Provincial Pride

I have taken on a new role: President & Chairman of Basketball Nova Scotia. It’s a volunteer gig, and involves many other like-minded volunteers (dozens!) who support BNS’s staff of three smart and dedicated employees.  

These days tryouts are underway for the Provincial teams.  And while these teams will be picked soon, they won’t truly take shape until the spring.  The reason we select players early is because it gives us – Nova Scotia – a chance to pull our players together quickly, in the spring, for practices and development.  Other provinces wait until March, April of May to choose their squads.  We like to get it done early.  The results speak for themselves: our comparatively tiny province is coming home with national championships and launching players onto the NCAA and world stages with impressive frequency. 

So this is a shout out to all the brave and talented kids who have hit the gyms this past weekend, and will be there again next weekend, for putting themselves out there and leaving everything they have on the hardwood in the hopes of getting one of those coveted jerseys emblazoned with “Nova Scotia” across the chest.  

For those who make a team, congrats.  For those who fall short this time, take it as motivation to work hard and come back next year with a determination to dribble & d-up your dream into a very kool reality.  Go Scotia!

-DN

Mentorship Matters - Interview with Bernard Burgesson (Part 2)

Q.      Did you have mentors along the way?  If so, can you briefly name and/or describe them?  If these role models were lacking, how important do you think they are in the life of a younger person?

A.      My parents will always be my primary mentors.  They have always been by my side and continually encourage and help me maintain my faith.  At Queen’s University, I was introduced to a Pharmacology professor (Dr. Mike Adams) who also happened to be an avid fan of the Queen’s basketball program. We grew closer and he began to challenge me to improve my academic standing. He offered me work during the summers in his research lab to surround me with diligent individuals who valued excellence in academics. He also encouraged and pushed me continually to take charge or my future and “write my own story”.

Selfless mentors like Dr. Adams don’t come along for everyone. In my opinion it is so important to form friendships and surround yourself with people who care about you and by nature push you to improve on yourself, daily.

Q.    How would you describe the importance of family to you, the opportunities you have been given, and what you have and/or will become?

A.  Family is very dear to me.  Each member plays a slightly different role in my progression as an individual. My father has always been the motivator.  I certainly take after him in terms of his ambition and drive for success. My mother has always been by my side encouraging and comforting me in difficult times. Also, knowing that my siblings look up to me inspires me to continue to ‘lead by example’.

Q.      In the context of ‘the power of mentorship’, is there anything else you’d like to tell young student-athletes who read this?

A.      I would strongly recommend reading about the lives and challenges faced by ultimate role models like Nelson Mandela, Martin Luther King Jr., and Romeo Dallaire. I admire their level of perseverance and find great motivation in the uplifting way in which they all dealt with great adversity.  

Q.      You are well on your way in medicine.  How realistic is a life in medicine for other young people, especially kids who identify as African-Nova Scotia and are growing up here, but for whom there are extremely few ‘relatable role models’ among the local physician community?

A.      A career in medicine as an African-Nova Scotian is very achievable.  It does require some ambition and a lot of hard work. More importantly, African-Nova Scotians in medicine ought to reach out into communities to inspire and mentor aspiring students/youth. This is the reason I am involved with UP and a other similar initiatives; I want the youth in our local communities to realize that a career in medicine is not improbable. In more practical sense, I can offer guidance/strategy in applying for scholarships and selecting courses to better position aspiring students in preparation for admission into medicine, dentistry, pharmacy, physiotherapy etc.

Quotes that inspire me daily… my current favourite is from Bishop TD Jakes: “Successful people follow their instincts beyond the emotions of their failure”.

A Conversation with... Bernard Burgesson

In 2002 Bernard Burgesson and his family trekked 7,500 kilometers from Ghana to Nova Scotia in pursuit of a better life and increased opportunity.  The transition from West Africa to Canada was not an easy one, but Bernard refers to it as ‘a blessing’ - one that included a university basketball career and, now, studies in Medicine.  Bernard is writing his own story while encouraging other young athletes to follow his lead into university and what he calls "not improbable" careers in the sciences.

Bernard Burgesson

Here is the first installment of the UP interview with Bernard...

Q.      Please describe yourself.

A.       My name is Bernard Burgesson. I am a 26-year-old, 4th-year student at Dalhousie University Medical School. My family immigrated to Canada in 2002 [from Ghana, West Africa] in pursuit of better educational opportunities. We were fortunate to settle down in the close-knit community of Port Hawkesbury, Nova Scotia. My family now resides in Halifax.

