"Feed the dog...

spit in the fire, lock up your daughters, turn on the radio, sit down and shut up, 'cause it's GAME TIME people!" Just another great line of dialog from NBC's "Friday Night Lights," which the network in its infinite wisdom has decided to move to Wednesday nights at 8 pm, just so it will conflict with my regular basketball time. Oh well, I may finally have to break down and buy a TiVo. Or at least hook up my VCR....

I'm not sure why I've been enjoying this program so much. I've never really cared that much for the "jock culture" epitomized by High School football, despite having played three years worth myself when I was in High School. Well, maybe I should say I played a year's worth of ball in three years, just to be precise. This opinion wasn't really improved by the four years I spent in Midland Texas, where they take "schoolboy" football to a whole other level. The book on which the movie on which the TV series is based was written about the Odessa Permian Panthers (who were the down-the-tracks rivals of our town's football team, the Midland Lee Rebels), and was published shortly after I arrived there. Lee/Permian games were a BIG DEAL in West Texas, routinely drawing tens of thousands of spectators and tens of thousands more radio listeners. One year, when the two teams met during the World Series, the local TV station chose to show the baseball game on a tape delay so that they could broadcast the High School Football game live. No, really.

The TV series has done an excellent job of capturing that atmosphere, although if anything it sugar coats it some. All the cliches are there -- the Blue Chip prospect whose future dreams are dashed by a career-ending spinal cord injury. The sophomore back-up plunged into a situation over his head, and struggling but succeeding. The cheerleader girlfriend, the bad-boy best friend, the young black tailback juicing in hopes of a college scholarship and a chance to pull his family out of poverty. But the young actors are making their roles three-dimensional, while the writing itself is strong and the dialog fantastic. It's just a fun show to watch -- and the football sequences themselves are a joy. And then there are the boosters, the pressures on both the kids and the coaches (whose livelihoods rest in the hands of teenagers), and of course the tragic tales heard again and again in these small towns in West Texas, of men whose lives hit their highest point before their 18th birthday. It's hard to go on to working in the oilpatch when once you were worshipped like a god. And so the cycle repeats, as old men recapture the frustrated dreams of their own youth through the promising young lives of their offspring.

Anyway, I suspect the show will continue to evolve and improve, although it will be interesting to see whether it can sustain itself (like the West Wing) from season to season season after season. But I hope it finds a larger audience on Wednesdays, because the show really deserves it. Clear Eyes, Full Hearts, Can't Lose

Snow Job?

And it's kind of reassuring to realize that I wasn't the only one to notice that amost immediately in the aftermath of the announcement of the Alan Iverson trade to the Denver Nuggets, the Mile High City was buried under two feet of snow. What does this mean? I haven't the slightest idea; go ask a shaman, or maybe a meteorologist. Meanwhile last night in the Garden, the Answerless Sixers defeated a Truthless Celtics squad in what must have been one of the most uninspiring displays of basketball this holiday season.

Back at my health club (where the Celtics also practice), I ran into a guy who used to play regularly in our Monday/Wednesday over-35 pick-up game, but hasn't been seen for awhile. Turns out he has issues with the same guys I do, and has decided that "at our age" who needs the aggrevation? It's a shame though, because this is a strong player with sound fundamentals, good court sense, a nice soft touch from about 15 feet in, and who can score around the basket with either hand. Plus he lets his game doing his talking for him, rather than constantly running his mouth. A great teammate and a tough opponent, and an inspiration to those of us who need an occasional reminder that just because we've gotten older doesn't mean we have to let ourselves get fat and lazy too.

In any event, I've got children older than Alan Iverson, which makes it a little uncomfortable to listen to sportscasters speculate about whether or not he's "past his prime." And I also have the inspiration of guys my own age who still got game, and who work out regularly to keep it sharp.

Lit up like a...

metaphors fail me. Tough, tough, TOUGH time defending last night -- seems like even when I was there to challenge the shot they were going down anyway, which ignores all the times I was simply back-cut, crossed-over, beaten down-court and late to the party. Didn't seem to matter who I was trying to guard either -- they all used me like a...metaphors fail me...on their way to individual scoring records.

And yet somehow, we still managed to win and keep winning. Better ball movement I guess, plus some hot shooters (of whom I was not one -- I basically only scored once last night, another one-handed shot that bounce on the rim four times before finally falling through). And I did contribute to the passing, which I guess is something.

I know that part of the problem was the week-long lay-off, plus the few extra pounds I've put on for the holidays on top of the extra pounds I carry around normally, plus the fact that I was wearing my orthotics for the first time all year (which was great for my back but also left me feeling a little uncertain of my footing). And now it will be another week before I play again (after probably gaining another few pounds). But what the heck. It's just a game. And last night was just another run....

and the Answer is...

