All About Balls

Maybe it's the delirium from a seven-hour car trip back from Vermont to New York. Maybe it's the well-over 200 beers we drank while in Vermont. Whatever the reason, there's a thought I can't shake.

We (me, Bret, Ogle) stopped in Springfield, Mass., at the Basketball Hall of Fame, on the way back. (Hence, the seven-hour trip instead of five.) And at the entrance to the museum, they have a list of prohibited items.

Among them are the usual suspects: large bags, handguns, food, drink, weapons of mass destruction. You know, garden variety prohibitions, really. But the last thing on the list?

Basketballs.

Basketballs! No basketballs allowed at -- and if you were paying attention you remember that we were clearly inside a building dedicated to the celebration of this -- the Basketball Hall of Fame! When does this come into play, this people carrying things they're coming to learn about into the place where they're going to learn it?

I don't recall anyone trying to sneak paintings into the Museum of Modern Art. And definitely not at the Museum of Natural History. Excuse me, sir. You're going to have to leave your triceratops outside the museum. Thank you.

Well, since you read the title and thought this whole thing was going to be about testicles, I'll stop disappointing you now. But still, it's weird.