Basketball for keeps.

That’s the essence of streetball, an extreme form of playground basketball that's thrown down by some of America's most charismatic young athletes.

If these hoopsters pulled any of their flashier trademark moves - think 720-degree dunk – during an ordinary game they'd probably be benched for selfish play. In streetball that's just the way it's done - 100 percent highlight reel and no apologies.

This week the And1 Mixtape Tour wraps up in New York - the city where this subculture sport was born - after a 25-city swing featuring exhibition games.

Crowds averaged 5,000 to 6,000 per venue, says Bill Lessard, publicist for streetball superstar Waliyy "Main Event" Dixon.

Streetball's not a feeder for future NBA stars, but neither is it simply a home for pro-game castoffs. "This thing is its own form of success," says Mr. Lessard. "Main Event," he points out, has built a huge following, scored product endorsements, and even landed a job as co-host - with Public Enemy rapper Chuck D - of "Sports Skool: Streetball," an instruction show broadcast on On Demand.

Because streetballers tend to exude the kind of high-performance joy that characterized the old Harlem Globetrotters, they can also inspire youths to add real creativity to their athleticism - and to see basketball in a whole new light.

Now that's a slam dunk.

by Clayton Collins

The Yankees-Red Sox rivalry was starting to bore me.

There, I said it.

This is coming from a life-long Yankee fan who has spent the past decade in the heart of enemy territory, where sports' greatest rivalry should have only gotten hotter since the Sox's improbable comeback against the Yankees in the 2004 postseason.

For the first third of this season, things had become pro forma. Guys like Mike Lowell, Mark Loretta, and Josh Beckett, one-time National Leaguers who were new to Boston, talked about the rivalry like they were reading from cue cards – saying all the right things but not feeling it in their bones. On the Yankees' side, it's never seemed as if A-Rod, entering his third year with the team, bleeds Bronx Bomber blue.

Then the Sox rolled into New York this week and everything changed. Chalk it up to a reinvigorated youth movement. Due to an injury list that resembles the Manhattan phone book (Hideki Matsui, Gary Sheffield, and Derek Jeter for the Yankees; David Wells, Mike Timlin, Wily Mo Peña for the Sox), some of the young farmhands are starting to see action.

On Monday, Yankees greenhorn first baseman Andy Phillips cracked a three-run shot off of Beckett, propelling the Pinstripers to win the first game of the series. Phillips' homer came an inning after 21-year-old Melky Cabrera scored from first base on a botched throw by Sox catcher Jason Varitek. The play had all the chaos and energy of a Little League game, which has been missing from the Bronx lately (outside of one Greg Louganis dive into the stands by Jeter last year).

Then, on Tuesday, 22-year-old Sox starter David Pauley did his best Greg Maddux impression, keeping the Yankees off balance all night. He can thank the young Mr. Cabrera for his 2-1 loss. In the 8th inning, Cabrera scaled the left-field wall to take a game-tying home run away from Manny Ramirez. Cabrera seemed as surpised as anyone that the ball stayed in his glove, the reaction of a little boy playing a little boy’s game.

There was a time when both teams were known for their deep, young talent pools. Nomar Garciaparra, Shea Hillenbrand, Roger Clemens, Mo Vaughn, and Jeff Bagwell were all products of the Sox farm system. And the core of the Yankees teams that won four World Series in five years at the end of the 1990s – Derek Jeter, Bernie Williams, Jorge Posada, Andy Pettitte, and Mariano Rivera – were all home grown.

Lately, though, each team has embarked on an arms race, bringing in flashier, pricier outside talent. You get Manny Ramirez? We get Jason Giambi. You get Gary Sheffield? We get Curt Schilling. You get Alex Rodriguez? We get ... Alex Gonzalez? (OK, George Steinbrenner’s pockets may be a little deeper.)

Last year began a return to form. Robinson Canó, the Yankees' second baseman, was thrown into the fire and almost won rookie of the year. And starter Chien-Ming Wang helped a beleagured starting rotation by winning eight games.

