There is a coach, a Croatian. He broods and occasionally yells so loudly and with such vim that the gym’s echoes obscure his heavy accent, and nothing is decipherable.

There is a competition in Mexico City.

After practice there are requests for 13 bags of ice, roughly one per player.

There is – this is – handball.

Dave Gascon travels with the USA Women’s National Handball Team. His daughter, Sarah, is a player. Gascon, who spent 32 years with the Los Angeles Police Department and retired as its Assistant Chief of Police in 2002, is standing on the sideline with me and Matt Specht, the head of athletic facilities for Northeastern Illinois University. We are watching would-be Olympians practice in a borrowed gym at 10 p.m. on a Tuesday night.

The two men talk handball. They speak rapidly, rolling over the ends of each other’s sentences and interrupting, each eager to share their stories and their grievance over handball’s exclusion from popular American sports, each eager to explain the merits of the game and why everyone should love it as much as they do.

They are shooting the shit.

“If you see it in person, you’ve got to fall in love with it,” Gascon says. “It’s shocking it’s not an American sport, it has everything we love in it.”

“A lot of scoring–” Specht interrupts.

“Right.”

“Contact, running, strategy–”

“Right. Hand-eye coordination.”

“It’s superb,” Specht finishes.

Both men fold their arms. I continue taking notes and try not to get hit by any whizzing balls.

Team handball is a hybrid of soccer and basketball that’s been around about as long as either. It is the third most popular sport in Europe, according to most accounts.

It’s like ice hockey, one player explains. A coach tells me it resembles rugby. Gascon says to visualize it as water polo on dry land.

The floor is about the size of a basketball court. The ball is smaller than a soccer ball and coated in a thin layer of sticky wax. (During my first practice, I see the tin of wax on the sideline and dunk a few fingers in. It feels like thick honey and smells like the bottom of a sneaker. And a little like pine. It is only later that I realize I am unable to release my grip on my pen and must shamefacedly explain this to everyone who tries to shake my hand.)

There are small soccer-style goals on each end, with a goalie. Six players form offenses and defenses around the perimeter of the goal. They are similar to basketball – they can be in a man-to-man or zone defense, for example.

The biggest difference between handball and other sports is contact, what Sarah Gascon says is the best part of the game. A player can pick up another player and physically move her around – without the other player’s willing consent. It’s a rough sport. Watching the scrum, the feeding frenzy, I swear there is an overabundance of elbows and knees. Slaps sound across the gym.

I watch as a girl propels herself into the air for a shot. (Most scoring attempts are jump shots – it allows for height over defenders and gives attackers the ability to penetrate the goalie’s area without using their feet, which is illegal.) As she falls, she releases the ball with amazing ferocity and strength. I see her body, now flying parallel to the ground, and watch as she lands on another girl. Both tumble to the floor.

Dave Gascon catches me cringe and laughs.

There is another group in the gym tonight. It is the Chicago Inter Handball Club, run in part by an aging Belarusian named Felix Murokh. He stands against the mats at the half-court line, watching his own men’s and women’s groups practice and occasionally snorting in the direction of the national team.

Murokh, 61, started playing handball in the 1960s, when he represented Belarus in their pro league. He stopped playing in 1972 and emigrated to the United States in 1979. Now he owns a remodeling company in Skokie. He tells me to watch for “black vans, nice looking, with Mr. Floor on the side.” He pronounces it “meese-torr florr.”

Years ago, Murokh was asked to consider coaching the national team. He turned the job down.

“[In America] it’s amateur sport,” he says emphatically. “No money! I came here, I have to feed my family. So I say to them, ‘I have to put this aside for now.’”

Three years ago, Murokh joined the Inter Handball Club as a coach and created the now-thriving women’s team.

Where the national team players look short and quick, Murokh’s women are long and wiry. They look older. As two players jog by in sweats, he tells me they are both in their 40s. One had three surgeries last year to replace her knee. The other was on the Yugoslavian national team. They arrived late to practice and are running laps to warm up.

“You have to see how they play,” Murokh says. “They play so good, so smart.” He waves his hands in front of him, as if to dismiss the gloomy idea that their professional handball days – and his – are well over.

In an effort to cheer him, I tell Murokh about my adventure getting to the gym. I had to take two buses to get to the right part of town, I explain. When I finally set foot on the sidewalk, it was 9 p.m., cold and dark, I say. I had no idea where to go next. Walking ahead of me was a man with a gym bag. So I did what any reporter would and asked hopefully if the man was there for handball. Turns out he was. Turns out he could help me find my way. Turns out he used to play for Poland. (It later became apparent how lucky I’d been. The court the teams use is tucked far away in the building’s inside pocket, like a dirty hanky. I would never have found it alone.)

After Murokh’s smile recedes, I ask how many non-U.S.-born people play in the Chicago league. Murokh says about 18 countries are represented on his men’s and women’s teams. He points at players as they zoom by or when they elevate for a shot.

“This gentleman, Pavel, he used to play for Poland. That young guy used to play for Egypt. This guy used to play for Romania….This tall girl with light hair. She was playing for Latvia. In our tournament, she was the best scorer. You have to see when she plays. It’s like somebody playing beautiful violin. She knows every move, she does everything right.”

The players on Murokh’s team practice twice a week. Occasionally, there will be a tournament they can compete in, but club teams in America are rare. They’re so hard to find that Murokh says he’s had players come from Milwaukee, St. Louis and Detroit just to practice with the team.

Though the national team borrows the gym Murokh reserves for his players, there is a little tension between the groups. The 20 women on Murokh’s team have played the national team two years in a row and won both times.

“You’re looking at a team that is U.S. champions of 2007,” he says.

There was no national championship this year because “of lack of funding,” but in an unofficial match, the Chicago team won.

“We beat national team big time, two times!” Murokh says. “We have really, really good players here. That’s why these girls love to play against us.”

The two 40-year-old women have finished warming up. They peel off sweatpants and thick hoodies. One readjusts her ponytail, and they begin running drills with the rest of the team. They are thin, toned, sinewy. Intense. They begin to work with a fierce joy. The one with the knee brace takes a shot. The force of the ball is so strong the goal is moved back a few inches and into the gym wall. The goalie giggles dizzily, and the two older women high five.

The sound, POW, still ringing in the gym, punctuates their fire.

Murokh’s team may have won because it has seasoned ex-professional athletes at its core. The national team’s players are all students of other sports: baseball, volleyball, softball, soccer. They have fewer years of experience, even in their own sports. But it’s more likely that the Chicago league won because they play twice a week with the same group of people.
The national team – the group that would represent the United States in the Olympics, should they qualify – will be lucky if the players reunite once a month over the next four years.

The team is in Chicago to practice for a competition in Mexico City. The tournament is a qualifier for the Pan-American games. A win at the Pan-Ams automatically qualifies a team for the Olympics. The only other way to earn a spot in the Olympics is by medaling at the world championships.

