HoopSquareFestDance: Finis

Excerpted verbatim from last weekend's 61st annual National Square Dance Convention website's Frequently Asked Questions:

I've heard about 'Hoopfest' weekend. How will that effect coming to the 61st NSDC in Spokane?


Don't worry … 'Hoopfest' takes place in a different area of downtown Spokane, not in the Convention Center, and 'Hoopfest' is only on Saturday. We square dancers have Spokane to ourselves Wednesday through Friday.


* Hoopfest takes place in many cities across the United States, all on the same weekend, and has coincided with many other National Square Dance Conventions® ... with no problems.


After reading this reassuring, but completely inaccurate response, I wondered what the square dancers thought when they woke up last Saturday morning with a good share of the 28,000 basketball players playing Hoopfest parked at their doorstep.

I think he should've called a foul, don't you?

As it turned out: They were not flustered. Not one allemande left bit.


I love Hoopfest. It is one of my favorite weekends in Bermtopia. And trite as it may sounds, it continues, year after year, to frame that perfect metaphor for life 


We start out with great expectations. Adversity strikes. We are dashed. We buck up. And start all over again. Sometimes we are rewarded for bucking up, but mostly dashed. Again. And then we start all over. Again. 


But in the end, human perserverance (and an unusually ornery inclination for survival) is occasionally rewarded -- sometimes with the champions' T-shirt, sometimes with The Losers King T-shirt (always the BEST designed shirt of the tournament), but always with memories of your one (or two or three) rock-star shot, friendship and team work.

Life's a little bit like that too, don't you think? Except without the T-shirts.





Of course, the memories of your one rock-star shot, friendship and team work don't always kick in right away, especially after a Hoopfest where you're eliminated on Saturday, the first day of the tournament. Seared in my maternal soul is an extremely disgusted, distraught 9-year-old Number 2 Son, who passionately announced in tears, he would "NEVER play Hoopfest again!" when his team exited unceremoniously on a Saturday afternoon.


In 16 subsequent years, I think this is only the second Hoopfest he's missed, both times thanks to a traitorous ACL.


There are always one or two Hoopfest Magic Moments. We were privileged to witness one Sunday.


We had stopped by the court where a friend's 18-year-old son was playing.


Ah, yes. Adult Male Open. The tats, 'tudes and testosterone make one's head spin. In reverse. You could build a small  city with the metal collected from players' (and spectators') body piercings. It's intense. Let's just say intense.

But two courts down, three players -- one dressed as a Christmas elf; one in turtleneck, white sports jacket and khakis; and a third, who could only be categorized as Basketball Nerd -- taught us all that, at the end of day, we need to stop, laugh and enjoy the moment. 


It was obvious they knew how to play basketball, seeing as they made it to Sunday, but they had moved beyond the frenzy and occasional desperation of winning. This weekend, they just wanted to make people  laugh. And laugh we did when. . . .

They called a time out to sing "Happy Birthday" to one of their opponents.

They dropped to the ground and covered their ears if a shot hit the backboard too hard.

They pulled out the power play, The Super Human. Which entailed one player -- the elf -- driving to the basket riding piggyback on Mr. Sports Coat.

 

My favorite set play?  A game of leap frog over each other while pushing the basketball forward on the ground, finishing with a spectacularly failed dunk on the basket.  


And when the the other team finally won the game on a carefully scripted slam-dunk off the back of Basketball Nerd, our three merry hoopsters hoisted him up on their shoulders for a victory lap.




As for the square dancers? I found myself in the middle of their final Grand Conflagration or Stampede or Promenade -- whatever they call it -- at 4:30 p.m. Saturday afternoon. Despite my previous smart-ass observations, it was impressive. 


5,500 participants from 49 of 50 U.S. states (come ON, Delaware, get with the program!), Europe, Asia, Canada, Australia and Africa.

Did you know that if you went to a square dance in Tokyo -- or Nairobi, for that matter -- it would be called in English. Square dance is the ONLY dance form that sticks with its native tongue. 

They seem to lighten  up at the Grand Conflagration.

I think they enjoyed themselves. We certainly enjoyed the color and rich heritage they shared with us. Thank you, merry hoopsters -- and square dancers -- for reminding us that basketball games -- and life -- should be fun. . . . and colorful.

HoopSquareFestDance

Bermtopia has done it again. We've got the National Square Dance Convention and Hoopfest, the world's largest 3-on-3 outdoor basketball tournament, sharing downtown this weekend. There is only one word to describe this conflagration:

EPIC. . . . Epic. Epic. Epic.

Somehow it always kinda works out.

The square dancers got here Wednesday and leave Saturday. The ballers began streaming in today and will play to The Death Sunday. . . unless you're chucked on Saturday. Which is a total bummer if you are a kid, but kind of a relief if you're a parent, especially if the forecast is for temps in the 90s.

Saturday will be the perfect storm of crinoline and organza (I marvel I can spell these words) and Nike and saggin'. You have been warned.

