Analysis of the All-NBA Team Voting
The NBA annually selects a 15 member All-NBA Team divided into three five man squads--and almost every year the selections don't quite add up, both literally (in terms of vote totals) and figuratively (I previously offered my take on discrepancies in the 2009 and 2007 editions of the All-NBA Team).
This year's First Team is not controversial (Dwight Howard, LeBron James, Kevin Durant, Derrick Rose, Kobe Bryant), che though for the second straight year the media chose Durant while I would have selected Dirk Nowitzki. The Second Team consists of Nowitzki, Pau Gasol, Amare Stoudemire, Dwyane Wade and Russell Westbrook, while LaMarcus Aldridge, Zach Randolph, Al Horford, Manu Ginobili and Chris Paul earned Third Team honors. In addition to the Nowitzki-Durant swap, my All-NBA Team included Aldridge on the Second Team and listed Gasol as the Third Team center; I chose Tony Parker instead of Ginobili as a Third Team guard and my Third Team forwards were Blake Griffin and Kevin Love.
Unless there is a typographical error on the official NBA press release, this year the 119 media members on the selection panel combined for 120 First Team votes at center, 237 First Team votes at forward and 240 First Team votes at guard. The only guards who received First Team votes were Rose, Bryant and Wade--none of whom should be listed at any other position (though Bryant occasionally plays small forward)--so it is difficult to understand why there were two "extra" guard votes (119 media members voting for two First Team guard slots should produce 238 First Team votes, not 240). The discrepancy at center and forward is easier to explain; Stoudemire clearly received one First Team vote as a center and one as a forward. However, there is no logical explanation for how 119 voters combined for 597 total First Team votes (the total should be 595).
A funny "old school" story about the blurred distinction between center and power forward happened back in the 1970s when the 6-7, wide bodied Wes Unseld was the Bullets' nominal center while the 6-9, agile Elvin Hayes (a collegiate center) was the Bullets' nominal power forward; Hayes told a reporter that the Bullets needed better play from the center position but when the reporter repeated that remark to Unseld he retorted that Hayes should know because Hayes is the team's center! However, the Bullets were somewhat unusual--most "old school" teams had a clearly defined center and a clearly defined power forward. A few years ago, Shaquille O'Neal called himself "LCL" (the "Last Center Left") and he was prophetic to some degree. Howard is one of the few legitimate back to the basket, traditional centers; most NBA big men are hybrids whose skill sets/body types represent a blurring of the line between center (historically the biggest player on the team and someone who operated predominantly in the paint) and power forward (historically the second biggest player on the team and someone who could rebound in the paint but also step out to shoot the 15 foot jump shot). Players like Gasol, Stoudemire and Tim Duncan often are the de facto centers for their respective teams yet they are more mobile than traditional centers and they face the basket on offense more frequently than most traditional centers used to do.
The strange thing about this year's All-NBA Team is that Horford received designation as the Third Team center even though he is essentially a power forward and even though the Hawks' best lineup this season (as seen during the playoffs) shifted him to power forward. Why honor Horford when Griffin and Love clearly had better seasons? Both Griffin (22.5 ppg, 12.1 rpg, 3.8 apg) and Love (20.2 ppg, a league-leading 15.2 rpg, 2.5 apg) put up significantly better numbers than Horford (15.3 ppg, 9.3 rpg, 3.5 apg) so it makes no sense to use a tenuous positional designation as an excuse to put Horford on the team. By placing Gasol at Third Team center I gave Aldridge his just due as a Second Team forward (Aldridge is clearly Portland's franchise player, while Gasol is clearly the Lakers' second option) while also creating room for Griffin and Love to be on the team. Although a good case can be made to put Randolph on the team, Griffin and Love were more productive than Randolph during the regular season--and, even though playoff performance has no bearing on a regular season honor, it should be noted that despite the attention Randolph has received for his postseason production he is shooting just .439 from the field so far in the playoffs, well below his .503 regular season field goal percentage. Randolph and Horford received 67 and 62 points respectively in the voting (scored on a 5-3-1 basis), while Love received 48 (fourth best among players who did not make the cut, trailing Rajon Rondo, Paul Pierce and Carmelo Anthony) and Griffin received 36.