The team has practiced five days for this important competition. In those days, all of which were spent in Chicago, piggybacking on Murokh’s rental of the Northeastern gym, the players have had about 10 practices.
It is the first time some of them have met.

The women live in different cities. Two of them play handball in France. Most don’t have access to a club team, so they can’t practice on their own. If the team does not perform well at the Pan-Am qualifier, the next scheduled time the women can compete together is in two years. If they qualify, the Pan-Am championship is in June.

No level playing field, here, when European teams practice year-round and compete in pro leagues as popular and competitive as our NBA or NFL. There, being a handball player is a career choice; here it’s a favor to a former coach or a funny story to tell your friends.

Marko Brezic

The girls are tired. They make mistakes they wouldn’t have made five days ago. Brezic, 45, sits at the half-court line with his legs stretched out, leaning back on his hands. He is smoldering, emitting an anxiety that lingers like a black cloud.

“It was a good practice, but the girls are tired,” he says. “You can feel that. Not just from this morning. Because we started Friday, now it’s Tuesday. That’s five days. Five days of almost 10 practices.
“To be honest, if we do something, that will be a true miracle. Me and [assistant coach Edina Batar] have five days to prepare them. You can’t prepare anyone in five days.”

Brezic began playing handball in 1988, when he was 15. He started coaching soon thereafter. He is the head of the Men’s Western Region team in Salt Lake City as well as the coach of this national team.

“What brought you to the U.S.?” I ask.

“Money. Just kidding.”

“What do you like about handball?” I say, hoping for a little more honesty.

“Girls,” he says. “Just kidding.”

I figure Brezic is wary because I’m a reporter. I figure he’s worried about the upcoming match. Maybe it’s a Croatian thing; maybe I’m misinterpreting his guardedness. Later, Felix Murokh explains what might be going on.

“Their problems [are a] lack of coaching and lack of money and management. They brought gentleman from Croatia who is hardly speaking English, and the girls couldn’t understand what he trying to say. It is a problem.”

I do not mention that Murokh’s own speech might set Roget and Webster back a bit, but I am able to grasp the point. I ask him to tell me more.

He doesn’t think Brezic is a bad coach. Murokh’s main criticism is that the team needs more money so they can be together more and the women can learn more about the sport.

He does criticize how Brezic is drilling a goalie, Erika Woodbury, a rookie used to guarding soccer goals. Woodbury is standing with her face to the inside of the net. At a signal, she turns and must react to an immediate shot coming from an unknown direction. I am surprised and impressed when she deflects most of the attacks.

Murokh waves his hand in frustration, and his lips thin into a small, straight line.

“They could be doing that any time. The goalie can do that with one other person whenever she want. He should be teaching her how to play handball.”

He explains that her stance and center of gravity is too low. Woodbury is standing with knees bent, feet wide and arms spread. She looks large in the goal. Murokh explains that for handball, a goalie should remain upright and in tight, so she can dart out with a hand or foot as quickly as possible. If the center of gravity is spread out – like Woodbury’s feet – she has to bring it back in before she can thrust at the ball. If she begins at the center point, less time and energy are needed to react.

“They call me and say ‘Do you want to be his assistant?’ I say, ‘You have to be kidding me.’” Murokh explains. “He is a temporary. This tournament gone and he is out. I said let them talk to me after that.”

Murokh’s criticisms are not intended to harm. His feelings are understandable, maybe what any older coach would feel about a younger one with a higher-ranking job. I am surprised later when, talking about the slight chance of the national team winning in Mexico, Brezic echoes the same sentiment.

“This goalie, Erika, she is probably ten days into handball. Ten days. I just want to tell you what kind of players we have. They are not those who play and train handball their whole life. We need to improvise lots of things. If we do that, that be maybe more than miracle. No one expects, except us, that we can do it.

“Probably I am the only freak who is willing to take that risk. Because my head is on plate. If I fail, I will go home,” he says. “That is the business of being a coach. It is always depending on winning or losing.”

A USA National Women's Team player is assisted by a trainer.

Now, she rarely stays on the sidelines with Brezic and Dave Gascon. Instead, she works with the players, tossing them balls, participating in drills and offering advice. During a weave passing drill, a player misses a catch. The next throw would have gone to Sarah Gascon. Instead of jogging off the court like everyone else, she keeps running towards the goal and shouts, “Edina!” In less time than it takes to fill a lung with air, Batar tosses her the ball she was holding. The shot goes in.

The moment was extraordinary. It showed the primary characteristics of both women – Gascon never quits on a play, either in drills or competition, and Batar occupies a space somewhere between participant and observer. It is an unhappy space. A career ended is part of a life ended.

And yet, it is Batar, never a goalie, who helps 22-year-old Woodbury acclimate to handball. She assists in the reaction drill Murokh criticized and often stays behind the net, talking to Woodbury as the other players wax and wane up the court like tides.

“I’ve played soccer all my life,” Woodbury says to me later. “I’d never heard of handball a month ago.”

The national team was looking for a goalie and Woodbury’s soccer coach knew some people in the handball league. After two quick practice sessions with Brezic in Salt Lake City, Woodbury was invited to come on the Mexico City trip. It was she who had the too-low stance.

“My instincts are definitely more towards soccer,” Woodbury says. “It’s the same general idea – you have to keep the ball out of the goal – but the technique is a lot different. How you’re supposed to move. There’s a lot more lunging and reaching in handball, whereas in soccer I’d be diving.

“I found myself diving onto the floor a few times, which was quite painful. That’s what my instincts told me to do. I tried not to do it too much but it happened quite a few times, and I was pretty bruised because of it.”

Woodbury had never met any of her teammates before the Chicago practices began. She didn’t know, for example, Megan Ballard.

Ballard, 24, is a former point guard and a Georgia native. She’s a pretty black woman with a headband and bouncy curls, and she’s most often seen doing pushups on the sideline. The rest of her teammates stop for water or chat, but she goes nose to the floor and up again. During another break in the practice, she jogs in place.

When the Olympics were in Atlanta, she tells me, the city’s middle schools started a junior development program for handball, which is when she was introduced to the game. After she graduated college, a former coach called her and asked if she’d consider moving to France. Ballard’s been playing handball there for two years.

“I play for the city of Toulouse,” she says. “It’s kind of like playing for the Hawks or the Celtics. I’m considered semi-pro. I’m still a student over there, but I do get a salary.”

She laughs when I ask about the pushups.

“My coach in Toulouse, if we stop at all in practice then everyone has to get down and do pushups,” she says. “In the game of handball, you never stop. It’s 30 minutes of non-stop action. And so you never have a time when you’re just standing there, so he makes us always be in some kind of movement.”

She pauses to search for English words. “And when I miss shots that I shouldn’t miss, it’s just kind of … self-discipline.”

Ballard hasn’t been home in a year. It is interesting that she now plays on a team with Farida Abouzeida, who is spending time away from her family for the first time ever.