Q.      Where did you/do you study?  What you do now?  And where do you plan to be, professionally speaking, in the near future?

A.      I completed by undergraduate education at Queen’s University in Ontario in 2013 with a major in Biology. Queen’s was one of a few schools to offer me the opportunity to play basketball at the university level. Currently I am in the 4th year of my medical education at Dalhousie University and will be graduating in the spring of 2018. I am planning on pursuing a career in Orthopaedic surgery which will mean an additional five years of medical training as a resident physician.

Q.      Opportunity was the motivator to move to Canada.  How specifically has that decision benefited you?

A.      The decision to move to Canada was a difficult one, especially for my parents who had spent most of their lives in Ghana and were well rooted there. Canada, specifically Nova Scotia, was, and continues to be, a blessing to me. Our move afforded us better educational opportunities and easy access to key resources for pursuing these opportunities. Over the years, ready access to government resources/grants/scholarships has allowed me to focus on maximizing my potential in the classroom without much financial strain.

Q.      What were some of the challenges that came with a trans-Atlantic move?

A.      The weather was the most immediate challenge we faced as a family (we made the move in March 2002 following a number of successive winter storms). Assimilation into Canadian culture and society also came with many challenging experiences, some due to cultural differences and racial biases. However, the lessons learned from these experiences did, and continue to, play a key role in my development as a well-rounded individual. Over the years I have learned to be consistent with my core values, yet maintain enough flexibility and awareness to adjust these core beliefs where necessary.

Q.      You have accomplished a lot in both sport and academia. What are some of the keys to your progression?

A.      Goal setting and self-motivation are keys parts of my daily routine. I struggled in my first two years at Queen’s trying to strike a balance between academics and basketball. The change came in my third year when I made the decision to re-adjust the course of my academic career in pursuit of a career in medicine. Goal setting to me has two tiers: short and long-term. I began by re-establishing my long-term goal of a career in Medicine; my short-term goals were mostly daily/weekly/monthly academic targets which I adopted to help lead me towards my long-term goal. Along the way I have also come to learn the value of discipline in working towards one’s goals. I have by no means mastered this process, and may never do so, but I believe that persistently working at them offers me the best chance at maximizing my full potential. It has worked so far!

UP @ The Square

Rucker Park basketball comes to Halifax. Or close to it... sort of. For kids ages 12-17.

That's the idea behind "UP@TheSquare". That and some healthy BBQ, haircuts (for those who still have hair!), tunes, and swag. So get some buddies (max 4 players to a team) and sign up.  Or come alone - we'll find a team for you!  Register in the 12-14, or 15-17 age categories.  

Games will be Saturday, Sept., 23rd outside at the George Dixon Crt at Uniacke Square (rain date: Sept 24th).

See you there!

-DN

Thanks for 50 Great Years

“The two most important days in your life are the day you are born and the day you find out why.”  – Mark Twain

Halifax had never seen a triple threat like the late & truly great Wade Holly Smith.  He was a remarkable leader in the fields of athletics, academics and activism.  Born on May 14, 1967, I’m not sure Wade could have pegged the exact moment he realized his purpose in life, but he repeatedly told us what that purpose was.  As WHS wrote: “When you give freely without care or strife, you’ll see how much mentoring can change a life.”   

Thanks for a great run, buddy.  We were blessed to have you for 50 years.

- DN

"Little Dawg, hustle back on D!"... Or Else.

Recently, while in Ottawa on business, a friend asked me to drop by his youth (14 y/o) basketball practice and offer a few pointers to the players.  Never one to miss out on an hour in the gym, I drove to the west-end of the city and made my way inside Sir Guy Carleton Secondary School in Nepean, Ontario. 

As the guys were put thru their paces, I warmed up – jogging the length of the court, then shuffling up and back, then stretching a bit. The coach, my pal, then asked me to run a passing drill.

After this, I was asked to step in and help play some D as part of another drill.  I did so, taking notice of how very quiet my players were.  I chalked up their low volume to nerves at the presence of a new guy in the mix.  But after a few minutes I couldn't take it anymore; I requested a “time out” to talk with my small portion of the team. “Hey guys, do me a favour, let’s start talking – a lot. Ok?”  The guys agreed and we continued with the drill, effectively shutting down the O on most of the next 10 possessions.