...a Nugget. Alan Iverson, Carmelo Anthony, and George Karl...this could be interesting. Either way. Two talented thirty point scorers, each wanting the ball, and a brilliant but volatile coach not known himself for playing well with others. Of course, there is the Olympic experience...and the natural desire to make nice in the first days of a new relationship. But it's not so much the 60 points as it is the shot attempts they both will need in order to put up those kinds of numbers on a regular basis. If they can learn to make each other better this is going to be fantastic. But if they just end up competing to be 'the Man," this deal might just turn out to be a Mile-High Nightmare.

In any event, the Little Guy now has the team to himself for a month, while "Melo Yellow" serves out that 15 game suspension for his sucker punch against the Knicks. The Sixers get veteran point guard Andre Miller, cap relief and future draft choices. The guy I feel most sorry for is rookie Ivan McFarlin, thrown in by Philadelphia to make the numbers work. Denver didn't even ask him to take a physical, which means he will probably be waived and released. Maybe he's good enough to catch on with another team, or maybe he's headed for the developmental league or overseas. But his NBA career may well be over before it even got started. All because a superstar thinks it's OK to blow off practice.

AI, Synthetic Balls, and a Rumble in the Garden

So here's the 17.1 million dollar question: where will The Answer be playing in 2007? Clearly not in the city of Brotherly Love, where they've already cleaned out his locker and removed his nameplate from the door. Both the Nuggets and the Knicks were said to be in the hunt, but who knows how this latest bit of Zeke-inspired "Bad Boys" deja vu is going to influence those possibilities. Eight suspensions and over a million dollars in fines -- all apparently because one coach felt the other was trying to run up the score, and encouraged his own players to get tough and stand up for themselves. Pride and that street-smart playground need for "respect" apparently still trump all, including both the threat of six-figure fines or a career-ending injury which would make those seven-figure paychecks simply a nostalgic memory.

The new ball/old ball "controversy" has been fascinating. Nearly bought one myself out of curiosity back in October, but they were a hundred bucks apeice and since I knew then they wouldn't take, I've been waiting around until they get marked down as obsolete inventory. Of course, for all I know they are probably now collectors items on e-Bay.

I'm a little embarrassed to say this, but my house is now overrun with basketballs -- 25 at latest count, only one of which (the oldest) is actual leather. Of course, I'm still a big fan of the old ABA red, white and blue "beachball" (which one of the guys I play with calls "that Globetrotter ball"), although most recently I've been playing with a black & brown variation manufactured in Thailand by Nike and called "the Tactician" because of its special, high-grip synthetic indoor/outdoor cover which allows even someone like me to palm the rock. As a shooter I love to be able to see the rotation of the ball as it arcs towards the hole, and if I can see it in rainbow color so much the better. But most true ballers seem to be a little put off by so much flash. They want pumpkins they can sweat on.

The Celtics would love to have Iverson, but they don't really want to give up anyone to get him. Miami is already loaded, but I'm guessing that both Gary Payton and Jason Williams would quickly be history if AI moved to South Beach. A deal to the Bobcats was reportedly vetoed by Iverson himself, while the Timberwolves would love to make a deal that would bring AI and KG together in Minnesota, but don't really have anything in the way of players or draft choices to offer the Sixers in return. Which brings us back to Gotham or the Mile High City. And the Answer sitting home for Christmas, waiting for the phone to ring.

thirteen

Came home from last night's run so disgusted with myself that I was ready to throw my shoes in the trash, burn all my basketball clothes, and NEVER EVER pick up the pumpkin again. Two buckets last night --TWO -- along with some VERY ugly misses, more heinous turnovers than I can count or care to describe, shit defense...the works. The four points came on a little left-handed jump hook in the center of the lane, which literally bounced on the rim three times before finally falling through, and an easy open jumper from the right elbow -- not unlike the handful of others I missed from the exact same spot both before and after. As for the rest: bricks, air balls short, or off the front rim, wide left off the side of my hand, flat off the back rim...if there's a way to miss a shot, I used it. But at least I didn't have anything blocked. At least they were all in theory good, open looks.

My knees remind me almost daily that I'm rapidly approaching (if not already past) the age where it is time to pick up golf clubs and begin working to screw up my back. I know I would be much better off simply walking the dog or riding my bike, swimming, hiking, cross-country skiing. But I keep looking around at the guys older than me who are still out there running the floor, and I think that maybe I have a few more runs in me still as well. But God my knees ached this morning. And my pride. And if that weren't enough, I also jammed the pinky on my left hand, which has now become a lovely shade of black and blue. That'll teach me to be the thirteenth guy to show up at the game, on the thirteenth of the month....