This year's First Team is not controversial (Dwight Howard, LeBron James, Kevin Durant, Derrick Rose, Kobe Bryant), che though for the second straight year the media chose Durant while I would have selected Dirk Nowitzki. The Second Team consists of Nowitzki, Pau Gasol, Amare Stoudemire, Dwyane Wade and Russell Westbrook, while LaMarcus Aldridge, Zach Randolph, Al Horford, Manu Ginobili and Chris Paul earned Third Team honors. In addition to the Nowitzki-Durant swap, my All-NBA Team included Aldridge on the Second Team and listed Gasol as the Third Team center; I chose Tony Parker instead of Ginobili as a Third Team guard and my Third Team forwards were Blake Griffin and Kevin Love.
Unless there is a typographical error on the official NBA press release, this year the 119 media members on the selection panel combined for 120 First Team votes at center, 237 First Team votes at forward and 240 First Team votes at guard. The only guards who received First Team votes were Rose, Bryant and Wade--none of whom should be listed at any other position (though Bryant occasionally plays small forward)--so it is difficult to understand why there were two "extra" guard votes (119 media members voting for two First Team guard slots should produce 238 First Team votes, not 240). The discrepancy at center and forward is easier to explain; Stoudemire clearly received one First Team vote as a center and one as a forward. However, there is no logical explanation for how 119 voters combined for 597 total First Team votes (the total should be 595).
A funny "old school" story about the blurred distinction between center and power forward happened back in the 1970s when the 6-7, wide bodied Wes Unseld was the Bullets' nominal center while the 6-9, agile Elvin Hayes (a collegiate center) was the Bullets' nominal power forward; Hayes told a reporter that the Bullets needed better play from the center position but when the reporter repeated that remark to Unseld he retorted that Hayes should know because Hayes is the team's center! However, the Bullets were somewhat unusual--most "old school" teams had a clearly defined center and a clearly defined power forward. A few years ago, Shaquille O'Neal called himself "LCL" (the "Last Center Left") and he was prophetic to some degree. Howard is one of the few legitimate back to the basket, traditional centers; most NBA big men are hybrids whose skill sets/body types represent a blurring of the line between center (historically the biggest player on the team and someone who operated predominantly in the paint) and power forward (historically the second biggest player on the team and someone who could rebound in the paint but also step out to shoot the 15 foot jump shot). Players like Gasol, Stoudemire and Tim Duncan often are the de facto centers for their respective teams yet they are more mobile than traditional centers and they face the basket on offense more frequently than most traditional centers used to do.
The strange thing about this year's All-NBA Team is that Horford received designation as the Third Team center even though he is essentially a power forward and even though the Hawks' best lineup this season (as seen during the playoffs) shifted him to power forward. Why honor Horford when Griffin and Love clearly had better seasons? Both Griffin (22.5 ppg, 12.1 rpg, 3.8 apg) and Love (20.2 ppg, a league-leading 15.2 rpg, 2.5 apg) put up significantly better numbers than Horford (15.3 ppg, 9.3 rpg, 3.5 apg) so it makes no sense to use a tenuous positional designation as an excuse to put Horford on the team. By placing Gasol at Third Team center I gave Aldridge his just due as a Second Team forward (Aldridge is clearly Portland's franchise player, while Gasol is clearly the Lakers' second option) while also creating room for Griffin and Love to be on the team. Although a good case can be made to put Randolph on the team, Griffin and Love were more productive than Randolph during the regular season--and, even though playoff performance has no bearing on a regular season honor, it should be noted that despite the attention Randolph has received for his postseason production he is shooting just .439 from the field so far in the playoffs, well below his .503 regular season field goal percentage. Randolph and Horford received 67 and 62 points respectively in the voting (scored on a 5-3-1 basis), while Love received 48 (fourth best among players who did not make the cut, trailing Rajon Rondo, Paul Pierce and Carmelo Anthony) and Griffin received 36.
NBA at the Crossroads
The NBA and its players appear unable to reach an agreement on the terms and conditions of labor. A number of proposals have been rejected. From available reports, the primary difference appears to center around the division of income. I suspect, however, that the division of income forms only part of the dispute; the owners have been seeking some very fundamental alterations in the structure of the league, including limits on individual salaries, terminable contracts, and a tightened salary cap. But even if the popular reports are correct and the revenue split is all that stands in the way of an agreement, the fact that the sides have been unable to arrive at satisfying division implies more is at work than simply recalculating percentages.