Abouzeida is a 17-year-old Egyptian. She likes to shoot from the outside, farther away from the goal than most of her American teammates. She was born in the U.S. while her father attended college here. When she was 5, the family moved back to Egypt, where they remained until three months ago.

“My memory of America is kind of vague because I was 5,” she says. “My dad just wanted to give me a chance to see what it’s like here and then I would decide if I wanted to live here or go back to Egypt. Just for more experience, I guess.”

After moving to Alabama and enrolling in a community college, Abouzeida, a life-long handball player, tried out for the national team. She was accepted. The practices in Chicago and the week-long trip to Mexico will be her first experiences traveling alone in a new country. She says she felt comfortable going alone, but her parents were nervous.

“They were very, very worried. I’m their little daughter,” she laughs. “I’m still their little baby to them. I’m 17. I’m the youngest on the team. I’m away. And my mom was really upset because she wanted to come. My mom’s a handball fan, a really big one.”

Abouzeida estimates handball is the second most popular sport in Egypt after soccer. She’s been playing since the family moved there. She says the experience of handball with Americans is different from Egyptians.

“The U.S. team is great, they’re just not really used to the game,” she says. “We’re not a bad team, we just need to play with each other more to get some more chemistry.

“[The competition] comes from countries where they already know the game. Handball isn’t exactly popular here yet. Most of the people on the USA team they haven’t played handball so long, but the other teams grew up knowing what the game is and playing handball…. We met for a week before we went to the tournament. If we were given more time we definitely would have done some things different.”

Abouzeida plans to enroll at Auburn University in the fall. She hopes to have a career in the U.S. with handball, but says she knows she might have to move back to Egypt to play professionally.

Farida Abouzeida stretches before her second practice of the day.

Dave Gascon also discovered handball during the Olympics.

“I’d seen it in many Olympic games before,” he said. “Being a little older, I remember from years and years ago. It’s an interesting sport to watch, but I never played it as a kid. We didn’t even have it here and that’s unfortunate.”

Gascon was a lieutenant in the LAPD in 1984, when the Olympics came to Los Angeles. He worked the event, but says he didn’t have the chance to see any live handball.

“I think that’s what inspires a lot of these players,” he says, nudging me to retrieve a loose ball. After I toss it to his waiting daughter, he continues. “They know it’s an Olympic sport and they’d really like to see the United States qualify a team. We haven’t qualified a team in a long time.”

Not since 1996. In fact, the U.S. women’s handball team has been trying to qualify for the Olympics since the early 1970s. Their first and best appearance was in 1984, at the same games Gascon was working. The team placed fourth. After four Olympic appearances and five world championship tries, the United States has yet to medal in either competition.

Handball faces a tough economic situation here. The United States Team Handball Federation was the governing body until 2006, when it was dissolved due to lack of funding. In 2008, Dieter Esch, the co-owner of modeling agency Wilhelmina, underwrote a bid to restart the program. The National Governing Body (NGB) is now known as USA Team Handball. He moved the operation to Salt Lake City and got rid of the residency program, which helped national team players relocate so they could practice together more often.

The NGB is still looking to fill its five regional director positions, a bad sign because one aspect of a director’s job is to encourage grass roots programs and to locate potential players. Without active promotion, the sport cannot grow. Brezic serves as the regional director for the west coast and for this he is paid $2,000 a month. Without more money for the regional directors, the number of applicants and their influence cannot grow.

“It’s a shame [handball is] not popular in America yet,” Ballard says. “It’s a cross-over and an inclusion of all sports, whether it’s foot control, eye-hand coordination, speed. It’s a non-stop game. It’s fast-paced. It’s a high-scoring game. It’s great.”

She – along with both Gascons, Specht and Murokh – have faith that the sport will catch on in the United States.

“Over 180 countries play handball. It’s one of the most popular games in the world,” Murokh says. “You cannot create adult team without kids team. We have to start from the bottom. At least if we will start in universities, then maybe we will have something in the future.

“We have plenty people to create good coaching. But no programs. I am coming to schools, to high schools. Nobody want to talk to me. I say, ‘I’m not doing this for money! I do this because I love the game. I want to see United States team to have success.’ Nothing happen.”

Murokh is negotiating – with Specht’s help – to create a club handball team at Northeastern. He says students have been receptive. With luck, they’ll have a team practicing next fall.

Brezic watches the team practice.

One girl calls out, “Chief, does your cell phone work in Mexico?”

“I don’t know if it’s going to work in Mexico,” Gascon replies. “If it does, it’s probably $20 a minute or something like that. If there’s an emergency, we’ll do whatever it takes. Don’t worry about the cost.”

Later, as the women pack the extra balls and sop up the streams of water running down their legs as ice packs melt, Gascon makes another announcement.

“My credit card from the Federation is still not working. I don’t know if it’s going to be working tomorrow, but we’re in luck because both my credit cards are working. So I’ll be taking some cash and we’ll convert it and make sure you guys have some spending money.”

There are noises of surprise and then choruses of “Thank you, Chief.”

“There’s only one thing I require of you,” Gascon prompts, as the girls come in for their last huddle in the U.S.

“WIN!”

I watch the team file from the gym. Some of them say goodbye to me, others focus on getting back to their warm hotel and a hot shower. It’s their second practice of the day, the last of the week. They’re tired. Excited to travel. Hopeful and doubtful all at once.

As he passes me, one of the last to leave the gym, I wish Brezic luck in Mexico City. He shrugs, leans over and says, “The ball is round and there is sixty minutes of playing. Miracles is possible.”

NOTE: The USA team lost every game it played in Mexico City.

There are no immediate plans for another practice or competition, though there is still a chance the team could qualify for the Olympics.

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It’s 11 p.m. and Crepe and Coffee Palace is packed. Every table is taken and the windows are fogged from the inside, a sign that winter is roosting in Chicago again. I look around.

The cafe is full of couples – young gay men, an older fellow and his wife, me and my notebook. I hear Hebrew, Korean, Spanish and French. It’s also full of empty stomachs, the universal language. I hope the Arabic music from the stereo will cover up mine’s audible complaints.

Every scrap of space is covered – the place has texture. Algerian rugs, some prayer, some not, are hung at angles on the walls, which are pumpkin orange. There are bright blue squares of color, outlined with a Byzantine-style bell shape. Inside the bell are paintings, candle holders, metal ornaments. I think I see an image of Mata Hari in a back corner.

“I was trying to make an Algerian atmosphere. You know, combining the Middle Ages and elements of Spain, Istanbul, other things from the Islamic world. I wanted a Moorish type of feeling,” says owner Belkacen Belmetdmnani. “You know, mosques. Casbah. You know.”

There are mirrors, and not only mirrors, but scraps of mirrors — tiny squares mosaicked together or placed at the edge of each table. They reflect light and open up the space, which is small. It is cramped but comfortable, like visiting your old bedroom after moving away from home.

