In the Hoops Huddle with Obama

The apartment stops when a clip of Obama playing hoops appears on television. One voice in the room says, "He's decent." Another says, "Make him go right." And a third, the journalist in the room, sees the flickering of flashes and says, "Who's going to play serious D on a future president with news cameras rolling?"

Would I trust myself to guard Obama? Absolutely not. Why? At some point during the contest, I'd forget who I was playing against and my pride would supersede what might be for the common good of the American people. We'd get tangled up, and I'd bust his nose or he'd blow out a knee. He'd get the sympathy vote, go on to win the presidency, and I'd go down in infamy.

Obama, if he's got any true-athlete blood in him, must be craving a real game behind closed doors, no lights, no cameras, just him and the guys who don't give a rat's ass who he is. And from the footage I've seen of Obama, excluding his shot form for the moment, I'd say he's decent. Not going to hurt you if you're in an average pickup game. He's certainly an energetic lefty point-guard, who might be hiding his scrawny and aged legs in baggy dark sweat pants. He knows the cameras need to see him passing, sharing the love with his teammates, and making them look great. (I can only hope he knows the value of surrounding himself with brilliant, power players who will turn the White House into Doc River's Celtics, with aspirations to return to heights akin to Pat's Summit at Tennessee, or we are in serious trouble.)

This Barak-as-a-Sports-Guy must be tearing up Hillary's camp. I think Hilary used to play softball back in the day, or maybe it was field hockey in college. Even if she was above average at a sport, if this gutsy Senator attempted to get out there and compete, the media would rip her to shreds because for most of them, criticizing Hillary might be the only sport in which they excel. Part of me wants to see what she's got, even if it's a decent Warrior One, a solid bunt, a mean golf swing, just to balance the playing field. (This is the only photo I could use of Hillary. She looks like she's playing a little D.)

Getting back to a man who seems to have emerged as the fan favorite, before I say advantage Obama, I'd like one shot at pulling him aside between pickup games, and offering him this advice.

1) Keep wearing the cool, simple military t-shirts; and wear those sweatpants that make you sweat profusely. (And if you stop sweating, have someone spray you down.)

2) You are the cool playmaker everyone wants to play for. Stay cool and humble.

3) As per #2, you must take care of the rock.

4) Keep sharing the love.

5) Run out the clock, dang it, do not pull a Memphis, by being passive in the end game when you've rolled over a team for minutes upon minutes.

6) Hit the free-bes and PLEASE

7) ...don't you dare celebrate before it's time.

It's the semis, B. (I'm not sure what his hoops nickname is, and I'm suddenly pretending I'm a guy here. And B seems like a good guess. Better than B.O.)

In the finals, B, if you want to bring home the only hardware that matters, the country is going to need to see your serious game face.

But for now, take one victory at a time, and we'll talk about that when we get there.

EVERYONE, DEMOCRATS ON THREE! One, two, three ...

My Cousins, the Pope and Happy Passover Tanks

Today I walked across Central Park South on a beautiful spring day, clutching my cheap handheld device, feeling like one of those obsessed workaholics who has no grip on what's important. I said just one message, then typed my sister a note regarding our cousins being in the city for three days and our plans to meet them for lunch on Thursday.

My cousin, Danny O'Brien -- once removed, we think, or not removed enough, according to others -- had his mom, Great Aunt Pat, call me earlier this week to say that Danny, his wife and three girls were coming to the city for a visit. I asked what he was doing while he was in the city.

"The only thing we have is the Bronx Zoo on Wednesday," he said. "What else do you recommend?"

"Row boat on Central Park?"

"What?" Danny said. "Does it even count as boating? We are not going to get in a boat--

"Statue of Liberty?"

"Eh. Too field trippy."

I gave a few more weak suggestions and asked when they were leaving.

"We must leave by Friday," he said.

"Why?"

"The Pope is coming, and we don't want to run the risk of running into him. You know we've been excommunicated."

I chuckled but this is the truth. A few years ago, Danny, his siblings and their families felt that the Catholic Church had been unfairly and wrongly remained rooted in the past by not allowing women to be ordained and by not allowing same-sex unions, among other issues that won't be repeated simply because it's all as irrational and illogical as the billions of dollars we're spending in Iraq pissing people off and getting little to no work done. The head of the congregation was told to change his ways and conform to the "values" of the party line, and when he continued teaching universal, inclusive values (such is the definition of catholicism), he and all those who believed in his teachings were excommunicated.

