Yeah... the Ming is out of commission for now. Check back later? kthxbai

But while you wait, a story from my legendary youth basketball coaching career...

My oldest boy is probably 2nd grade and playing in the very churchy Upward basketball program at the local Methodist church. It’s the sort of league where before tipoff the entire roster and coaches take a knee in the center circle, and the head referee leads the gymnasium in a rambling, extemporized prayer over the PA. Bloodsport, it ain’t.

So it’s probably the 3rd game of the season, and before he launches into his prayer to protect everyone from injury and have us be mindful of good sportsmanship and peaceful Christian fellowship, our zebra quietly tells the players and coaches that traveling with the ball will be a special emphasis this game. We have arrived at the midpoint of the season. Now, no dragging pivots will be called, and they might look away at casual double dribbling, BUT there needs to be a good faith effort to dribble every time or you're gonna get whistled. They aren't gonna go so soft on that anymore.

So I hadn’t paid any attention to the warmups of my team, nor the opposition. I’ve had a no-show on my squad that has left a hole in the strictly proscribed playing rotation. Not only is there a strict playing rotation, but complicating matters is a series of ranked colored wristbands that must be worn by players to identify their perceived skill level. Players are then matched color for color in a mandated man to man defense. Some vigorous pencil erasing and remarking colors for the entire game rotations has kept my head down for the 2 minutes of layups. But now the moment of tipoff has arrived. The Lord has been beseeched, the microphone stowed, the extras have been ushered off the court, and the defensive assignments have been lined up. A hush falls over the crowd as our referee, ruddy-faced and late sixties, still perspiring heavily from the last game, prepares to launch the ball skyward

So we’ve lost the tip, their point guard (red wrist band, uh-oh) retrieves the ball in the backcourt and makes his way forward. My red wrist guy, as instructed, jumps on him at the 10 second. We've known all season we don’t dribble well. And we suspect the same of them. So the standard play is pressure, pressure, pressure.

Well, red point guard is the exception. Ok, he might be a little one-handed but this is second grade. He crosses the line, gets a step on the defender, and flips it to the wing. He continues on a basket cut and clears the lane. White wristband on the near side takes posession, fakes a 3-pointer, tucks the ball under his arm like a football, and explodes past my guy to the bucket. He banks it off the glass and scores an easy layup. Other than the ball literally never touching the ground, really nice form. The crowd cheers (rather enthusiastically, I might add) and 11 bodies start making for the other end of the court. What? No whistle? I’m immediately on my feet and wanting word, perhaps?

Now, I’ve never really been That Coach. You know the one. He yells at his players, he yells at the refs. Who needs that? This is second grade. But here, I just can’t deal. I mean he JUST SAID before the game that is EXACTLY what they are gonna call.

Unfortunately, my man in stripes is heading up the opposite side of the court. I shout “HEY!” to get his attention, and that of the entire gym, then hold my arms out in askance? “Traveling?” The ref just sort of makes a sour face and keeps moving into the frontcourt.

By now my seated assistant coach has a handful of the back of my Upward coach’s polo. He is dragging me back down into my seat when I see it. White wristband has the rather obvious facial features of a Downs Syndrome child, and everyone in that gym is convinced that I am a huge asshole.

Which, okay, maybe I am...