Chandeliers dangle dangerously, cockeyed and tilted because there isn’t enough room for all to hang plumb to the floor. They remind me of jellyfish, hovering close to have a look at what I’m eating.

And, with the jellyfish encouraging me, I order a Crepe Amar. It combines Nutella and strawberries, which Belmetdmnani says is the menu’s most popular item.

“American tastes,” he says, shrugging, then tells me the café goes through 20 pounds of Nutella each week.

While I sip my water – with two cucumber slices bobbing in it – I look at the other wall decorations. Belmetdmnani, 50, was born in Icosium (also known as Algiers, also known as Alger, also known as Al-Jaza’ir), the capital of Algeria. He attended culinary school there and moved to the U.S. to study mechanical engineering. In 1988, he opened Mamacita’s, a Mexican restaurant two doors down and started Crepe and Coffee Palace in 2003.

I strike up a conversation with a pretty girl sitting near my left knee (quarters this close encourage chatting with strangers). Her name is Julie Tillinger.  She is 29 and waiting for her date to arrive.
“It’s a blind date, so I won’t know when he’s here,” she says, flapping the menu around. A friend sent him a picture beforehand so he could recognize her.

“It’s nerve-wracking because the picture she sent is of me a few years ago, so I’m worried he’s going to sit down and say, ‘Oh, I didn’t expect you to be so wrinkly.’”

Suddenly, a crepe glides onto my table, like some kind of edible UFO. The waitress doesn’t have room to serve from the front, so she lands the crepe with her arm hooked around from behind me. Centered in the middle of a white plate at least 15 inches in diameter is the crepe, golden and roped and folded over itself. It is stuffed with sliced strawberries and oozing hazelnut goo. It’s circled with squiggles of raspberry and chocolate sauce, interspersed with big, fat, generous gobs of whipped cream.  A scoop of green pistachio ice cream melts quietly in the corner. I melt noisily onto my table, a mess of oohs and aahs and mmms.

It is delicious, and Tillinger’s date arrives with flowers.

Daytime at Crepe and Coffee Palace

Felix looks out the window. He is a stubby Latino with thick curls, a red bandana and a very clean apron.  Felix is the primary cook at Crepe and Coffee Palace, and he won’t give me his last name.  Or answer any questions. He is very amiable about this. He shakes his head no, smiles, and begins to squirt whipped cream onto a bald and waiting crepe. Krghhhh, says the can, shouting down my follow-ups.

Whipped cream is not listed as an ingredient but is present in almost every dish. Hot drinks drown in it. The crepes come surrounded by mounds of whipped cream that stick to the plate like starfish.

It’s 10 a.m. and I order a hot chocolate. It arrives in a glass mug: thick, creamy, just warmer than the room and insulated by four inches of shiny, slippery whipped cream. Felix is not a man who diddles around with dollops. I give him a nod of respect.

“People like the whipped cream because it tastes good, so we keep putting it on,” says Bailey Bartes, the daytime waitress. “It’s just better that way.”

Bartes is 21 years old. She was born and raised in Lincoln Park, in a brick apartment building about three blocks from the café. She studied communications at Iowa Wesleyan College but dropped out to recover from foot surgery and picked up the waitressing job to fill the time.

“I’ve got two pins and a plate,” she says. “I can’t do much else. It’s small here, so I don’t have to do a lot of walking, and the people are nice. I like it enough.”

Bartes says the day shift can be slow, estimating that she might seat 10 tables working from 9 a.m. to 3 p.m. She and Felix pass the time by bantering with the regulars and each other (Bartes chatters, Felix listens). While I’m in the café, a friend of Bartes drops by and gets a free Turkish coffee. The postman walks in and has a brief but fantastic conversation with Bartes, with Felix silently interrupting to pass over a cup of tea or piece of fruit.

“How come you never called me, Bailey-girl?” the postman jives.

“I lost your number.”

“And what, you couldn’t find it somehow else?”

“Nope. My dog ate my phone, so I had to wait five days for him to shit it out again.”

“Maybe next week, Bailey-girl?”

“Maybe next week,” she says.

I lean over the counter to watch Felix making my crepe. He pours thin ribbons of batter onto a flat griddle. The surface looks cool to the touch, serene and greased, but when the drip hits, it bubbles and sizzles and pops. I feel like a sailor, leaning over the edge of a boat, looking into a black sea that could swallow me whole. I will swallow it instead.

“Looks good, eh?” Felix says, his first words to me.

“Oh, yes,” I murmur. “It looks very good.”

And it is. I eat it at the counter, looking out the window like Felix. Bartes is laughing loudly in the back kitchen. A couple comes through the door, cheeks red with the new fall chill. I wave goodbye to Felix and leave behind the cozy little Algerian world in the middle of Chicago.

I am a staid intellectual who enjoys the finer pursuits in life but who isn’t afraid of getting his toes wet when it comes down to it. I take care of our farm and try to make my wife and daughter’s lives more comfortable by offering them what wisdom I have.

I’m a steady guy. I keep an eye on things. I read the Sunday papers on Sunday mornings, and when it’s warm enough, I sit on the porch swing. If I feel frisky, I’ll smoke a $7 Churchill with a name like Pablo Escobar or Chiquita Banana 100.

The porch faces our pond, a cleanly-painted white fence and several willows, all of which weep. When I look toward the pond, I see down the valley, down the spine of Devil’s Backbone. I give the water a once over from time to time, checking for snapping turtles or muskrat or…who the hell knows what. Pirate ships! Mermaids! White caps.

Melissa, my wife, speaks loudly and carries a big stick. She is a highly vocal woman with a distinct ear – the only person I have ever met who is both a loud talker and a loud listener. She grew up in a large North Carolina family where the meek inherited Oreos with the cream filling gnawed out. She’s never left a decibel standing alone out in the cold. She speaks an uptown version of low-down North Carolina, and if she’s not declaring that she’s just died about nothing in particular at least twice a day, I know somethin’ ain’t right.
On our first date when she asked where I’d gone to college and I said, “Yale,” she repeated the question at a higher volume. All of this masks the fact that she graduated first in her graduate school class and has a JD to boot.

My daughter is four and properly. I say properly because she has just the right fixings for a delightful young girl – pigtails swathed in crisp pink ribbon, charmingly round and rosy cheeks, a keen curiosity for life. She has blue eyes and blonde hair that will undoubtedly darken with age. I’ve darkened with age.

Last Wednesday, I was sitting on the porch swing, dangling my legs and thinking about how much I hated repairing fence, which is what I’d been doing all day. I tried to cheer myself by remembering the writings of O. Henry. I was chuckling when I heard the pitter patter of Molly’s tiny, yet delightfully well-formed feet.