My religious views have been relatively easy to reconcile, now that I've fully examined what I was taught and compared it to how I live and what I believe to be reasonable in what is more often than not, a gray world. And I answer only to myself, which makes it simple. Raising a family would present far more serious thought. It's tough to knock a Sunday of togetherness in a place where people believe in something bigger than themselves. It's impossible to deny the value of promoting unity, love and forgiveness. I'm just not so sure I would be okay with fooling my kids into seeing past the politics of religion, when I could be teaching them a clear lesson on the definition and operation of one enormous cash cow. The Metro reported that the cost of protecting the pope during his brief visit to New York City would amount to $3 million, at least, and the question was how much is New York city Port Authority & Police Department responsible for? The articles said that parishioners in Long Island, during a harrowing economic times, are raising money to cover the costs. Then I read that Benedict is taking the gap between the rich and poor seriously, spending much time thinking about it and talking about it in his speeches. Days later, he's going to fill up Yankee Stadium with colors and hope and spirit, which he does, lavishly, and the only thing he says that's newsworthy is that he's terribly sorry about the epidemic of sex-offending priests. A high percentage of those folks who are chipping in to raise the $3 million+ for a song and dance, and dose of inspiration will return to parishes where there are no priests. (We were unable to hold my mother's funeral at the new church around the corner that she enjoyed going to with her caregivers when she was sick. We could not hold her services there because the church had to shut down due to no clergy being available for masses and the church not allowing laymen (not women, of course) to run services. So we asked the priest of the parish we had grown up in. My aunt and sister still get pissed off and teary when they recall his rudeness and insensitivity and how put out he was that he had to come in and open the doors. And when he did, almost 1,000 people were waiting to attend calling hours. I am sure he is kicking himself for blowing the much-needed marketing and PR opportunity.)

In the midst of my speculation on what religion means to people and what they're willing to pay for it, even when they might not be able to go to mass on Sunday morning for no good reason at all, I see a caravan of Mitzvah Tanks racing on the south end of Central Park. The Jews in the tanks (clean, rented RVs) are screaming, "Happy Passover! Happy Passover!" And just for the hell of it, I yell back and smile, pleased that they are having such a fine time. I later google what I'm witnessing and find out that some messiah-like Jew started this tank tradition, a man who did not believe in assimilation, or so the piece reads, which makes me worry that most religions are represented by too many individuals who are stuck in the mud. I smiled at these young boys (all boys, now that I think about it) and thought how cute, inspirational and festive, just like the scene would be at Yankee stadium days later (when no females would be on the altar, even in a country where one is running for president and another brilliant, savvy black woman by the name of O is selling an all-inclusive crusade of faith and good will far better than the church is taking donations for hot Sunday morning pancakes.)

I paused at the corner and listened to the engines of the Mitzvah tanks rev past, and watched the conservative Jews and their stringy beards and thin braids hang out the window and blow in the air. I accepted their "Happy Passovers" with a smile, knowing it had nothing to do with me. Apparently I wasn't alone. A vagrant standing next to me at the light had been calling back, "Yeah, yeah, Happy Passover!" and he sounded into it until he let out a shrill, "Yeeee, Happy Passover! I know you got some money in there so how 'bout you pass it over?"

It was the perfect statement to end my meeting on religion. I left my handheld in my purse, and returned to enjoying such a beautiful day in New York.

All-Knee Pad Team Wraps Up Gutsy Season

Hempstead, Long Island I told my 6th grade traveling boys that our photo, taken just before our semi-final game against the almighty Red team, would tell our story. I lined them up, and when I realized I was the odd number, I jumped out of the photo and am so glad I did. I proudly present Team Mo, which I prefer to call The All-Knee Pad team.

Back in December, two games into the season, after getting pummeled by the Red team by a gentle 33, (honestly, they could have beat us by 50 if they didn't back off), and losing to two other teams that just walked over us, I spent meals eating by myself after the game, wondering, What do I have to do to get these boys to not play like they're rich kids from the upper east and west sides? How do I teach 'em dirty work? Physical play? Wanting to win like it's a bone and they're junkyard dogs who haven't eaten for days? Do they even understand the concept of rebounding? Do they just read books about pride? Passion?