YoungBobCupFest

It's almost 10 p.m. in Bermtopia and my feet, hips AND lower back tell me we've covered a lot of territory today:

HOOP FEST: The world's largest 3 v 3 street basketball tournament. It's said it's like going to Walmart except you're in downtown Bermtopia. They may have a point there.

The Reader's Digest version: The Number 2 Son's team lost both games today and are now in the Loser King bracket, meaning (1) we get to watch a bit of the England-Germany World Cup game tomorrow a.m. (a serendipitous little dividend) and (2) if they (the N2S team, not England or Germany) win two games tomorrow, they get the coolest T-shirt ever (traditionally WAY cooler than the court champion shirt but try telling that to the N2S). Film at 11. Or tomorrow. Or whatever. The N2S was a bit of a grumpy dumpling but I think the evening's festivities shall soothe the savage beast.

US-GHANA WORLD CUP GAME: We are ALL grumpy dumplings about this. Please don't ask.

YOUNG BOB FLYNN: The Wonderfully Patient Spouse and I stopped by to say hi to Young Bob Flynn. And you know, life has the funniest ways of keeping you humble.

We were taking YBF for a stroll outdoors via wheelchair, when she stopped the WSP in the hall and pointed in the general direction of where I was walking.

"Brad, is there a dog right over here?"

Our eyes met --the WPS and I, that is. We smiled and stifled a laugh.

I leaned over and said, "Bobby, it's me, Mary, Brad's wife."

Her eyes widened, and despite her diminished eyesight, she found my hands, enveloped them with hers and gave them a butterfly kiss. Then she laughed. Loose. Carefree.


"Oh. Mary. I know you're not a dog."

My oh my, tamale pie

The Number 2 Son should be rolling into town any time now, coming home for a weekend of Hoopfest and World Cup. The Wonderfully Patient Spouse and I are wondering how the first gazing-upon of The Matt Cave will go -- along with the edict that he's in the guest bedroom from now on. Needless to say, I bought a mattress pad for the downstairs futon. . . just in case the edict idea doesn't fly. Which it normally doesn't.

Safely tucked away in the refrigerator at home is the N2S' favorite meal -- tamale pie. Making tamale pie is our version of killing the fatted calf in celebration of the prodigal son's return. Definitely less bloody. But judging on the way the kitchen looked last night around 8:30 p.m., I do believe they're about equal on the makes-quite-a-mess-o-meter.

I grant you, tamale pie is NOT your typical summer offering. Far from it. It's dense with hamburger, onion, chili powder, cumin, oregano, corn (fresh in this case as a shout-out to summer), cheese (cheddar AND pepper jack) and yogurt-infused cornmeal mush, topped with a sour-cream-and-tomato-concoction, then baked to tamale-like perfection -- IF, and only if, you consider a 10-pound tamale perfection.



Truth be told, the dish is really best savored in January, after shovelling snow for 12 hours, in sub-zero temperatures, with windchill factor of say 30 below. Preferably by a family of 14.

But the N2S is home! It's World Cup and Hoopfest. A celebration is in order. So celebrate we will with a hunka-hunka slice of burnin' love -- tamale pie.


Pass the guacamole, please.

Big ears (again! same week!)

Ahhh, it's Hoopfest Week. One of my favorite weeks in the year here in Bermtopia.

By way of explanation: This weekend, Bermtopia hosts the largest outdoor 3-on-3 basketball tournament in the world.

The weeks prior to Hoopfest are a treasure. If there is a basketball hoop in the 'hood, some team is practicing. I expected nothing different tonight as I took Ben, the dog, for walk. We approach Wilson Elementary, alma mater of Number 1 and Number 2 Sons, fully expecting all hoops (all non regulation, I think) occupied.

But no, instead I spy 4 young lads who I'd place at 6th grade or so, judging by their size (2 tall and gangly, 2 short and skinny... which is the same as gangly except you can't be gangly if you're short) and range of octaves of their voices. Two are on skateboards, doing deliberate, but manly, passes back and forth each other. They are all amazingly intent on their fingernails.

I soon discern the reason why. There are LADIES (the 6th grade version) sitting on the 1st graders' swing set, just outside of the boy-cootie danger zone.

Then, one of THE LADIES yells.

"Hey, Jordan. Are you dating Krista?"

There's a flurry of intense fingernail inspection along with, I suspect, a group consultation for just the right come-back amongst the boys. Then Jordan, all 4' 11'' of him, roars back in an surprisingly deep, emphatic voice.

"NO!"

Pause.

Then one of THE LADIES speaks.

"Hey, Jordan. Do you LIKE her?"

Enough is enough. A line has been crossed. How much prying can a self-respecting 6th grade guy take? Jordan wheels around and glares at his inquisitors.

"I'M A FREE MAN. I CAN DO WHAT I WANT!"

Jordan's "WANT" starts out dark and indignant, but ends on a bird-like chirrup.

Indeed.

Oh, Jordan. I think we need to check back with you (and Krista) later.