What could be emerging in the NBA is a complete re-working of league arrangements. The NBA, like most professional sports leagues, embodies a delicate balance between owners with profitable teams and those without, between players paid huge sums and those paid much less, and between agents on the inside and those on the out. There are a lot of moving parts here, and the threat of union decertification that has emerged in the last few weeks suggests that the whole edifice may be about to crash to the ground.
I suspect there is something important going on with the talk by players of decertification. As we've seen recently with the NFL, the usual purpose of decertification is to unleash an antitrust suit against the owners. But it appears that the NBA players who are pushing for decertification may not be targeting the owners. They may be targeting the union.
1. As a formal matter, decertification ends the union, after a period of time. With the end of the union comes the end of the owners' collective exemption from antitrust law. This means that the owners' ability to act jointly in setting the terms and conditions of labor would then be subject to antitrust scrutiny. Although the owners have some very good arguments to justify their collective action, the fact of the matter is that sports owners in general have not done well at the bar of justice. If these hypothetical antitrust suits were to be filed and proceed all the way to the merits, the owners could find many of their questionable labor practices ended, including the rookie draft, salary restrictions, including maximum salaries and the cap, and limitations on freedom of movement by both players and franchises. Decertification could radically change the league.
2. So decertification does provide a means to attack restrictions imposed by owners, albeit by a very long-term and unpredictable process. But decertification provides this means by eliminating the union. Might the intermediate step be the real goal? Might the players be better off without a union?
3. It depends on the player. Like other unions, the NBPA is organized around the principle of "one member, one vote." Each player's vote counts the same. This practice can be problematic in any union where members might have significantly disparate interests. Salary and tenure in professional sports varies markedly among players. In the NBA, star players typically make several times the salary of the journeyman. Arguably, the stars could make even more. The NBA is a league of stars, and with only a few players on the court at a time, stars determine winners and losers. Despite the salience of stars, NBA teams have deep rosters, high minimum wages, and carefully negotiated salary cap exceptions. All of these features are designed to funnel higher wages to veteran, league-average players. Thus, a lot of the money putatively earned by the stars is allocated to average players. The union exists for its majority, and the union's business is to redirect money that would go to stars toward the union rank and file. In a workplace situation where salaries are so disparate, such an arrangement is a powderkeg.
4. The owners have a similar predicament. Most businesses are organized in such a way that the person who has the largest stake in the business is accorded the most control. Someone who owns 70% of a corporation, for instance, will not expect merely "one vote" among other owners in setting the course of the enterprise. Yet that's exactly how the NBA, like other sports leagues, is arranged. The teams that generate the most revenue and thus keep the league afloat are given no more say in running the league than is the most inefficient, money-losing owner of the worst franchise. "One member, one vote" is not only an odd way to run a business; it condemns the league's owners to a perduring state of squabbling among the wealthy and the poor. And the squabble has a theme: the poor want to take from the rich. The small-market owners want the big-market owners to send them a cut of their revenues. Because the owners need to be sure that any revenue-sharing arrangement is protected from antitrust attack, the owners use the periodic reopening of the collective bargaining agreement as an opportunity to reset revenue sharing agreement. Every labor battle contains an "owner battle" too. Like star players, highly profitable owners chafe in having to share their earnings with their less-productive brethren.
5. So the existence of the union sets up a class battle of the haves and have-nots (granted, among wealthy people). The practice of "one member, one vote" means the have-nots among both players and owners outnumber the haves, and will use the collective bargaining process to increase their earnings. Yet it doesn't have to be this way. It is not written in stone that professional athletes must be represented by a union. Might the stars have had enough? Lebron James is paid only 13 million dollars per year (yes, not bad). But that's 13 million per year for 82 games plus another pile of playoff games. On an open market, his salary would likely increase by several times. (For evidence, ten years ago, without a salary cap and without free agency, Michael Jordan was paid a salary over 30 million per year for a similar slate of performances.) The star players, and the "star" franchises, are leaving a lot of money on the table. I can't imagine that sits too well with them, all this talk about unity and brotherhood notwithstanding.
