'i wish i was a baller'

Anyone who knows me knows I like things in pairs.

Peanut butter and jelly

Hall and Oates

Young and restless

Barnes and Noble

Bill and Ted

My kick ass Chucks

Duran and Duran

Ken and Barbie

Adam and Eve

Waldorf and Statler

All these things have a magic that just makes them work together. No question. Especially those kick ass Chucks of mine! What doesn't seem to work together so well is basketball and porn.

Oh, I can give you a moment to ponder that and come up with a case that yes, yes it's possible these two things can play well together, because I spent a chunk of my weekend considering just that, but you'd have to admit it's kind of creepy. At least, I thought so.

In the event you don't see it as creepy, let me set the scene for you. Saturday morning, we're courtside as my son's fifth/sixth grade YMCA team kicks off the first in it's series of March Madness basketball games (nevermind it's February. Sometimes life just doesn't make sense). Behind me sits the mother of a child from the opposing team. Up to three minutes into the second quater of the game (with my son's team up a handy 18 points over their opponent, thank you very much) this mother, who had been until then just mildly expressive in her cheers, decided a new strategy was in order.

"Grab those loose balls, boys!" she yelled. "Take it to the hole!"

"Box him out, baby!" replaced "Go team!" and was then enhanced with "You gotta kiss the rim!"

At first, it was fine. I get it. Sports euphemisms are cute. But these were coming from her with complementary breathy sighs and gushes of "OH, OH, OH, OH! OH, YES!!!" everytime a boy on her son's team made a move to drive the lane.

Or, as she described it, "penetrate the lane."

When that one came from her list - and just before she let her hair down, peeled off her demure librarian glasses, and loosened up the buttons on her blouse and whipped things up to the XXXth degree - I leaned over to my husband and asked him if felt as dirty as I did. My husband, being the playa he likes to imagine he is, gave me a look that was all "I'm gonna personal foul you later when we get home and play on the hard wood," so I knew he'd keyed in on this cheerleader.

In the end, after an overtime basket that clinched the win for my son's team (some one-on-one and double team action had paved the way for some out of control lay ups which pushed the score in the final drive. See? I'm down with the sporty talk, Sporto!), I left the school gym feeling like I needed a shower and maybe file a police report.

And wondering what I'd be getting myself into if my kids were into soccer, instead.