For the Sox, flamethrower Jonathan Papelbon plugged a Green Monster-sized hole in the bullpen. This year he’s the game’s best closer, with 20 saves. And Kevin Youkilis, who had beaten a path to the Sox Triple-A affiliate in Rhode Island, has solidified his place in the starting lineup. One more reason for excitement: Craig Hansen, the team's No. 1 draft pick last year, was just called up to the big club this week.

These young guys don’t need to be told about the rivaly; it’s in their DNA. Here’s hoping the teams’ front offices are paying attention.

What do you think? Are you excited about the rivalry? Which is a dumber nickname, Melky, Coco, or Trot? Write us at Weekend.

By David S. Hauck

It was last Sunday that I realized I had officially become a fantasy baseball junkie.

Sometime in the late afternoon I went online to check the box scores. Randy Johnson, the "Big Unit," had thrown eight innings of one-run ball against the Orioles, and my beloved New York Yankees had moved a game over .500 for the first time since opening day.

But I was miserable.

That’s because I had benched Mark Teixeira that day in my fantasy league. Up to that point, the Texas Rangers’ first baseman had done nothing for my fifth-place team, appropriately named The Big Eunuchs. The switch-hitting slugger had belted 43 home runs and drove in 144 runs last year, and was ranked sixth in most preseason drafts. But this season, he had hit a paltry three longballs and knocked in only a handful of runs. Albert Pujols does that while reading the morning paper.

So on Sunday, Teixeira went crazy: 2 for 4 with a three-run bomb and two runs scored. As the league commissioner told me later: “Teixeira should NEVER, I mean NEVER, unless he loses his arms and legs, be on your bench!” Where were you Saturday, pal?

So my favorite real-world team wins, my personal fake-world team loses, and I’m miserable. Fantasy baseball had its hooks in me.

I should have seen it coming. Last fall I tried fantasy football for the first time and did pretty well, thanks for asking. I finished third in my league, basically without a quarterback (I would have been better off with Whitey Bulger at QB than Marc Bulger). Meanwhile, LaDanian Tomlinson decided to stop scoring touchdowns after Week 10.

It was then I realized the allure of the so-called “prosumer” experience, where we become active creators, instead of mere observers, of our entertainment. Watching the Arizona Cardinals battle the St. Louis Rams is an exercise in ennui. Deciding whether to play Larry Fitzgerald or Isaac Bruce at wide receiver gives you some stake in the action. (OK, so it’s not SALT II, but it’s something.)

I found that I got a certain rush when a player I salvaged off the waiver scrap heap (Joey Galloway, for instance) started putting up google-esque numbers; or when, after reading some local papers online, I decided to play my second-string tailback, Carnell "Cadillac" Williams, and he stepped on the gas.

But after my baseball league started up in March, I realized my current diamond knowledge approached The Sandman’s postseason ERA: near zero. Thirty years ago I could have told you the starting infield for the Kansas City Royals (George Brett, Freddie Patek, Frank White, and John Mayberry, in case you were wondering). Now I wouldn’t know Victor Zambrano from Victor Borge.

This cluelessness led to some early mistakes. Before the season even started, I waived Chris Shelton. (Who? you ask.) The Detroit Tiger then proceeded to take this slight out on American League pitchers, hitting balls out of the yard at a Ruthian (or is that Sheltonian?) pace.

But I also made some nice pickups. I nabbed Jonathan Papelbon before he became the Red Sox closer; he now leads the league in saves. Every time he notches another K or lowers his WHIP, I somehow feel responsible. And the Orioles’ Eric Bedard has given me four wins I wouldn’t have had otherwise. (On my team, four wins is downright Sheltonian.)

And that’s the allure. I’m not just watching games; I’m ... well, I guess I’m just watching games. And reading lots of box scores. And keeping one eye on the computer during “American Idol.” And checking in on the Braves-Nationals game because I have Nick Johnson on my team. And....

You get the picture.

Now if only Johnny Damon would start hitting. Maybe I should bench him....

What do you think? Should I get a life? Which players should I pick up? Write us as Weekend.

By David S. Hauck