6. Which finally brings us to the agents. They have been mostly invisible during the entire labor dispute. Yet they bear, as usual, the brunt of media displeasure, being blamed for fueling the complaints of the star players, holding up union approval, and generally standing in the way of the return of NBA basketball. (I don't see why it's wrong or nefarious for an agent to advise a star player that the player could significantly increase his earnings if only the union gave greater deference to the stars who generate most of the profits.) The process would be smoother if the agents were given a place at the table. The view that the agent is paid by the player and has interests that dovetail with the player is antiquated. The word "agent" is a misnomer. It is more realistic today to think of sports agents as placement professionals (the ubiquitous "headhunters" that are common in white-collar occupations). Sports agents represent numerous clients with similar skills who seek a limited number of positions. Although the agent answers to the player (and the union), their salary comes from the money paid by the team. (Some headhunters are paid directly by the business.) If there were no agents, it is probably not the case that all of the agents' salaries would go to an increase in player salary; at least with respect to the journeyman, league-average player, that savings would likely accrue to the team. Thus, for these players, agent salaries are paid by the team, in effect. Why shouldn't the agents negotiate the terms of their salary?
What could be emerging in the NBA is a complete re-working of league arrangements. The NBA, like most professional sports leagues, embodies a delicate balance between owners with profitable teams and those without, between players paid huge sums and those paid much less, and between agents on the inside and those on the out. There are a lot of moving parts here, and the threat of union decertification that has emerged in the last few weeks suggests that the whole edifice may be about to crash to the ground.
I suspect there is something important going on with the talk by players of decertification. As we've seen recently with the NFL, the usual purpose of decertification is to unleash an antitrust suit against the owners. But it appears that the NBA players who are pushing for decertification may not be targeting the owners. They may be targeting the union.
1. As a formal matter, decertification ends the union, after a period of time. With the end of the union comes the end of the owners' collective exemption from antitrust law. This means that the owners' ability to act jointly in setting the terms and conditions of labor would then be subject to antitrust scrutiny. Although the owners have some very good arguments to justify their collective action, the fact of the matter is that sports owners in general have not done well at the bar of justice. If these hypothetical antitrust suits were to be filed and proceed all the way to the merits, the owners could find many of their questionable labor practices ended, including the rookie draft, salary restrictions, including maximum salaries and the cap, and limitations on freedom of movement by both players and franchises. Decertification could radically change the league.
2. So decertification does provide a means to attack restrictions imposed by owners, albeit by a very long-term and unpredictable process. But decertification provides this means by eliminating the union. Might the intermediate step be the real goal? Might the players be better off without a union?
3. It depends on the player. Like other unions, the NBPA is organized around the principle of "one member, one vote." Each player's vote counts the same. This practice can be problematic in any union where members might have significantly disparate interests. Salary and tenure in professional sports varies markedly among players. In the NBA, star players typically make several times the salary of the journeyman. Arguably, the stars could make even more. The NBA is a league of stars, and with only a few players on the court at a time, stars determine winners and losers. Despite the salience of stars, NBA teams have deep rosters, high minimum wages, and carefully negotiated salary cap exceptions. All of these features are designed to funnel higher wages to veteran, league-average players. Thus, a lot of the money putatively earned by the stars is allocated to average players. The union exists for its majority, and the union's business is to redirect money that would go to stars toward the union rank and file. In a workplace situation where salaries are so disparate, such an arrangement is a powderkeg.
4. The owners have a similar predicament. Most businesses are organized in such a way that the person who has the largest stake in the business is accorded the most control. Someone who owns 70% of a corporation, for instance, will not expect merely "one vote" among other owners in setting the course of the enterprise. Yet that's exactly how the NBA, like other sports leagues, is arranged. The teams that generate the most revenue and thus keep the league afloat are given no more say in running the league than is the most inefficient, money-losing owner of the worst franchise. "One member, one vote" is not only an odd way to run a business; it condemns the league's owners to a perduring state of squabbling among the wealthy and the poor. And the squabble has a theme: the poor want to take from the rich. The small-market owners want the big-market owners to send them a cut of their revenues. Because the owners need to be sure that any revenue-sharing arrangement is protected from antitrust attack, the owners use the periodic reopening of the collective bargaining agreement as an opportunity to reset revenue sharing agreement. Every labor battle contains an "owner battle" too. Like star players, highly profitable owners chafe in having to share their earnings with their less-productive brethren.
5. So the existence of the union sets up a class battle of the haves and have-nots (granted, among wealthy people). The practice of "one member, one vote" means the have-nots among both players and owners outnumber the haves, and will use the collective bargaining process to increase their earnings. Yet it doesn't have to be this way. It is not written in stone that professional athletes must be represented by a union. Might the stars have had enough? Lebron James is paid only 13 million dollars per year (yes, not bad). But that's 13 million per year for 82 games plus another pile of playoff games. On an open market, his salary would likely increase by several times. (For evidence, ten years ago, without a salary cap and without free agency, Michael Jordan was paid a salary over 30 million per year for a similar slate of performances.) The star players, and the "star" franchises, are leaving a lot of money on the table. I can't imagine that sits too well with them, all this talk about unity and brotherhood notwithstanding.