Soon enough, another friend of the coach arrived.  Paul is 6’4”, 210-ish, built like steely home appliance with muscles taped on the side and sneakers on the bottom.  And he still, at 52, plays like the all-star he was at McGill University in the 80s; a painfully effective blend of biceps and brains.   

A full-court game ensued.  The old guys (x3) picked up two young players – Markins and Ben-G – and our team proceeded to take on the rest of the younger crew.

Now there’s one thing a bunch of old guys who’ve played ball at a decent level will never do when faced with young guns: Walk up the court – in either direction.  It’s a matter of pride.  We want you to know that we are still fit and we're extremely keen for: (a) you to know that; and (b) you to acknowledge in some was that we’ve ‘still got it’.  To this end, we will drop – quite literally – before we’ll show any signs of having aged and/or lost a step.  Indeed, during these games, Paul, Coach Kevin and I took no water and refused to sit between matches, choosing instead to heckle the young players back onto the court (before our aged muscles seized up).

It was a good run, but as the games (we played a handful to 7) progressed, it quickly became apparent that at least one of our young teammates was not as committed to life on the defensive end of the hardwood as he was to his herky-jerky, Euro-stepping moves on O.  Now, to be fair, Ben-G, at 5-foot-nothin’, has game - serious game.  And he is lightning quick off the dribble.  But I’ll be damned if that boy knew that the defensive end of the court had a rim and backboard. 

I might have tolerated some slack play if Little Dawg was hitting his shots.  But Ben-G was missing a bunch, and did not know that a missed shot is a “turn-over” (altho technically, perhaps, not called such on a stat sheet).  And, according to the rules that big Paul and I play by, if you miss a shot, you hustle back, preferably arriving in the paint before your winded and slightly pissed off teammates get there.  

Not so with Ben-G.  Instead, "Isaiah Thomas III" would dip his head, grumble at his misses, then stroll to mid-court and wait for the ball to be pitched ahead to him on the next possession.

Now, I’m a tolerant man.  This was not my practice to run.  And after a pick-up game ends I like to connect with my teammates by slapping hands and saying, “Nice run”.  But on that day, after the last hoop rippled the mesh ("Paul, you've still got a sweet stroke!") , I only had kind words for 4 of my 5 teammates.   I paused in front of Ben-G as he unlaced and offered some sound and perhaps too-stern advice.  To paraphrase, I said that I enjoyed the practice (which I did) but noted that next time we play, if you miss a shot or throw the ball away you better be the first guy back.

I’m not sure if a 14-year-old hears any message from a 50-year-old as constructive.  But that’s how I meant it: constructive and instructive... and a little like, “If I was 14 again, I’d be very pleased to kick your ass”.

Good teammates work as hard without the ball as with it, and they make every effort to make their teammates better.   If they don’t do these things they risk the wrath of the guys who have been picking up their defensive assignment, sweating their jocks off, and trying hard to compensate with for serious attitude with serious hustle.  The Ben-Gs of the world also doom themselves to the ballplayer’s version of Hell: Becoming the guy that no one else wants to select for pick-up.

Even for if the run is in sleepy Nepean... on a Wednesday nite... in a gym you’ve never heard of.  

-DN

Brotherly Love

When I was 14, I got a birthday card from a girl I liked. She lived in a different neighbourhood and attended a different public school than mine. Recognizing her name in the return address (back when pink envelopes and Queen Elizabeth stamps were the sticky equivalent of Twitter and Facebook), I was happy.  

But when I opened the card I grew absolutely thrilled. 

My would-be-girlfriend wrote something that in a million years I could never recall; what I’ve never forgotten was the hand-crafted message that was included with hers.  It came from a basketball buddy: a few words in perfect cursive along with a picture drawn with a felt-tipped pen.  The message read, “Happy Birthday, pal!  Wade”.  The picture was a basketball about to pass through a hoop.  The ink drawing was so good it rocked me; an image so simple and yet so well done that, in thousands of doodles over many years, I've tried to recreate it. 

I knew Wade Smith as a basketball wizard – a wiry kid with long strides and a sweet jump-shot – but I had no idea he was also a wicked artist.  But there it was – the picture as proof.  The image didn’t paint a thousand words, but it did raise a few questions, starting with: ‘Who the hell can play ball as well as he does and be an even better artist?!’  I was a perplexed. I was shocked.  Above all, I was pleased that this guy I knew from the basketball court and instinctively liked (despite watching him rain down jumpers when we tipped off against his team) would take the time to send me an original bit of art-as-birthday-message.

The girl who sent the bday card and I dated for a while; my friendship with Wade has lasted decades.  

