I took some of my girls hoops team to the MAAC Marist vs. Siena game last night for "Pack the House" night. Marist crushed Siena, 78-48 and at halftime, right there on the Marist court, the two top teams in our league played a mini-scrimmage.

After a few (nervous) minutes of no scoring and a lot of turnovers, they finally sunk their first basket, and the rest kept on coming. All the kids loved having their league's name on the announcements to the record-breaking sold out crowd.

And they liked the soda. And the candy. And the snacks. I liked that the snacks were cheap. I'm so used to mortgaging my house to buy snacks at ballgames, that I forgot I was at a college game.

The girls got to see a zone defense, man-to-man (woman-to-woman) and how fast they pass the ball. Their star guard Nikki Flores was showing off her hot-stuff dribbling, which of course had the girls saying they wanted to do that in the game. OK, that's fine, but learn to dribble without looking first, then dribble behind your back and through your legs.

They noticed, without me telling them, how there were no offensive rebounds. "Why aren't they rebounding, Coach?" It was too noisy to explain. They liked how two really short players were dominating the ball-handling and outside shooting (tons of 3's).

I can't wait to see if I see some better passing today. Or shooting (I pray). If nothing else, they bonded as a group and got a taste of victory.

*flicks a lighter*

We are the Champions! Woo! The girls did me proud on Saturday by winning the first ever Girls 7 & 8 year old league championship! I am told I can now renegotiate my contract for next year.

It was a great back and forth game. We were up, they were up. It took me a few periods to figure out how to shut down their hot shooter, but we did. And I had the exhausted guard to prove it. Alyssa kept her out of the action for three periods. Awesome effort....I told her, "Don't let her get the ball because she WILL score." And she didn't let her get the ball. If only it was all that easy. 

We had a twelve point lead going into the last of our eight period game (5 -minutes each)...but our lead was shrinking by the minute!!!

Their star player stole the ball and scored three times in a row. It was scary! The was visibly shaken (and cried) when she got into a scrapple for a loose ball. I do believe my player lifted her and the ball into the air from the ground. Maybe she was afraid of heights. I dunno. It worked though. She stopped scoring.

The bench was telling me to put them back in...my stronger five were sitting in the last period...could've been a HUGE coaching error if we lost, but whew, the girls saved my hide.

They did their own brand of clock management by dribbling slowly from the backcourt and dribbled into the corners and waaaaay out by the halfcourt line, thereby running the last minutes off the clock all by their own doing. They did everything I told them not to do all season long, but it worked, by George. We won by six points. Final score: 32-26. Whew.

Now I know why pro coaches look stressed and have to go for ulcer therapy and have their hair ####. It's the stress!! STRESS, I tell ya!!!! All that was on the line were little $2 medals that said "1st Place" and I was a raging lunatic on the sidelines! Thank God my husband didn't videotape me...I would've deleted me. Even my daughter told me to calm down. lol.

Ah, well, another season over. A great finish to a long, but fun year.

Onto baseball. (Did you see Tom Glavine pitch the other day?! Woohoo......)

Well, I'm toast again. Not because of soccer...I've made terms with that. This morning, I was ripped apart by the Mike and Mike Radio Show on ESPN. They did a rebroadcast of Jim Valvano's acceptance speech for the inaugural Arthur Ashe Courage and Humanitarian Award at the 1993 ESPY's.

Mind you, I never heard of Jim Valvano before this morning. Yes, I've lived my life in a cave, apparently.  I've seen that faded video of him cutting down the net, but I didn't know it was him until this morning.

So there he was on ESPN this morning, a man with a strong New York accent and an animated and enthusiastic presence, so I was drawn in. And then I cried. I'm such a wimp! Have you seen this video? Go watch...ready the tissues. Here's one of the more memorable pieces that perhaps you've heard before, but I never did.

"To me, there are three things we all should do every day. We should do this every day of our lives. Number one is laugh. You should laugh every day. Number two is think. You should spend some time in thought. And number three is, you should have your emotions moved to tears, could be happiness or joy. But think about it. If you laugh, you think, and you cry, that's a full day. That's a heck of a day. You do that seven days a week, you're going to have something special."

So, I'm in good shape today and his speech made me do all three: laugh, think, cry.

Anyway, this one got me because, of course, he was talking about living life to the fullest and there he was at the very end of his. I am always amazed at the strength of cancer patients. Their bodies are ravaged and yet, if you watch the video, you'll see he is buoyed by remembering his life, his life in sports and by the potential for helping those with cancer via the foundation which was set up in his name. As he left the stage, he was assisted by friends, he was barely able to walk.

I had the pleasure and honor to work at the American Cancer Society after I graduated college. Still the best job I ever had, besides being a mom, and it was one of the toughest. I had the easy job, fund raising, compared to my co-worker Cathy, a social worker. She was the direct contact with the patients and their families. Helping them in the many ways that she could. Her efforts two doors down from mine kept me going every day, kept me asking for more money even when people were running from the mere sight of me. They knew I'd have my hand out, both hands, asking to support our work.

I remember the one day she was out and I tried to help a patient's family member. I had no answers for her tears, no response to her question, "Why did this happen to us?" I walked a few thousand miles in Cathy's moccasins that day. It was enough to know that her work was infinitely important and incredibly difficult, and that she needed our support. 

What I remember most about the job were the volunteers. Some lay people, some medical professionals, senior citizens and some cancer victims' families. Then there were the cancer survivors. The ones who had come close to leaving us, but didn't. And they chose to use their second chance moments by helping us, and maybe themselves or their kids.

I remember one mom, Pat, who had breast cancer. She was a fantastic volunteer. I'd ask, and she'd say yes. I'd say, "I don' t know how I'm going to pull this off." She'd say, "Let's figure it out." I'd cry out, at the last minute, Help! And she'd be there.

Her biggest concern was not if she'd make it past the five years after treatment, but if her daughter would get breast cancer. I still remember the tears in her eyes when she thought about passing on those ill-fated genes to her daughter.

All the volunteers were special. Committed to the cause, which was to help eliminate cancer through research and provide education and support.

One retired volunteer, Barbara Evans, was a breast cancer survivor. She made this sketch for me when I left to organization in 1991 to live abroad with my husband. I felt so guilty about leaving, but she made me feel OK about it. Cancer eventually took her life years later. I still remember her smile.

The last year I worked there, I attended seven funerals. All cancer victims. Two were volunteers. In an incredible twist of fate, two were spouses of my co-workers, others were those close to our organization. Very tough year. But as painful as it was, it showed us why we had to keep working.

I used to joke with my potential donors, "Hey, give me a ton of money for research and put me out of a job, will ya? We'd all like to get laid off because our work is done." Of course, it didn't happen. Still so much work to be done.

Jim Valvano's "Don't Ever Give Up" speech says it all for cancer victims and hopefully says something hopeful to us about the future of cancer research.

ESPN Radio is having an auction for sports memorabilia to benefit the V Foundation for Cancer Research. Sounds like they have some good items up for bid.

You probably know someone who's been affected by cancer. If you've never given to support cancer research and programs, and can, please do. As always, check out how they're using your money. Then please donate to the V Foundation or the cancer agency of your choice.

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.