6. Which finally brings us to the agents. They have been mostly invisible during the entire labor dispute. Yet they bear, as usual, the brunt of media displeasure, being blamed for fueling the complaints of the star players, holding up union approval, and generally standing in the way of the return of NBA basketball. (I don't see why it's wrong or nefarious for an agent to advise a star player that the player could significantly increase his earnings if only the union gave greater deference to the stars who generate most of the profits.) The process would be smoother if the agents were given a place at the table. The view that the agent is paid by the player and has interests that dovetail with the player is antiquated. The word "agent" is a misnomer. It is more realistic today to think of sports agents as placement professionals (the ubiquitous "headhunters" that are common in white-collar occupations). Sports agents represent numerous clients with similar skills who seek a limited number of positions. Although the agent answers to the player (and the union), their salary comes from the money paid by the team. (Some headhunters are paid directly by the business.) If there were no agents, it is probably not the case that all of the agents' salaries would go to an increase in player salary; at least with respect to the journeyman, league-average player, that savings would likely accrue to the team. Thus, for these players, agent salaries are paid by the team, in effect. Why shouldn't the agents negotiate the terms of their salary?
SUMMER TRESPASSING IN THE HAMPTONS
It was close to 2:00 am and I couldn’t sleep. The two year old red head alarm clock sleeping in the crib next to me would start calling out my name in less than four hours. His screeching would then awaken his six year old twin sisters who slept in the adjoining bedroom. I was the live-in summer babysitter sequestered to the upstairs east wing of their grandparents Lily Pond mansion. My job was to care for the three children six days a week. I dressed them in triplicate, fed them, drove them to camp, then to the Maidstone club and tutored them for an hour each day. I had one full day off and two nights to my self. This was not one of those nights. My summer life guard crush was out driving a taxi, his sexy night job. I felt trapped, tingly and I had to get out of there.
I dropped one foot on the floor and crawled out of bed. Then I checked to see if my two year old charge was breathing and deeply sleeping. I pulled my damp bathing suit out of the shower, threw it on and grabbed a towel. The parents, the grandparents and the 85 year old Nanny (my un-official mentor) were hopefully fast asleep in the west wing. I held my breath as I tip toed down the wooden steps to the foyer.
All the lights were off, but I could see a crack of light coming from the kitchen. Slowly I pushed open the swing door. The breakfast table was set with placemats. bowls, napkins and spoons. I headed towards the back door and gently turned the handle. The cook’s bedroom was right off the kitchen, so I left the side door open about an inch for my return..
At last freedom but no flip flops. The driveway was made of gravel so my feet were cursing me till I reached a grassy path towards another long driveway. My employers residence was set in a private Hampton enclave consisting of three homes sharing one long dirt road. The house I was heading towards had a back yard that looked like an English garden. Each day I would drive by in the black Mercedes station wagon with the kids and peer over the gate to get a glimpse of the lush landscaping and the shaded gardens. There was a Spanish stone fountain and an outside limestone fireplace. Below the gardened terrace was a stone path leading towards a crystal pool. It looked like a pond in fairy tale.
A small lamp was on in the house which shed just enough light for me to find my way down the steps. I could hear the gurgling of the filter and the hum of the crickets. I slid out of my bikini, dipped my toes in the deliciously bathtub warm water. Gracefully, I submerged my entire body into the pool, smiling as I touched the bottom of paradise.
Where was my life guarding taxi driver when I needed him?
I floated back up and gazed at the sky. Perfect stillness. No skills required. No questions to answer. Till the barking began. The owner had let their dog out of the house to do his business, but daring doggie sensed a skinny dipping intruder on the premises. The back yard spot lights beamed across the pool and the trees. I held my breath and dropped down into the water, clinging to the side of the wall like a starfish. Before passing out I resurfaced and heard the owner call out to his dog. His voice was getting closer. Eyes wide open in panic mode, I slipped about 6 leagues under and prayed to the Gods of nudity not to out to me to the neighbor of my summer employers. My Olympian breath holding techniques had surpassed my own expectations, but invisibility was not an option. Someone told me once that If you don’t see them, they won’t see you. So as I became one with the side of the pool, I thought of what to say if I was caught. I could just burst out crying and say that I was homesick and needed to get my mind off of my family. I could say that I was recently baptized by the Mormon Church and it is required of me that I plunge myself in deep water every night after midnight or that I have chronic night terrors and the only thing that subdues me is floating in water. I could pretend to be a Swedish Nanny and simply thought that this was a communal pool for the residents. Before I could come up with a reason for my naked trespassing, I heard his voice. “Hello, are you alright?” and then a low growl from the furry snitch.