Wade’s wife and my wife recently, in separate moments, said, “You are like brothers”.  (If you know the three princes that Wade has for actual blood brothers, you’d know how astronomically high this praise is.)  Our version of brotherly love has grown over time: we played mini ball against each other; we duelled it out from our vantage points at neighbouring high schools; and we headed off to university together, and even roomed with each other for our freshmen year while playing back-court for the St. Francis Xavier X-men.  

Back then, Wade was a highly-recruited 2-guard who went on to an all-star career.  I, on the other hand, was a walk-on who dutifully – if unhappily – took my place deep on the bench (for a single year before being cut) and watched my roommate’s career continue to soar.  Through it all, Wade and I became close.  We ate, danced, drank, laughed, and studied together.  We even prayed together: in our second year of university, my father died and Wade - along with Ritchie, Tom and Chris - the finest kind of 'teammates' - were there for me.

After three years at St. F.X., I moved onto England, grad studies, and a starting guard position for the University of London basketball team, the rough equivalent of being top batsman for a Canadian university cricket team (i.e., not even close to being as impressive as it may sound).

By the time I came back to Canada a year or so later, Wade was closing in on marriage to the lovely, smart and talented Sherry.  I recall clearly the day he drove over to see me and revealed what he was hiding in the glove-box: a beautiful, sparkly, expensive engagement ring. “What’d think?” he asked, beaming as brightly as the rare stones he had stashed alongside his roadmaps and gas receipts.  What could I say?  It was awesome.  No, brilliant.  “Sherry will love it,” I said.  

She did, of course.  And it was on a sweltering summer day in Truro, N.S., that Wade and Sherry became “Wade & Sherry” – united in the eyes of God and before the damp eyes of hundreds of cooing, clapping friends who knew they’d just witnessed something special.  We danced at the Legion that evening and celebrated one of the great pairings of basketball talent.  (Sherry had, after all, been as bright a star on the court as her new hubby.)  I drove home late that night, happy for my pal and thrilled for his bride.  Soon, Baby Jaydan arrived, and then Jaxon hit the scene.  Life zoomed ahead.

Now, faster than Steph Curry can launch a jumper, Jay and Jax are young, intelligent, talented, handsome, accomplished men, scouting university careers of their own (and being scouted for basketball skills that rival their parents’).  Meanwhile, Sherry has helped (and hugged) a million people, all while looking as though she could still put up a double-double game without breaking a sweat.  And Wade… well he is as lean, handsome and strong as I recall back in the day when #21 was delivering bombs and hauling down awards.

But as I write this, I am very, deeply, heart-wrenchingly worried about my old pal.  

The news came in an email from a dear, thoughtful gal Wade and I have known since university:  “Wade has been trying to connect with you… our good friend is very ill… he has been diagnosed with stomach and esophageal cancer… It’s not a good diagnosis…”  The message stood me up; I stumbled, then crumpled onto one knee.  I then made calls with trembling fingers and quickly got the full story.  I hung up, and sobbed.  

In a matter of three shitty minutes, the whole damn world had changed.

As I write this, it is a few days later.  I have sat and talked with my old friend and hugged his granite/gold wife. And I’ve joined the legion of family members and friends who await the results of a cancer biopsy.  We are part of a too-familiar match-up: The People vs. Cancer.  And while I am a guy who tries to try to see storms as events that presage rainbows, I have to admit that I truly have no idea how this will end. 

What I do know is that I love the starting five on Team Smith: Wade, Sherry, Jay, Jax… and that all-powerful forward, God.  No one could crack that line-up. 

But if Wade does need me to sub in anytime any place, he will find me exactly where he left me ‘back in the day’ and every day since: Seated and leaned in, elbows on my knees – waiting, hoping and praying that I can play a few minutes of back-up to the star; just long enough to take the heat off my teammate, my friend… my brother.

-DN

The Second Coming of Steph

The gym is packed. The game has gone into overtime. The fans are apoplectic at the referee’s latest call.  You could be forgiven for thinking this was a Final Four contest, or an NBA Finals tilt.  It’s not.  Far from it. 

Welcome to Nova Scotia Provincial U12 boys basketball final.  Division 2.

I’d like to tell you that I watch this game from the stands: the picture of comportment, a basketball grey-beard who shakes his head at the behaviour of the parents as they howl and the coach of one of teams at play barks out a useless command at a moment coincident to the foul-shooting motion of an opposing player.  (Sportsmanship be damned.)  Nope.  Look down the Hurricanes’ bench (the kids’ one, not the pro one) and there I am, rising and falling with every whistle as though the ref’s exhalations are inflating me. 

