"Fo', Fo', Fo'."

I've been sharing a bed with Moses Malone.

This would make me Kareem Abdul Jabbar. And every night we box out and fight for position like it's Game 4 of the 1983 Finals with about a minute and a half left to play. Our game hinges on one crucial rebound and we scrap and claw and push and cheap shot like our season is on the line. I'm an All Star. A Hall of Famer. One of the greatest rebounders in basketball history. I'm the one with the more storied and celebrated career. The UCLA pedigree. It doesn't matter. I'm going to lose this battle. No matter how hard I try, Moses is going to come down with the ball and there is nothing I can do to stop it.

The Moses I speak of is my 3 year old daughter, Alexis. Over the last week she has developed a distaste for her bedroom. As she seems to have the final word on all matters in our home, we've inherited a third bedmate over the last several nights. On the surface, there is naturally a part of me that enjoys this. She looks great, smells delightful and is quite charming. I feel guilty admitting it, but the novelty wears off a bit around 1 AM when it's time for me to really throw down on some sleep. That's when Moses comes out and starts clearing the glass. Moses weighs in at around 41 lbs and is barely 3 feet tall. So I've got 3 feet and about 150-200 pounds on her (I'm not proud of this by the way). This shouldn't even be a fair fight.

SIDENOTE: I have years of experience playing ball. While my skills are QUITE limited (save when I'm playing on the hoop at Mike Redmond's house), the one thing I could always do was rebound the basketball. I have always had a fleshy stomach, a warehouse back, a sore right elbow, loose ankles, poor eyesight, limited stamina, no hops and an overall crodgetty jewish man's physique. None of that matters--Laimbeer didn't look pretty doing it either. The bottom line is...I can board, baby! Throw me onto the Atlanta Hawks and put me out there in dress clothes for 20 minutes per game. If you don't think I'm getting you six boards a night, you've got another thing coming.

You're probably asking what's with the basketball analogy. Well, the battle for position in our bed is quite synonymous with rebounding. Positioning, blocking out, timing and using your elbows and knees to give you any possible advantage. Always remembering to protect your back, your eyes and your private regions at the same time. My wife, Kristyn, would dispute this, but she typically is allotted around 60% of our king sized bed for her own luxurious sleeping pleasure (We'll call her MJ (or Michael Jordan for you non-basketball readers) for the purpose of this post. Meaning that she's going to get all the whistles and there isn't anything we can do about it.) So it's a foregone conclusion that MJ is going to get her 30 a night, and therefore the left side of the bed is off limits for myself and my adversary, Moses. We are stuck fighting in the paint for that remaining 40% of mattress. There is no gray area. The winner is going to be guaranteed a good night's sleep. The loser is going to be stuck in the guest bedroom at 1:30 AM on a Wednesday night/Thursday morning writing this ridiculous blog as they've lost the ball to their opponent and the corresponding right to a proper night's rest (that's probably too much foreshadowing).

So why can't I beat her? Sure, she's my kid and I love her and everything, but saying that I'm going easy on her would be a cop out. I'm in it to kick ass. It's a dog eat dog fight and I want my 30% of mattress (which is still comparable to a cot, but hey, I'm not greedy). Why can't I use my weight and strength to command my territory? I try. I literally pick her up and wing her three feet to the right (Kareem never tried that). But she's relentless. Within seconds, her foot is once again entrenched in my back. I'm laying on my side completely straight, barely hanging onto my 5% of the bed, defying gravity and logic by not falling off the side. I don't give up easily though. I reach deep down, fighting exhaustion, and hoist her again. I reposition myself to quickly grab this newly created open space laying my body flat now and even leaving some extra room on the edge for myself. I'm feeling invincible. I weigh 2?? pounds for god's sake. She can't move me. Can she? She can. She does. I don't even know how. Her low post moves are otherworldly. She is from a new generation of players. She thrashes and elbows and kicks and pushes. It's symphonic. Within moments I'm back down to 5% of total mattress. Only 25% of my body is even on the bed at this point. The rest of me is somehow floating in mid air. It's a miracle of physics and probably not in a good way. Before I plummet to the floor like a bowling ball out of a plane, I decide to make one last ditch effort. I pick her half angelic/half 83' Finals MVP body up delicately. I gently tiptoe into her room and carefully place her in her bed. She immediately starts crying. Sobbing, in fact. A very un-Moses like move, but I give her points for her relentlessness. I'm defeated. She is ruthless. I quickly rush to her aid and obediently bring her back into our bed. Game. Set. Match.

I am now exiled into the guest bedroom. My season is lost. But I'll be back. Extended workouts, diet--it will be a complete overhaul of my body. Training camp is around the corner. The season is not far off. Moses--you'd better be ready for me.