I volunteered to coach my daughter's 7 & 8 year old basketball team this year. I've coached high school and college womens volleyball, but never basketball (let's just say I didn't exactly excel at hoops in high school) and never this young a group. Challenging? Yes. Would I do it again? ...(give me a minute...hang on...don't rush me....)

Yes. Here are some observations...from my end of the bench.

Little Girls Hoops

As the Overlook Elementary gymnasium opens for its usual slate of Saturday basketball games, parents shuffle in, coffee clutched, eyes tired, straggling a few steps behind their children, bouncy as the bright orange basketballs they hold.

Players make their way to their respective benches and peel off layers of winter gear, a scarf here, a pink mitten there, readying water bottles and tying rainbow shoelaces tight. The decibel level increases with each ping of the ball onto the floor, with each new high-pitched voice calling to another in the echo-filled room.

And somewhere between the dappled rays of sunshine and the blue painted lines on the worn, wooden floor, a team comes together.

Amidst this morning chaos, coaches climb atop tables to help bring the game of giants down to a child’s level. They can’t score if they can’t reach, so lower height backboards are temporarily mounted to the existing ones via a quick latch or two and voila, mini-hoops for mini-kids.

The lower hoop, smaller ball and shorter periods are all part of the adjustments made for the Lagrange 7 & 8 year old girls instructional basketball league. Scores are even reset between periods to show the children, especially at this level, that it doesn’t matter how many points you score, or don’t, it’s how you play the game.

“How” they play the game is, of course, more of an abstract concept at the 7 & 8-year-old level. With scores barely reaching 25, sometimes between both teams combined, the girls are praised for good bounce passes, for not dribbling into the corner, for taking a shot or finding the open player.

They stop play when another player takes a tumble, or a ball to the head, risking a traveling violation to help their fallen comrade. They lend an outstretched hand and a sincere, “Are you alright?" Then with an assuring, “You’re okay,” from the coach and a brush of knees, the game is back on.

Play is stopped to explain rules or give guilty travelers a second chance. Coaches come on the court to instruct while the ball is in play, helping a panicked guard find the open player or showing them how to properly guard.

They get tough lessons on why practice is important. When one player can cross-over dribble, fast break into a seamless lay-up, and make it, it is in stark contrast to the rest of the field. She does that, they are told, because of practice, practice, practice and, perhaps, a quality summer camp.

With the exception of the rare future WNBA player, most of the 7 & 8-year-olds have similar skill sets. Most have trouble dribbling lefty. Some have trouble dribbling without looking at the ball. Others don’t dribble at all and take to shuffling down the court, ball in hand, until the referee, regrettably, blows the whistle for traveling. “I can’t let you go half the court without dribbling,” says the zebra-striped teenager with a gentle tone, “You kind of have to dribble.”

Seems a reasonable request. It is basketball, after all, a game where speed, finesse and good hands are required. Or at least, desired. Kids are born speedy. Speedy with a ball is something altogether different. And here, finesse is in the eye of the beholder, usually a proud mom or dad. And good hands, well, if they don’t duck at an incoming pass, those are some pretty good hands.

Games consist of eight five-minute periods. Players are given equal time and they try all the positions. “Why do I have to be center again?” “Because you’re tall, and tall centers score more points and grab more rebounds, but next time I’ll let you be guard.” That accommodation sometimes results in the shortest kids playing center. But on a court where the center position is more o####uideline than anything concrete, shortest isn’t necessarily a deficit.

As with any sport, enthusiastic parents abound. “My dad wants me to make harder passes,” says a future WNBA’er after her father’s half-time pep talk, “but I’m not sure anyone could catch it! And,” she whispers, “He’s driving me crazy with all the yelling.” Her coach gives her permission to ignore her father, at the gym anyway, “It’s awfully noisy in here today...maybe you can’t hear him.” The player smiles, “Really noisy.”

The man-to-man defense is used to avoid double-teaming, but regardless, it often turns into one giant mass of ponytails and squeaking sneakers with a ball somewhere in the middle. “Who’s your man?” screams one coach from the sidelines, then self-edits, “I mean, girl...person...Do you know who you’re covering?!” The wide-open opponent scores.

The passes are lofty and stolen often. Dribblers not protecting the ball learn early on what a “fast break” is and why they’re bad if you’re not the one fast-breaking.

Reluctant guards bringing down the ball linger behind the half-court line, the only place on the court when they can dribble in peace, embracing the joys of the “no back-court defense” rule. Once they cross over, they’re met with their whirling dervish defenseman-girl-person, arms flailing, swatting at the ball, a towering menace blocking out sunlight and a view of the open teammate. It’s no wonder they stay in the back court. Keep Manhattan, just give me that countryside.

“Pass! Pass! I’m open!” four teammates shout simultaneously, often from the shadow of their defenders, “I’m open!” A ball takes flight, nearly vertical, and players reach up (some duck and cringe) to intercept the pass. Double-dribbles are overlooked, shots are taken, and sometimes, sometimes, in those perfect moments, the ball finds it’s home and the net breathes an airy swoosh, a whispered “Yesss!”

And in that instant, there’s no difference between 8-year-old kids and 30-year-old pros. With the net still swaying, the arms of the shooter are outstretched victoriously overhead, the joyous smiles to the bench, a coach’s approving nod and applause, “Good job! Now hustle back on defense!” A parent’s proud smile and a teammate’s high five, albeit a lower five, call it four-and-a-half, it’s the same. It’s the Garden on a Saturday night. March Madness a little early. It’s basketball, just a little closer to the ground.

In the half-time huddle, between giggles, ponytail adjustments and deserved sips of water, team names are debated, “How about the bluejays?” “Or the blue robins?” “Or the bluebirds!” “Coach, can we call ourselves the bluebirds?” A coach nods and calls out lineups.

A pile of outstretched hands from blue t-shirts, a team cheer, “Let’s go blue!” A whistle blows. Game on. Call them bluejays, call them bluebirds, just don’t forget to call them basketball players.