I am the assistant coach to as sweet a bunch of boys as I have coached in my 30 years of doing this.  

Over the past three decades, you’d think I'd have developed some perspective along the lines of ‘it’s only a game’ or ‘it’s just a match between kids’. Oh no.  I’m more intense today than a middle-aged chain-smoker about to undergo open heart surgery; more Roy Williams than Mark Few; more ranter than rover. 

What’s worse: I am one of the more sane people in the gym today.

Allow me to draw your attention to three players who've got me amp-ed up today. They are #5, #12, and #24.  

The first two players wear the red jerseys of the Community Y Panthers (always a formidable opponent, in my experience) while the latter lad plays for the Hurricanes. Number #5 is a lean kid with cornrows and a sweet and speedy eurostep that paralyzes my players.  And number 12 is a silky smooth ball-handler with a nice stroke from 17 feet. As for #24, he's on our team; a tiny, deft dribbler who stands out as much for his size and skill.   

No one wears a surname on their jersey, but I can tell you that #5 has Carvery in his handle, # 12 is part of the Downey clan, and #24 is a Napier.  Yep, he`s my youngest son.

The names wouldn’t matter and neither would the outcome of the game if it wasn’t for Steve Nash and Andrew Wiggins.  Or Chris Johnson, Kia Nurse, and Lindell Wigginton.  Those folks are doing for Canadian hoops what Sid, Nathan and Brad (and Al MacInnis and others) did for Nova Scotia hockey: namely, make the prospect of a fame-filled, money-soaked career in “The Show” a tantalizingly ‘real dream’ for thousands of young athletes. 

Don't get me wrong, I love that kids dream.  What makes me furrow my brow (then holler at the ref) is the Air Canada Centre’s worth of parents who believe their son or daughter is the heir apparent to Cory Joseph’s spot on the Raptors` roster.  I blame our collective blind spot on advertising and the wheelbarrows full of money that turned pro sports into the lair of swaggering stars and greedy agents.  And while it's true that not all players are jerks and not all agents are evil, $49 million over 5 years in exchange for filling stadium seats and causing palette-loads of sneakers and sugary drinks to fly off store shelves seems a little steep when kids in South Sudan are starving.  

We all need to put things in perspective.  Fast.

Once we do, everyone will see what I do... young Mister Downey fouled us on that last play!  ... That Carvery kid`s eurostep is a travel!  C`mon ref! 

And my son?  Well, please just ignore that last turn-over, that botched defensive assignment, and the fact that he`s 10 years old, and believe me when I tell you that, in my expert & unbiased opinion, the boy is clearly Second Coming of Steph Curry.  

Hey ref!  The #24 is getting hacked every time!

-DN

Rucker's Disciple

The worn steps inside the old YMCA on South Park Street in Halifax were a multi-levelled, brown-tiled affair that ended one story up at a set of heavy metal doors.  On the other side were a pair of handball courts (my father, sister and I played handball; folks with tender paws played racquetball), next to which rested a sleepy old gymnasium replete with a punished wooden floor and a set of lofty, lead-lined windows that only permitted a dream-like amount of the sun’s rays to penetrate that sports sanctuary.

It was there, as a boy of 12 in 1979, that I joined a basketball day-camp run by a man I’d never met before and, to the best of my recollection, had not the privilege of meeting again.  

I had been steered to the event by well-intentioned coach or (although I find this a doubtful possibility, at best) my parents. Either way, it was a life-changing few hours that started with a t-shirt.  In my memory, it is heavy white cotton.  On the front is a basketball surrounded by navy blue lettering that spells “Each One, Teach One”.  A burly Terry Symonds had pulled the event together with the help of a lean basketball great named Lee Thomas (who was staring at Saint Mary’s University in those days on route to taking his place in that school’s sports Hall of Fame).  

Terry was an employee of the north-branch library and a fixture at the adjacent gym known as the “Community Y” who would, in 1990, die at the unfathomably young age of 36.  He left this great world too soon, but his legacy has endured for the decades since. 

Back then, I was scrawny south-end kid who played guard for the unfortunately-named Canadian Martyrs team.  I knew many of the Community Y players from their prowess on the court and brief exchanges we’d have after hard-fought games, but I was not overly familiar with their coach and mentor, Terry.  I probably had very little interaction with Terry at the basketball camp that day, I don't remember, but I clearly recall the incredible vibe in that gym full of basketball crazed kids of all colour, size, and skill.  