“Hi”, I stammered, pressing my breasts into the wall, awkwardly resting my arms and chin on the deck as I stared at a face that I couldn’t have dreamed up in my most creative fantasies. “Are you lost?” he said as he petted his vicious dog. I wanted to drown. “No, well, yes, sort of." As I tried to think of what to say with out sounding like a criminal, he walked over to the lounge chair, grabbed my towel and placed it down in front of me. “I work for the Conway family and I, pausing and willing my body through the wall, really needed to get out of that house.” He started laughing. “So you’re Conway’s new Au-Pere?” “Yes, exhaling, and I’m so fired.” He was laughing again. “You’re not going to be fired” he said with a smirk. “Just ask me next time if you want to have a midnight swim.” With that, he just turned away and he and his watch dog walked up to the house. I waited till I couldn’t see him and I climbed out of the pool, pulled my suit on and wrapped the towel around my body. My heart was pounding out of control as I ran up the stone stairs and when I reached the top step, I saw him looking out the window. He was waving to me.
I dropped one foot on the floor and crawled out of bed. Then I checked to see if my two year old charge was breathing and deeply sleeping. I pulled my damp bathing suit out of the shower, threw it on and grabbed a towel. The parents, the grandparents and the 85 year old Nanny (my un-official mentor) were hopefully fast asleep in the west wing. I held my breath as I tip toed down the wooden steps to the foyer.
All the lights were off, but I could see a crack of light coming from the kitchen. Slowly I pushed open the swing door. The breakfast table was set with placemats. bowls, napkins and spoons. I headed towards the back door and gently turned the handle. The cook’s bedroom was right off the kitchen, so I left the side door open about an inch for my return..
At last freedom but no flip flops. The driveway was made of gravel so my feet were cursing me till I reached a grassy path towards another long driveway. My employers residence was set in a private Hampton enclave consisting of three homes sharing one long dirt road. The house I was heading towards had a back yard that looked like an English garden. Each day I would drive by in the black Mercedes station wagon with the kids and peer over the gate to get a glimpse of the lush landscaping and the shaded gardens. There was a Spanish stone fountain and an outside limestone fireplace. Below the gardened terrace was a stone path leading towards a crystal pool. It looked like a pond in fairy tale.
A small lamp was on in the house which shed just enough light for me to find my way down the steps. I could hear the gurgling of the filter and the hum of the crickets. I slid out of my bikini, dipped my toes in the deliciously bathtub warm water. Gracefully, I submerged my entire body into the pool, smiling as I touched the bottom of paradise.
Where was my life guarding taxi driver when I needed him?
I floated back up and gazed at the sky. Perfect stillness. No skills required. No questions to answer. Till the barking began. The owner had let their dog out of the house to do his business, but daring doggie sensed a skinny dipping intruder on the premises. The back yard spot lights beamed across the pool and the trees. I held my breath and dropped down into the water, clinging to the side of the wall like a starfish. Before passing out I resurfaced and heard the owner call out to his dog. His voice was getting closer. Eyes wide open in panic mode, I slipped about 6 leagues under and prayed to the Gods of nudity not to out to me to the neighbor of my summer employers. My Olympian breath holding techniques had surpassed my own expectations, but invisibility was not an option. Someone told me once that If you don’t see them, they won’t see you. So as I became one with the side of the pool, I thought of what to say if I was caught. I could just burst out crying and say that I was homesick and needed to get my mind off of my family. I could say that I was recently baptized by the Mormon Church and it is required of me that I plunge myself in deep water every night after midnight or that I have chronic night terrors and the only thing that subdues me is floating in water. I could pretend to be a Swedish Nanny and simply thought that this was a communal pool for the residents. Before I could come up with a reason for my naked trespassing, I heard his voice. “Hello, are you alright?” and then a low growl from the furry snitch.
