a risky endeavor. I've played occasionally in the past six months and after the last few runs, I've seen myself in the mirror and stop in shock. I am so red it's alarming. I think it's a combination of being out of shape and embarrassed by my play. I've started the habit of having a meeting with myself before we start, and in this meeting I remind myself that I do not have to get every loose ball, every rebound, and make every shot. I play, I hustle, I pick my moments, with the hope of keeping safety in mind. By the end of the second game, a guy on the other team says to me, in front of everyone, "She's the bruiser out here." He starts pointing to areas of his arms and body where I've tagged him with my blade-like elbows. I say I'm sorry, I never mean it, but I've just got these really sharp 'bows and I just use them subconsciously. It's Darwinian.

A guy on my team, Dave, who I enjoy playing with quite a bit, says, "That's right. She's our Charles Oakley."

Everyone starts laughing and I'm embarrassed. I try to tell them that I didn't get good feet, but I do have the gift of the 'bows. One time during the off-season at Northwestern, while playing against my teammates, I drove down the middle and took it hard to the hoop against M. All you need to know about M is that she was so into her looks that she had photos of herself around her apartment and by her bedside. I take it to the hoop and catch her, barely, above the lip and she screams. I stop, thinking, I didn't get her that bad, did I? She takes her hand away, and our point guard and captain looks at M, her jaw drops and she says: Oh. My. God.

M is hysterical. I'm embarrassed to admit that I started crying, but I did. I swear to you, hitting this girl in the face, and sending her to the hospital to get stitches under her nose was as bad as ending some players careers.

Now that I think about it, if I want to spare myself comparisons to Charles Oakley, while there's no one I love more than a blue-collar rebounder, I am now considering elbow pads.

I try to take a photo of my 'bows to show the blades that are attached to them. But it's tough to take a photo of your own elbow, especially when you're so white you're almost see-through and you're in a white room.

I point one of my two weapons to this shameless promo and click the button.
And lastly, getting back to the topic of kids, check out this shot of Sophie.

This is one fine, harmless elbow.