“Hullo, Daddy.” She said, as she lifted her arms.
“Good afternoon, darling.” I said, as I brought her aboard.
“You smell bad, Daddy,” she sniffed.
“Boys sweat; girls get dewy…is what Mom says.”
“And who gets Huey and Louie?”
“You’re getting too verbal for my own good.”
“Wharr you reading?”
“Use your words. Enunciate and no one will ever misunderstand you.”
“Wharr you READING?” she said. (I decided to shit-can enunciation.)
“O. Henry.”
“Oh, Henry!” blasted Melissa from inside the house.
“How did Mama know that?” Molly asked.

Before I could answer, my wife rounded the corner on two wheels. Melissa has always had the build and grace of an athlete. She did a sprint triathlon last year and won the title of “fastest local female.” She is also a certified nut case when it comes to her pets, Soapy and Lulu, two yellow labs with their idles set way high. They too came crashing and leaping and drooling and shedding into view.

S&L landed in a heap, on their backs. They then fought each other to see who could get whose four legs under whom first. This ended with a lot of snippy huffing and chuffing and two big, boxy yellow heads in Molly’s lap, which was on my lap. They eyed each other to see whose head would be patted first, whose ear would be scratched best. Their dust continued to rise, generating the occasional cyclone that spooked the cats and sent Dorothy packing for Oz.

“Down, flotsam, down jetsam!” Melissa cried, shattering maple limbs three trees away. She waved a hairbrush in the direction of the labs who took that as a starter’s flag, giving them the go to start racing in figure eights.
“If we cut off their heads, they might calm down,” I suggested.
“Daddy!”
“They’re just frisky with puppyhood,” Melissa said, looking away from the 110-pound mastodons who last were puppies when Lewinsky was a household name.
“Darling, why do you have a hairbrush?”
“I was having a whack at braiding Molly’s hair but she wandered off.”
“Mama, why didn’t you tell me you had special powers and you could read Daddy’s mind?” Molly asked.

At the sound of her voice, the whelps rushed towards her with the speed and intensity of two professional linebackers, and it was all I could do to fend them off with one arm as I held Molly protectively to me with the other. Somewhere in the process Melissa got involved and I quickly found myself being dragged away by the collar until I was lying on the floor, cowering under my arms as she brandished the hairbrush in the air.

“Oh, it’s you.” She said.
“Don’t fire!”
“What are you doing down there?”
“I was protecting Molly.” I said, looking over Melissa’s shoulder at our child, who was standing on the backs of the dogs, moving rapidly into the distance, looking much like King Neptune on his dolphins.
“Oh, Henry.” Melissa extended a delicate hand and assisted me to my feet. “Something’s got to be done.”
“You’re right about that. May I suggest volunteering them for space? If that’s too good, how about the pound?”
“The pound? What are you talking about?”
“The dogs. We were discussing where to dispose of them.” By this time, Molly was making her way back to the porch. She and the dogs vaulted up the steps and came promptly to a halt next to the swing. She dismounted, gave a curtsy to the sound of her mother’s wild applause and bade the mongrels sit, whereupon they sat.

“No, Henry.”
“Mama, it’s O. Henry,” Molly chirped.
“What?” Melissa said.
“No, Molly—“ I said.
“Not no, O., Papa!”
“No, it’s—“
“—Ands or buts!” sang Molly.
“What?” Melissa said.
“O. Henry!” Molly said.
“Oh, Henry.”
“Would anyone like to admire the fence?” I asked.
—
Later that afternoon I was making myself useful around the house, changing light bulbs and licking stamps, doing the things a man does to help his wife preserve the quality of his home. I was just sitting down again with a tall glass of iced tea when Melissa entered the kitchen. I noticed she was still carrying the hairbrush but lacking the labs. Pleased to find her alone, I patted my lap in indication that I desired her to sit there. She placed the hairbrush on my legs and descended into a chair next to me.

“Goose.” She said.
“Melissa!” I exclaimed. “A lady of your upbringing ought not to call her husband names!”
“No. We have one.”
“Surely Molly hasn’t merited such insulting language. She’s just a child,” I said.
“No, an actual goose.”
“An actual goose?”
“On the pond. Geese. Two.”
“Two geese? On the pond?”
“Yes. It appears they’ve taken up residence. They’re just swimming around, taunting me. Not budging from their stations, just there. Like, like sitting ducks.”
“But,” I wondered, “who, who…. who invited them?”
“Stop speaking like an owl and think of what to do.” Melissa cast a look in my direction. Somewhere behind me, glass shattered.
“Listen here,” I said indignantly. “I was enjoying my afternoon glass of tea when you entered into things with all your… ornithology! Besides, what’s wrong with having geese? Isn’t that what the pond is for?”
“Not our pond. Our pond is for pets, not animals.”
I decided not to question this logic, but instead said, “Darling, they have such a lovely call.”
“I hate that quacking. Noisy things.”
“You don’t think their call is lovely?”
“No.”
“What of the larger implications, dear, to have our humble home serve as an intersection between civilization and nature.” I said, warming to the idea.
“Noisy things.”

There is something you must understand about my loving wife. When she gets something in her mind, much like a barnacle on a boat, she sticks to it. I knew all my talk of greater implications would get me nowhere. Yet I couldn’t quite resign myself to getting rid of the poor things. Nor did I know how.

I spent the next few days trying to learn as much as I could from the ducks. Not in a psychoanalytical way, of course. It would be utter madness to try to get a goose to lie on a couch. No, I was learning about their feeding habits and swimming habits and trying to decide whether it was accurate to assume the one with a deeper honk was male.

Molly split the days between standing next to me, hoping to make a communication breakthrough by chattering like a demented descendant of Donald Duck, and stomping after her mother who was thrashing around the house, muttering darkly and gesturing wildly (which, I might add, was putting our many delicate antiques at risk of further repair, having been clamped and glued a hundred times already from the mace-like tails of S&L). Occasionally I heard the words “foie gras” echoing from the upper reaches of the house, but I couldn’t be sure. All the honking had hardened my hearing.
—-
Saturday dawned bright and cheery. I was awakened by the bright and cheery calls of the geese, who were paddling around brightly and cheerily in the pond. I turned to Melissa and said, “Good morning, darling!” Years of marriage and her bloodshot eyes signaled to me that I ought not to go on. Instead, I wrapped my arms around her waist and lay gazing up at her, smiling adoringly. I heard a low growl.

“Dear, you must be hungry!” I said and patted her stomach. I got up and opened my closet door to locate my dressing gown. When I did so, my grandfather’s old shotgun fell from its pegs above the door onto a pile of laundry.
“Good gracious!” I said. “ I’d forgotten we kept that old thing in here.” I swung the door open wider so my wife could see the ancient weapon. I watched her mouth fall open and then close again in a very tight smile.
“Melissa?” I said feebly. “Darling?”