“Hi”, I stammered, pressing my breasts into the wall, awkwardly resting my arms and chin on the deck as I stared at a face that I couldn’t have dreamed up in my most creative fantasies. “Are you lost?” he said as he petted his vicious dog. I wanted to drown. “No, well, yes, sort of." As I tried to think of what to say with out sounding like a criminal, he walked over to the lounge chair, grabbed my towel and placed it down in front of me. “I work for the Conway family and I, pausing and willing my body through the wall, really needed to get out of that house.” He started laughing. “So you’re Conway’s new Au-Pere?” “Yes, exhaling, and I’m so fired.” He was laughing again. “You’re not going to be fired” he said with a smirk. “Just ask me next time if you want to have a midnight swim.” With that, he just turned away and he and his watch dog walked up to the house. I waited till I couldn’t see him and I climbed out of the pool, pulled my suit on and wrapped the towel around my body. My heart was pounding out of control as I ran up the stone stairs and when I reached the top step, I saw him looking out the window. He was waving to me.
My Mother My Conscience
Up until my daughter Katie was 12 years old our night time ritual consisted of the following questions. Did you brush your teeth? Did you wash your face? Did you feed the fish? Is there anything we need to do for school tomorrow? After the computer was turned off, lights dimmed and our dog was located, we both would climb up the ladder to her top bunk, layered with pillows, stuffed dogs, a giraffe, teddy bears, beanie babies and her quilted baby blanket that covered the menagerie. Sometimes a book would be requested, and other times she would beg me to tell her an Elias story.
Elias is a character I created when she was around 5 years old on a hot summer day while we were stuck in traffic. Elias, a fictional organic farmer with an odd sounding voice, lived in Vermont with his Wife Molina and their two sons. It was impossible for Elias to lie or even stretch the truth. He was having some problems earning a decent living on his farm, so he had to go into town to search for extra work. There he was met with many obstacles, until he discovered he was an excellent shoe salesman. My daughter would laugh uncontrollably at the voices I would use for the parade of customers and Elias’s commentary on their taste in shoes, the shapes of their toes and their horrible manners. The store manager quickly fired Elias and many more stories ensued.
After story time was complete and we sang a couple songs, we would recite our favorite prayers and make sure that everyone we loved was mentioned, sometimes twice if they weren’t doing well. “Mommy will you stay here for a couple more minutes?” “Of course.” This was my favorite part of the day, of being a Mother, of being Katie’s Mom. This is when the twilight confessional began and her day would flow out in one run on sentence.
All the colors and the sounds from school and complicated lessons learned from friends, teachers and strangers. She would re-enact a conversation with a child that was teasing her and how she felt protective of her closest friend that was left out of the popular group. Then there would be the whispered disclosure of the boy she still liked, but was confused why he ignored her in school, but would always pass her the ball in basketball practice. I would quietly lay there holding her and her truth and all her questions.
7 feet above the ground.
Last night, my daughter texted me from College, almost 2,000 miles away “I love you Mommy, sweet dreams.”
Elias is a character I created when she was around 5 years old on a hot summer day while we were stuck in traffic. Elias, a fictional organic farmer with an odd sounding voice, lived in Vermont with his Wife Molina and their two sons. It was impossible for Elias to lie or even stretch the truth. He was having some problems earning a decent living on his farm, so he had to go into town to search for extra work. There he was met with many obstacles, until he discovered he was an excellent shoe salesman. My daughter would laugh uncontrollably at the voices I would use for the parade of customers and Elias’s commentary on their taste in shoes, the shapes of their toes and their horrible manners. The store manager quickly fired Elias and many more stories ensued.
After story time was complete and we sang a couple songs, we would recite our favorite prayers and make sure that everyone we loved was mentioned, sometimes twice if they weren’t doing well. “Mommy will you stay here for a couple more minutes?” “Of course.” This was my favorite part of the day, of being a Mother, of being Katie’s Mom. This is when the twilight confessional began and her day would flow out in one run on sentence.
All the colors and the sounds from school and complicated lessons learned from friends, teachers and strangers. She would re-enact a conversation with a child that was teasing her and how she felt protective of her closest friend that was left out of the popular group. Then there would be the whispered disclosure of the boy she still liked, but was confused why he ignored her in school, but would always pass her the ball in basketball practice. I would quietly lay there holding her and her truth and all her questions.
7 feet above the ground.
Last night, my daughter texted me from College, almost 2,000 miles away “I love you Mommy, sweet dreams.”