How Does a 30 point blow-out become a 3 point nail-biter?

Don't ask me. I could hardly bear to watch. But I do know that if the Knicks had played defense in the first quarter with the same intensity that they did in the fourth, and shot free throws as well as a High School Girl's team, this game wouldn't even have been close.

Still, it's a little sad to see these two once-proud franchises fallen on such hard times. The Stephon/Sebastian match-up is always fun to watch though...a little "family feud" action goin' on there I think...and the Doc Rivers/Isiah Thomas match-up is kinda fun too...although not nearly so much fun as when they were wearing shorts instead of ties. Is the real problem with both these teams simply that these two once-great point guards can't seem to communicate effectively with these two wannabe great point guards what they want to have happen on the floor? And whose fault is that?

Hell, there's probably more than enough blame to go around here I'm sure. But I will say this: I think it's very difficult to make the adjustment from being the guy who always wants the ball in nis hands at crunch time to being a guy who will NEVER touch the ball in crunch time, and has to get it done through other guys. Which is a roundabout way of once again contrasting the differences between "doing" and "teaching" -- and the difficulty of doing the latter when the former is all you've ever really wanted to do.

Quick Hands, Slow Feet

And actually, the truth be told, it's all about anticipation.

Another measly 9 point night, on four for God-Knows shooting. Two pretty, two ugly. The pretty buckets: a nice three in rhythm from the top of the key, and an uncontested lay-up when I jumped a passing lane, tipped the ball downcourt and ran it down for an easy score. Actually looked like a real basketball player on those two plays, which made me very happy.

The ugly? Well, a little eight-foot jumper from the left baseline which left my hand flat, grazed off the front rim, and then popped straight up and fell through the hoop when I YELLED at it to GET IN! And then another uncontested lay-up cherry-picking at the offensive end, because I was just too darn winded to get back on D.

And again, a few strong rebounds, more than my usual share of turn-overs, but one very beautiful assist which threaded the needle and hit my teammate right in the hands at a spot on the baseline where he could simply lay it up in stride.

It does get frustrating sometimes not to be able to do the things on the floor I used to be able to do without thinking. I understand that I am old, fat, slow, lazy, out of shape and all the rest...but I generally just try to play within myself and have a good time anyway. And even if I were to loose weight, and hit the weight room regularly, I'm still not getting any younger, and I'll never be in the same kind of shape I was in my twenties or even my thirties. But sometimes experience and anticipation helps me compensate a little. If I know what my opponent is going to do before he does, that gives me a big advantage. And if I can make my teammates better by doing the subtle little things that are often left undone, that gives me an advantage too. Or at least that's what I tell myself.

As I was taking off my shoes and getting ready to go home at the end of last night's run, another player noticed one of those dry erase clipboards in the bottom of my gymbag, which I used to diagram plays when I was coaching at the Nantucket Boys & Girls Club. It was kinda funny, cause I'd pretty much forgotten it was even in there -- I was basically just using it to stiffen the bottom of the bag. Still, he seemed oddly impressed -- as if having that board in the bottom of my bag might somehow give me an unfair advantage. I wish. Actually, it's the board I see inside my head that really makes a difference.

Go Figure

Scored only seven points tonight, but oh what scores! First time I touched the ball, I ran a little pick & pop out behind the three-point line on the right wing, and drained the "Trey" like I've been doing it all my life. Which I guess, in some ways, I have. Then a little later on I had an opportunity to drive the left baseline, and made a little shovel pass to a teammate in the lane, who fumbled the ball, tapped it back over to me as I came out the other side, spun to my left, and hit a little one-handed two-foot floater to win the game. And then finally, bringing the ball up in transition, I saw an opening, made a slight head-fake and drove the lane for a wide-open finger-roll at the rim: the kind of shot I haven't seen on a regular basis in DECADES!

But apart from that, Nada! Missed EVERYTHING else I put up from the field -- some of it quite badly. Even when the ball felt like it was leaving my hand well I was wide left, or short, or...well, after awhile I stopped even getting the touches, much less open looks. But I did play pretty decent defense, rebounded effectively, screened for my teammates, and made some gorgeous assists. And let's face it (as our game "commissioner" puts it), this is all really just aerobics for middle-aged men anyway.

Yet even at my age, there is still a brief window in every run between the time it takes for me to feel properly warmed-up and the time that fatigue sets in and leaves my legs feeling like rubber, when I am still able to turn it on, make that quick first step, pick up my dribble, elevate, and go hard to the hole. It may only last for 30 seconds. But in that ageless instant of peak athletic performance...Pure Bliss!

And if I'm starting to sound like a Cialis ad, so be it.

Fuck the aerobics.

I'm out here to score!