Pato is a 17th century sport that resembles a cross between polo and basketball–using a live duck.

The Wall Street Journal

There’s two minutes left in the NPL All-Star Game, and as I survey the field, things don’t look good. As coach of the Eastern Division squad, I call our final time-out.

“What the hell were you thinking?” T.J. Wallis of the Buffalo Wings yells at Erskine “Milk Train” O’Toole of the Worcester, Mass. Abrasives.

“I don’t know,” O’Toole says. “I didn’t know the shot clock was running out.”

“Guys–save the mindless aggression for our opponents,” I say, trying to calm things down.

“You’ve got to give up the duck, man,” Danny Flange of the Seacaucus Saints says to O’Toole. “You can’t sit there like you’re waiting for your l’orange sauce to reduce.”

“Stifle it!” I snap, and finally we have silence in the huddle.  "Okay, down by 2, we’re going to have to go for the three-point play,” I say. “Where’s the white board?”

Fans line up for autographs as ducks head for the dressing room.

My assistant, Tom Robinson of the Scranton Squawk, hands it to me along with a grease pen.

“Okay–here’s what we’re going to do. When the ref gives you the duck,” I say to Flange, “I want you”–I point to O’Toole–"to cut to the basket. T.J.?”

“Yeah coach?”

“I want you to set a pick . . .”

“I’m not setting a pick for nobody,” Wallis says. He has a reputation around the league for being a moody loner whose ego gets in the way of his talent.

“You didn’t let me finish. You set the pick, but when Milk Train blows by you, I want you to kick out to three-point line. Get it–he’s the decoy, you’re the real thing.”

He seems to be mollified–he’s got molli’s all over his shorts, as a matter of fact. “Okay,” he says, somewhat sheepishly, now shorn of his anger. “Then what?”

“Then I want Danny to fake a pass underneath, then fire it out to T.J. on the wing–got it.”

There are nods of understanding all around, so I put my hand out and everyone does likewise for the traditional rah-rah huddle break. “What the hell, what the f**k, let’s go shoot the bleeping duck–break!”

My guys take their places and it’s clear from the looks on the faces of the guys on the West Squad that despite the high-scoring, no defense tradition of these mid-season All-Star games, they’re serious about stopping us. The difference between a winning and losing share is only $10 and a lower-priced entree is free coupon at Applebee’s, but until the players figure out free agency, that’s the best they’re gonna do.

The ref hands the duck–a tightly-wound mallard designed for the air game–to Flange and blows his whistle.

“Twenty-three, Huey, Dewey, Louie, Daffy, Donald . . .”

I can’t believe it–he’s calling an audible at the line! I can’t call time-out–all I can do is wait and watch as the play unfolds.

T.J. and Milk Train head for the hoop simultaneously and Flange throws a wobbly pass towards the basket that flutters like a dying quail into the arms of Mike Meserve, a ham-handed offensive guard. He flips the ball to T.J.–a flea flicker–and back to Flange who lofts a tight spiral–through the hoop for three points and the game!

I watch the guys celebrate and think in a lot of ways this is the capstone of my career. Yes, it’s been so lousy the highlight of my resume will be a crappy All-Star game nobody will care about next year that we won because of a play I didn’t call.

“All’s well that ends well,” I say to the guys as they come off the field, “so I’m not going to yell at you, but what was the matter with the play I called?”

They look at each other, a little embarrassed, before T.J. speaks. “Coach–we’re from different teams, we don’t know each other that well.”

“So?”

“It would have confused us,” Flange says, “to have a decoy out there next to the real thing.”