Our team cheer, led by whomever was dubbed to give the Knute Rockne pre-game speech was this: "What are we made of?" Mandatory response: "BLOOD and GUTS!" The kids would say this, a line I gave them, and I would chuckle inside. They deepened their voices, screamed it nice and loud, and beamed. I avoided eye contact with those who had heard us, haunted by a line I'd just heard in one of the five movies I attempt to watch each week. In The Dirty Dozen, Donald Sutherland checks out a good-looking group of strong men, and says to his superior, "They sure are pretty, Colonel. But can they fight?"

Now I'm going to save this line for the next team of basketball players who think there's a net out there on the court, as in tennis or volleyball, and you're expected to be quiet and polite while you stay on your side of the net and make no skin-to-skin contact. (During Holohan family picnics, everyone in the family was allowed to play, including children, seniors, and drunks. We had a full-contact rule at the net, and usually an intoxicated offical or two in charge, and boy, did it get ugly.)

Getting back to my 6th grade boys, and the whole concept of teaching them to fight without having them, or their parents, think I wanted them to punch anyone. I finally discovered what was missing--something I did not know that needed to be taught: I assumed the boys knew how to fall, hit the deck, tackle the guy next to him, get knocked on their butt, and pop back up. One dad said to me, "Throw a cell phone on the ground and they'll dive for it." The boys did not know how to fall toward a round, leathery object. They seemed physically incapable of getting up, without complaining or whining more than a fragile individual in a nursing home. Most of the them had NEVER dived for a loose ball. Once I realized this, I did not allow them to leave practice until they knocked each other around and caught some air in a leaping position toward a lose ball. I always guessed who the last three kids would be left standing, and I was right. Last kid got razzed by the others, and he blushed in embarrassment, annoyance and fear. His name was Jack. Hands down the smartest kid on the team, but he refused to dive. I said, "Your dad played hockey, for crying out loud. You can dive." He screamed back, "My father made all that up." (I later told his dad this, and his dad burst out laughing.) The truth finally surfaced: as few years earlier, Jack dove for a ball and ran into a wall, head-first.

The closest we could get Jack to an actual dive or loose ball in a non-upright position was if he ran over to a ball, and bent over and got down on one knee as if he was downing a football. This drove me insane, yet I didn't want to humiliate the kid or anyone else--and he was not the only one who looked up at me and said, "Why do I have to dive when I can just pick up the ball?" Josh said to me, "But it hurts to dive." I said, "If you do it regularly enough, it doesn't hurt anymore! Trust me. I made a career out of it. I sometimes think that's all I did."

I reflected back upon my 6th grade days, when I began my career as a middle school wrecking ball. No, make that a large, tomato in a tight green uniform and high striped socks. (Will post photo soon. Actually I could go to the gym tonight, in green, take a photo and give you the necessary visual.) I thought of the video I have of myself playing (which I will someday edit), and that's when the Basketball Gods gave me the Answer. My mother, a nurse, who thought I was certifiable due to my addition to hoops and sports in general, made me wear green knee pads. I hated them, primarily because my mother made me wear them (I will post a photo here of me in them.) and now that I think about it, I'm fairly sure she bought a pair for everyone.

So I went out and did as all women allegedly do -- become their mother -- by going out to the store and purchasing the boys $8 knee pads. (White, not green, though now that I think about it, that would have been funny, and certainly festive for St. Patrick's day, even though we had only one Irish kid on the team.) The boys whined and complained, much like I had to my mom, and I told them if they didn't wear the knee pads, then they were off the team. They complained in huffs and sighs and I pointed to the door.

They put on the knee pads and took to the court to scrimmage the "B" team. Keep in mind, as the female coach, I was given the "C" team, or at least that was the label handed to me with the uniforms. This came after the statement made to me: "Do you think you're capable of coaching a team as competitive as 6th grade boys?"

We came out like tanks and rolled over the dispirited B team, whose coach, my colleague, tried subbing in an older brother who was in 10th grade. I looked at him and said, "Ray, you can't sub in a 10th grader." He snapped back at me, claiming he only had five. (I would have given him one of my guys.) He screamed, "My guys are tired. Why not?" Once again, I said, "Ray, you can't sub a 10th grader into a 6th grade scrimmage. That's like one of us subbing in." He glared back at me and said, "If you want to sub in, go ahead."