I was discussing thistle-whacking with Molly over cereal when we heard the first shot. I bleakly hoped that a neighbor’s car had backfired, but I knew better. There were calls of “Honk this!” followed by gunshots, all coming from the yard. We ran onto the porch, only to be wing-flapped in the face and threatened with the pecking of our lives. Well, I was the one beaten about the face. Molly was a good three feet lower, so she just jumped up and down clapping. (One might mistake the emotion on her face for joy and the giggling in her voice for pleasure, but I know she was just caught up in the excitement of the moment.) It was some moment, that’s for sure.

“Duck, Henry!” Melissa yelled from the yard.
“Goose, Mama!” Molly hallooed over to her.
“Gugh!” I said and wildly tried to extricate my head and upper region from the fowl who were zooming crazily around our gingerbread lattice like Tony Hawk on some extreme sport course. Before I new it, Molly and I were scampering down the porch steps as Melissa reloaded, keeping a weather eye on the geese, who were now dazedly flying towards the pond.

“Melissa! What in the world has come over you?” I panted.
“Mama, are you using your special powers to get rid of the geese?”
“No, I’m using your great-grandfather’s shotgun!” She replied, and to punctuate the phrase, sent another powerful burst into the air after the geese.

I could stand it no longer. It was time for me to stop being kind – as the man of the house, I had to put my foot down. So I did. After much howling, I apologized to Soapy on whose paw I had just put my foot down. Lulu thought stepping on Soapy’s foot was a new game and bounced around, wanting more of the same.

After a strong reprimand from Melissa, I apologized to the trodden dog and said,
“Stop shooting! I command you as your husband to put the gun down.”
Melissa snorted a bit and pushed a jumping Lulu down with the flat of her hand.
“I won’t have you tormenting two geese just because they stopped at our pond to rest on their long trip South.”
Melissa raised her eyebrow.
“It’s me or the geese, dear. Put the gun down and let’s have a sit on the porch.”
“Molly,” Melissa said slowly, “Put this on the kitchen table. Don’t touch anything but the handle.” Molly took the empty gun and did as she was bidden, and I guided my wife to our swing, where I began to educate her in the finer points of tractor maintenance to soothe her nerves.

Her heart rate was at a plodding 185 – the lowest Melissa’s gets — when the dogs began to bark. Well, it was more of a gurgle really, but we got the point. Melissa, ever-ready to defend her pets, jumped to her feet and emitted a shrill squeak that might have meant something to a dolphin. I too stood and was stunned by the sight of the geese attacking the surface of the pond. I couldn’t make head nor tail of it and the whole thing seemed entirely incomprehensible until I saw the golden heads of two dogs in the pond. The dogs were swimming and being pecked by the geese!

“Swim, girls, swim!” Melissa shouted at them.
“Duck!” I called. “Submerge!”
“Go, darlings!” Melissa yelped.
“Go, goose!” rooted Molly.
“Go under!” I suggested.
“Go to hell!” Melissa said to me and with wings on her feet, was beside the pond with a large stone in her hand. She threw it with great strength and accuracy, but the dexterous geese dodged the missile and it fell instead on Lulu’s rump. She turned on Soapy who claimed innocence. Nothing doing. Lulu knew a nip when she felt one. So she nipped back. Then Soapy nipped Lulu, tit for tat. And on it went, nip and duck, so to speak, with the Canadians egging them on. I haven’t seen a rumble like that since Johnny Testa and Joey Mustardmelli got it on in the seventh grade, behind Yopp’s Five and Ten.

I watched in awe as my wife continued hurling items at the geese and nearly drowning the paddling pups.

“DO something, Henry! This is your fault.”
(It’s always a good idea to assign spousal blame early in any crisis.)
“I’m a pacifist. Nature sorts itself out.”
“They’ll hurt the dogs!”

I was about to point out that a very large nuclear explosion could not hurt either dog, much to my dismay, when Soapy lunging for Lulu’s tail came up with some dangling part of goose instead. That led to a kerfuffle of which roaming minstrels would sing, were there any minstrels still a-roaming. We were saved by a suggestion from my keen four-year-old.

“TREAT!” Molly yelled.

Moving at roughly mach 15, the labs churned out of the fracas and onto the porch. Where they shook themselves and looked expectantly at us. Melissa went into the kitchen, leaving puddles in her wake. She emerged with two biscuits.

“Good dogs,” she said, flipping one to Soapy while Lulu tried to catch hers and Soapy’s at the same time.

The geese pulled themselves onto the dock where they preened and spread and
honked, “Ya wanna another piece of me, dog breath?” Fortunately, S&L were more interested in a second round of biscuits, which Melissa dutifully fetched, saying, “Well, they used a lot of energy out there.”

That evening, I was sitting on the porch again, reviewing the events of the day when I heard the geese honk out of the pond, heading north. Molly came to sit beside me and we watched them vanish into the sunset, never to be seen again.

She turned to me and said sweetly, “You smell bad, Daddy.”

We called him Old Straightlace, and he was the toughest ref in town.

I spent every Thursday night with Straightlace, from September to January, four years in a row, as he officiated our high school basketball games. He was a ref that every teenage basketball player feared. He knew the rulebook, our tricks and had a sixth sense for trouble. His fairness and calm manner put shame in our adolescent hearts.

The closest I come to athletics now is wearing gym shorts while I do laundry. I loved my small career, but I’ve lost most of its details. I forget teammate’s names, coach’s mottos, what the small boxes in the paint are drawn for. Old Straightlace stays with me. Why?

Straightlace had iron-gray hair and a blue five o’clock shadow that never grew or receded. He ran with his whistle clamped between his teeth. Its strings hung like reins on a horse’s bit. He wasn’t tall or broad, but when he stood with his hands on his hips and his feet planted, he towered over every center in the league. His voice was deep and textured and tangible, like a thick line of alligator bark on an oak tree.

He silenced coaches with a slight raise of one eyebrow, he stopped hecklers with a quick glare; it took only his finger to his throat to quiet whining players.

Old Straightlace wasn’t a zebra – he was a dragon.

In a close game, I dove for a loose ball and tapped my head on the corner of the bleachers. I was knocked out. When I regained consciousness, the first thing I saw was Straightlace bent over me. He pushed my eyelids back with his thumbs. He looked at my pupils, then in my eyes, and walked away. Everyone else swarmed closer, and I was taken to a hospital where I was pronounced fine, save for a knot on my forehead. The experience left me with a temporary new nickname – Bleacher Face – and questioning the quick connection this mysterious man had made with me.

High school basketball officials are fascinating. The majority of them don’t work college games, though some top-level ones do. Not a single ref I’ve spoken with aspires to NBA stardom. Many officials work feeder games, which are fifth- and sixth-grade boys and girls, as well as reffing freshman A and B teams and junior varsity leagues. (These games are what’s called small potatoes.)

The officials use their own money to travel to and from games. The most dedicated also join refereeing associations, which provide extra training and background, along with safety in numbers.

All the effort, all the time and every referee said he feels underappreciated. So why keep going?