I also remember that my parents didn't hover nearby that day.  

If I had to wager they’d either gone home or headed to work after dropping me off with only cursory glance toward the bustling gymnasium.  Either way, I was alone with dozens of other ballers, forced to navigate my way in games rich with talented ‘Y’ players - many of whom I’d compete fiercely against for years to come (losing with frustrating frequency) before settling into warm adult friendships.  It was empowering and fun to be in the Y that day with my cool new t-shirt (replete with a slogan I didn’t understand) playing the game I loved with kids who shared my passion for basketball. 

Long after my playing days ended, I started to piece together what had happened back in the YMCA during that era when Earth, Wind & Fire was rocking turn-tables and Magic & Michigan State were preparing to do battle with Larry & Indiana State…

... Terry and Lee had struck up a friendship, and the latter was from New York City.  It was in NYC – home to some of the best basketball players on the planet in those days – where the “city game” was in full flight.  And no one flew as high as the guys who rose above the blacktop in Harlem’s Rucker Park: guys with names like Erving, Kirkland, Hammond... a list as lengthy as their playground feats mythical.

Yet, before the helicopter dunks and snatching of quarters off the top of backboards, there was Holcombe Rucker.  Starting in the 1950s, Rucker was a Playground Director for NYC’s Parks & Rec department.  An educated man, Rucker started the fabled league that bears his name but insisted that education take its spot on the court alongside basketball.  Rucker’s “Each one, Teach one” approach took root in the Harlem asphalt and captured the imaginations of thinking men like Lee Thomas and, soon enough, his pal Terry Symonds.

UP basketball is a modern version of that old concept, and similarly fueled: By the belief that sports is as much about learning as leaping; as much about connecting people as counting points. 

As for Rucker and his memorable disciple, Coach Symonds, they continue to prove that good ideas have lasting resonance.  And, to twist the words of the formidable Africadian poet George Elliott Clarke, each life is a drum.

-DN

Hoop Schemes

The idea - in fact, the need - for UP Basketball came to me as I was winding down a multi-year stint as the President of a local youth basketball club with some 400 players (and, if my shaky math serves, about 800 parents).  The kids - ages 5 to 18 - were almost always wonderful and, even when they weren't, never posed a problem that couldn't be solved with direct, honest communication.

That's always the way it was... until an over-wrought mom or dad would get involved.  Then, all bets were off.  As I liked to say to my fellow club exec members, "There's never a problem with a kid that cannot be fixed quickly, and with little drama. But as soon as parents are involved, it is rarely easy."

During my tenure as a volunteer Prez, I dealt with some doozies.  And they were almost always related to the moment when a parent sees their son (usually daughters were exempt) enter adolescence and start to show athletic ability (that parents often mistake for giftedness), and not make the 'Division 1' team or not get enough playing time.  The resulting issues were something akin to an extended episode of Survivor.  Truth and fiction being strange teammates, my pal Mark, a successful TV writer, claimed it was a comedy that pretty much wrote itself.  Atbest it was a tragi-comedy.  

I grew disheartened.  But I would not be defeated.  

These few but foul incidents served to crystalize what I'd been thinking for years: Namely, that kids need 'free play' as much as they need plenty of sleep and proper nutrition.  And, I knew, they need a whole lot less involvement from parents (including me).  We adults love to drive our kids to and from games and practices, advising our young athletic charges in both directions.  It's exhausting - for the kids.  As for the parents, we seem downright indefatigable in our efforts to coach our sons and daughters  to the NBA (keys in ignition... seat-belt on ...drive... blah, blah.... sip of coffee... blah, blah, blah...check the rear-view mirror... "Johnny, are you listening to anything I've just said?!"), advise the coaches, and (when the Saturday-morning java has really kicked in) berate the opposing team's fans. 

It had to stop.  At least, I thought so. So I launched Ultimate Pickup basketball.  A few t-shirts, some donated gym time, snacks & water, a few folks around to keep the kids safe.  It's my little stone tossed into the ocean of amateur athletics.  But every stone makes a ripple, right?  

If you want to know where the idea for UP got its true start, I'd have to go back to 1979 and a guy name Terry Symonds.  Or even further back and farther away, to New York City and the Harlem legend Holcombe Rucker.  But that's another story....

Come back if you want to hear it. 

-DN