My boys hustled, scraped, passed, high-fived and even kids such as Jack displayed cool, albeit controlled, superman dives on the court. Why? Because it didn't hurt so much when they fell, making it that much easier to get back up.

We were playing so well that I felt badly for the B team kids, except for one punk who started yelling at me, and making noises while our kids were on the foul line. (His coach said nothing. Neither did his father, who was sitting right behind me.) We were beating them so badly that I asked the parent keeping score to not tell the kids the numbers. (We won by 16 and of course, it leaked. The opposing coach told one of my kids the next day that I cheated.)

After the game, I tried to mix both teams for a fun scrimmage, an effort thwarted by the opposing coach. I said to him during our heated conversation, "Let's not argue in front of the kids." I rest my hand on his arm, and gently tried to sway him to step to the side. "Don't touch me." Then he took his time during time outs, sitting down to annoy me, telling his boys to take all the time they needed, and to make sure, when they got back out there, to send a message on how tough they were. (This is an excellent example of circumlocution. How 'bout this: He is the type of sore-losing coach who will instruct his players to foul the mess out of the kids on the other team, as if this thug-like, by-any-classless-means-necessary mentality is some form of twisted redemption. (Perhaps he is from the Isiah Thomas School of Playing, Coaching & Living When the Ball Doesn't Bounce Because You've Taken the Air Out of It and Are Blaming Everyone Else?)

When I tried to rally the boys on both teams at the end, most of whom were friends, and all playing under the same league, the coach said, "We're not practicing with you."

Ray sent his boys down to one side of the court. My boys and I scrimmaged, ran around, laughed at each other and at me. They told me that I needed to wear my knee pads or I was off the team. My team lost and our opponents rubbed my nose in it. I looked up at the end of our fun game and saw the opposing coach talking on his cell phone, which he had done the entire time we were having fun. (I'm sure someone was calling in plays and special defenses.) His boys were at the other end shooting around, goofing off, wasting time.

The next night we went up to the storied Riverside Church and scrimmaged their B level team, and though we lost, we showed 'em a decent dose of blood and guts. I could not believe the boys on our team who had never got on the floor. Even Jack was diving on the floor, bouncing up, scrambling for any loose ball he was near, and hearing me say, "Thank God for those knee pads!" At one point, Josh, our forward, came off the court, a bit roughed up. And he made the mistake of repeating the forbidden, "They're fouling/scratching/hitting me every time!"

I said, "Do you think you're going to get any sympathy from me? Go talk to Sam!" (Sam is Smiley #1 in the photo.) Josh sat down next to Sam, who said, "I know, I know. It's okay, Josh." He patted him on the back, and we all started cracking up.

From that weekend forward, we were a different team. We had won a few games prior, putting together a stretch of either or seven or eight wins straight. (A few boys tried to get out of wearing the knee pads by "forgetting" them. We had penalty knee pads in a backpack--huge, bulky red hockey-like pads that a player had to wear for the entire first quarter if he broke the mandatory knee pad rule. The boys who grew to love the white knee pads laughed hysterically at the rule-breakers who dragged the red knee pads around like they were wearing splints, until I told them to cut it out.)

We won the first round of play-offs, beating a team we had beaten earlier in a dramatic double overtime game. Then we ran into the Red team, a powerful team of skilled 6th graders. The only chance we had at beating these boys was if their team van broke down and they didn't show up, or if Kevin Garnett made a cameo and ran with us. We kept it close in the first half--stayed within 10--and then the staff of coaches on the other bench stopped playing nice.

We lost by 30+ and at the end of the game, I said to the boys, "Did we deserve to win this game?" They all said no. I said, "Did we deserve to be in the semi-finals and become the second-best place team in the league?" They nodded and said, "Yes."

I am proud of every one of them. I am still working with most of the boys in the off-season, and during one of the first sessions, Josh showed up with his knee pads, thinking he'd be punished if he didn't have them on. I told him the season was over, and it was up to him if he wanted to wear them or not. He said, "Well, I like wearing them. My knees don't hurt so much after the game."

Parents from the other teams in our league stopped me a few times as we were leaving the gym after our weekend games, and said what a great job I was doing as coach. I thought of thanking my mom, but this would have been confusing, yet I can still hear her saying, "Your mother is always right."

So to show my appreciation, I responded by saying, "It's not me. It's the knee pads."