Jeff Curtin is a certified basketball official, the highest level a high school ref can achieve. (The ladder goes: registered, recognized, certified.) He has officiated Chicago high school basketball games for 26 years and will work 125 games this season. He said a referee can get paid up to $60 for working a varsity game.

“Each game is an hour and a half. Most good officials get there an hour before the game, and then an hour after the game they get home,” he said. “That’s three to four hours of work, so for $60, it’s more than just the money.”

The job is infinitely detail-oriented, repetitive and requires perfection. It’s data entry. In a uniform. Perfection is the whole point, but Curtin and other refs agree that it’s impossible to call a perfect game every time.

Moreover, the job of a high school referee is one of an active witness – he has total control over something that doesn’t affect anybody’s life that much. There are great games and memorable moments, but there are also blow-outs and double dribbles. Sure, sports are relevant to American society and they could teach morality and values, but we’re talking high school. This is about teenage testosterone and adolescent anguish. The heroes have braces and the villains have acne.

A ref has 100 percent of the power over something that everybody is happy to have an interest in, but most won’t remember. It’s like being president of a country made up of grandstand amnesiacs. With a few grudge-nursers thrown in.

Aside from the fact that the ref’s effect isn’t memorable, many officials want to be invisible themselves.

“The name of the game from a referee’s standpoint is to go by unscathed and unknown,” Curtin said. He said each ref wants to be forgotten; it shows their calls were true and their role was minimal. Why would anybody risk being torn limb from limb by an angry fan, just to be invisible?

I’ll be honest – when I played basketball, I liked the referees. That probably comes from the same gene that makes me return library books on time. Better yet, the refs liked me. I was always one of their favorites.

Perhaps it was my famed lack of ability. I didn’t have the hand strength to open a jar of marmalade. My vertical leap topped out when I stood still. When my coach told me to mix it up in the paint, I panicked and scored two points for the other side.

But how I loved the game, the practices, the teaminess of it. I liked the pressure, the responsibility, the ways to substitute something I could do for something I couldn’t. I loved the refs because they kept the playing field level, which helped showcase my hard work.

Always a rulebook kind of girl, I appreciated that there was someone who could give me a definitive answer. Yes or no. You’ve fouled or you haven’t. No either, no neither, no both. The officials were sure of themselves. They didn’t care how the game ended, just how it was played.

Here is another point to be made about officiating: an athlete’s goal is to win, to finish the game, while a referee’s goal is to observe the game and to have nothing to do with who triumphs.

“A player or coach or fan’s worst fear is to know that a referee changed the outcome of the game dramatically. We’re not there to determine who wins,” Curtin said.

Even though I appreciated their presence and thought most of the refs who worked my games had good judgment, I always wondered what type of person signed up to be a referee. Who thinks they can gauge the actions of ten basketball players perfectly every time?

In Illinois, all you have to do to become a high school basketball ref is register with the Illinois High School Association. You take an open book test on the rules, then you get a badge and hey presto, you’re registered. What keeps out the bad guys?

“It’s an individual thing,” Curtin said. “It’s like anyone’s own DNA makeup. What’s in their heart is what they’re going to do. If they’re going to be crooked, it’s going to come out. It weeds itself out.”

And how do they stay unbiased? Effort is apparent in high school basketball. A ref that sees a kid trying hard, battling, playing fair but losing because of someone else’s fault or maybe her own lack of ability… how could he not sympathize with the player? How could his heart not yearn to fly to her and help her along?

Push up her eyelids to see if she’s ok.

Fred Allman has been officiating games in the Chicago area for 21 years. He, like Curtin, is also at the highest level a high school referee can be.

“You have to take the floor with an attitude of you’re going to do the best job you possibly can,” he said. “And you honestly do not care who wins the game.”

I spoke with other referees about the process of remaining unbiased, and every one echoed Allman’s statement. They acknowledged that with sports comes emotion. They agreed that by officiating at the same high schools year after year, they get to know coaches and players, even troublesome fans.

“It’s mind over matter,” Curtin said. “When a referee takes the court, unbeknownst to a lot of parents and fans, they have no prejudged opinion or disposition against somebody, a coach, a player or a fan.”

Allman expressed feelings of exclusion, that he loves basketball as much as the players and coaches, yet he’s always seen as the bad guy.

“We are far more than the necessary evil that many people make us feel that we are,” he said.

The basic question then is why do refs ref?

“It’s my part-time job. This is for fun, for love of the game. It feels good to see and officiate a game that’s played well,” Curtin said.

For love of the game, Allman agreed.

I don’t know where Old Straightlace is now. I heard rumors that he died. As a player, I’d been close enough to feel the air expelled from his whistle and hear the ball rattling madly inside it. I’d looked at the knots in his shoelaces. I’d seen his sweat drip. I’d watched him guide us around the court like pieces of chess. I’d applauded his calls, protested them and grudgingly acknowledged his expertise.

I realized that I never doubted Straightlace’s calls. I objected to them when my team suffered, but I had never truly believed him wrong. I have yet to discover what quality he possessed that gave me, and everyone around him, faith in his judgment. Maybe it was that I knew he was an honest ref.

Old Straightlace’s legacy stays with me and perhaps a few other sentimental players. He put up with trash talking, cat calling and once I think someone threw a chili dog at him. He spent half his life standing in anonymous teacher’s workrooms, swigging red Gatorade and sweating in black sneakers.

I know other things in life are just as impermanent as a sports game. The jobs many of us work, the lives many of us lead. They’ll fade away, but it seems that the calls a referee makes fade just a little bit faster.

I can’t figure out why anyone would sign up to be a referee. It seems to be a thankless job that requires perfection – which is unattainable – and takes time, money and patience. You risk your dignity and personal safety to have a hand in meting out justice for high school students, many of whom play for reasons other than love of the game.

Still, there is something haunting in the image of a steely-eyed man jogging quietly up and down a basketball court, calling the world right or wrong as he sees it. Guiding the game and watching over its players, making sure things are fair.

There are 345,000 more Americans unemployed than last week? Batten down the hatches! The whole nation’s going to be unemployed by mid-summer. Exciting stuff. Big news.

But is it really?

The leading economic indicators, such as initial jobless claims, show the country’s economic activity. They serve two purposes – tracking the history of the economy and allowing that data to be analyzed for trends. They’re released by the government on a regular basis and are ideal for scholars, economists and headline writers. Essentially, they take the economy’s temperature and tell experts if it’s healthy. They can also serve as a kind of alarm: If the index numbers swing downward, a recession may be around the corner.

“What the index of leading economic indicators is designed to do is predict what’s going to happen to the economy six to nine months out, but that’s mainly for policy purposes,” said Allen Sanderson, senior lecturer in the economics department of the University of Chicago.

The problem is that indicator figures are often more volatile than the economy itself because they revolve around quickly changing numbers like interest rates or retail sales.

So should typical Americans really base their economic decisions on these reports? Does up-to-date economic information make things seem worse than they actually are?

Are the leading economic indicators… misleading?

“I’ve been somewhat amused, bemused or bewildered by all the stories about foreclosures and defaults. One would get the impression from the headlines that half the people in the U.S. have lost their homes, but it’s just not true,” Sanderson said. “We say, ‘Well, gee home ownership rates dropped.’ Yes, it dropped from 69 percent to 68 percent, but it didn’t drop from 69 percent to 29 percent. These are really very small kinds of movements.”

Why are the indicators so fickle? They’re tied up with elements of the economy that move rapidly which lends a kind of amorphous quality to the reports. The same figure can be used to support differing opinions of the economy. One’s philosophy and scope of view (short-term or long-term) determines one’s resulting analysis.

If you’re looking for something negative, you can probably find it, no matter what state the economy’s in.

“There’s a lot of noise, but there’s also a lot of built-in stability” in the economy Sanderson said. “We’re not talking about some minor little fiefdom somewhere, we’re talking about a $13 or $14 trillion economy, and a lot of things in that economy are going to be very sluggish.”

Just as many investment experts warn people away from trading based on intraday stock fluctuations, Sanderson suggests zooming out. Historical trends and digging into real numbers – instead of percent change – can help keep things in perspective.

“I think the best thing to do in these types of situations is to take the Christian Science approach,” Sanderson said. “If the body is reasonably healthy, take two aspirin and go to bed.”

The 2008 presidential candidates have turned to sports in an effort to appeal to reticent voters. A recent debate allowed the contenders a chance to express their personalities, off the campaign field.

Candidates from both parties appeared in front of a live audience to argue the most important issue that divides them – which sport should become the national pastime if every baseball player failed his steroid test.

John Madden moderated.

MADDEN: I’d like to remind the audience that to win, each candidate has to score more votes than the other politicians. Now, let the games begin!

H. CLINTON: This whole debate is rigged against me because I’m a woman. I’m invoking Title XI.

MADDEN: That was a great individual effort, but let’s keep our eyes on the ball. Senator Barack?

OBAMA: Hussein’s in my name; lacrosse is my game.

MADDEN: For any viewers who aren’t sports fans, that’s where players invite strippers to a party and then everyone runs up legal bills.

OBAMA: That’s only one aspect of the game. I learned to play from my mother, who was from Kansas but identified with Native Americans, Africans, Asians, West Kvetchians, East Taboulians and Tiger Woods. Lacrosse transcends all borders. It’s the choice for people of all colors, sizes and races, which this race is not about.

H. CLINTON: Is not, too! He’s agreeing with me again.

MADDEN: Senator Clinton, you look like you’re ready to run a punt return. Back to you.

H. CLINTON: There’s no going back, John, only forward. I don’t dwell in the past. I don’t care about that hussy hairdresser in Little Rock or the bottle blond in Reno. If elected, I pledge to do away with interns in the White House on day one. I’m more experienced about the dangers of interns than all of my opponents combined. I’m not riding on my husband’s coat tails –

MADDEN: We call it horse collaring, Senator.

H. CLINTON: Whatever. The point is: I don’t need him. I can do this on my own, without coarse hollering!

MADDEN: So what should our national sport be?

H. CLINTON: (A familiar raspy voice rises from the front row, but is inaudible on stage.) Boxcar. Smartcar. Sportscar? (A large grey-haired figure bounds onto the stage.)

MADDEN: It looks like the crowd factor is coming into play.

B. CLINTON: She means NASCAR.

H. CLINTON: Right! Remember how America rallied after Amelia Earnhardt’s tragic death in the last lap of the Daytona 900. And what a catastrophe that was, one which the junior Senator from Illinois did nothing to prevent. (B. Clinton tries to grab her microphone. They struggle.) We were united in tragedy – black, white, puce and aquamarine. Now the American people need an experienced leader. One who can drive the country in the right direction! One who can cover all the bases and knock the puck in the hoop and kick a triple axel through the uprights when the game’s on the line! Americans need –

B. CLINTON: Me! Her! Us! I mean, the country needs a Clinton. Well, it depends on what you think mean means.

H. CLINTON: Will security please get my husband out of my limelight?

MADDEN: It looks like a tooth-and-nail kind of game, folks, as the Democrats are forced to burn a timeout while Mr. Clinton is escorted into the locker room. Let’s try one of the elephants.

MCCAIN: My friends, America’s national sport should be hunting terrorists. This position makes me the most conservative candidate in this race. I am also the oldest and only one who didn’t go to Woodstock. I’ve been on the front lines of scrimmage more times than any other person here!

MADDEN: What an offensive move. Any thoughts, Governor Huckabee?

HUCKABEE: My faith is part of who I am. It’s not a game with me. My faith is more solid than any nine-iron, but lighter than any ping-pong ball. It’s tougher than astro-turf and stickier than resin. It’s…

MADDEN: Your sport, Governor? The ball’s in your court.

HUCKABEE: Our national sport should be tennis, which I was never allowed to play because it involves rackets, which are associated with organized crime, which I’m against. Also, the players make sex noises every time they hit their balls. Still, tennis is the sport for me and every committed evangelical who thinks there’s only one way to swing.

MADDEN: But why?

HUCKABEE: So we can clean it up! For a start I’d ban same-sex doubles. I’d also ban mixed doubles, except between a married man and his wife.

ROMNEY: I’m in favor of doing nothing. Staying the same, but changing too. I lowered taxes in Massachusetts and I raised them too!

MADDEN: Let’s get on the same page, candidates. Focus on the task at hand.

ROMNEY: I favor vigorous personal exercise. Like splitting stocks. I also favor piling up dollars.

MADDEN: I hope our viewing audience appreciates the tenacity of these politicians and their performance tonight. It’s stuff for the highlight film, folks.

OBAMA: I’m in favor of all kinds of athletes. Running backs –

MCCAIN: He’ll run backwards!

OBAMA: And short stops –

MCCAIN: He’ll stop short!

OBAMA: And rowers and curlers and pitchers!

B. CLINTON: Pitch her and pick me! I can start before day one!

HUCKABEE: I question the former President’s family values.

H. CLINTON: You’re a rightwing nut!

ROMNEY: I’m more of a rightwing nut than he is! No dancing at my White House. No inhaling on my watch.

MCCAIN: I’m not a liberal like these other candidates. I’ll stay in Iraq until h-e-double hockey sticks freezes over. We are all God’s children. Even the Clintons.

MADDEN: This place is pandemonium! We’ve got some strong candidates for this year’s draft, so we’ll just have to see who comes out on top.

And in a photo-opportunity finish, the candidates, moderator and former President Clinton linked arms and sang one rousing round of “Take Me Out to the White House” before the cameras stopped rolling.

Perhaps the nature of this event signals a new era of political campaigning and a new, important role for sports in American society… but let’s not count our field goals before they’re kicked.

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