Whoops Over Hoops Pit Neighbor Against Neighbor

No sense in naming names, at least not any real ones. Everybody knows who everybody else is anyway, if not by face, than certainly by address. The whole neighborhood’s divided by factions. No sense in fanning the flames here.

It’s basketball hoops we’re talking about. For or against.

Now in this neighborhood, which at least by aesthetic standards is very nice, not far from the ocean, there is no law per se against basketball hoops. But it is understood. The board of the homeowners’ association has been dead-set against them.

Basketball hoops, the understanding goes, are for other neighborhoods, ones with RVs parked in the streets, screens on the front doors and awnings made of aluminum, with stripes on them.

You’ll find none of that in this tract, which has a fancy-sounding name and a tasteful stone marker out on the main street letting everybody know what to expect inside.

The houses here, 192 of them, are tidy, well maintained, some of them more so than others, but then you’ve got to take in consideration that some of them house children. Others do not.

That’s more or less how the line, over basketball hoops, has been drawn. You either have them--children--or you don’t. You either want them--basketball hoops--or you don’t.

But about four months ago, some residents of this tract began storming the line. Petitions were signed and doors were slammed in faces and words were said not so much behind people’s backs but straight to their faces.

All of this was to be expected when you comprehend that the stink over the right to shoot hoops on one’s own property had been building for a good while before that. There have been incidents, fines and grumbling.

Basketball hoops have a way of doing this, you understand. They get under homeowners’ skin, roiling dissent in otherwise-bucolic scenes of Orange County Americana.

There’s a neighborhood in Newport Beach that spent eight years and tens of thousands of dollars fighting to banish a hoop from above one family’s garage. But that’s a whole other story . . .

So anyway, the basketball brouhaha in this particular neighborhood was building to a crescendo when I went to visit Patty Riley (remember what I said about real names), a mother of two and wife of one.

This was the big night. Basketball hoops were on the agenda at the homeowners’ association meeting.

We were sitting at the dining room table, and Patty had just explained to me about her mission--to allow residents to erect free-standing hoops in their driveways--and all the trouble that it had caused her and Bobbie Knight, another concerned mother and fellow rabble-rousing neighbor.

“My son wanted a basketball court for his birthday,” Patty said. “He doesn’t want to sit inside and play Nintendo all afternoon. They see the Lakers. They have their dreams. They want to do what they do. Here, in his own neighborhood, he can’t.”

(Just then, the phone rang. It was for Patty’s son. His school basketball coach was calling.)

Next, Patty showed me the color-coded tract map, which stands as a testament to the mothers’ diligence. The Browns--145 houses--have signed their petition directing the homeowners’ association board to allow detached and temporary basketball hoops. The remaining 47 homes are either Pinks--die-hard hoop foes--or Greens, unavailable renters.

Patty tucked the map into her folder, along with the petition and her speech written on index cards, and we piled into the minivan and headed for the meeting at the home of an association board member--needless to say, a Pink.

Patty’s next-door neighbor, a retiree who would love to allow his grandchildren to shoot hoops at his house, joined us.

But when we arrived at Mr. Pink’s house, Bobbie Knight and her husband were waiting outside, clutching poster boards pasted with snapshots of neighborhoods even more upscale than their own where basketball hoops flourish. The snapshots were to be used to illustrate the hoop presentation, but the homeowners’ association board had postponed tonight’s meeting without notice.

“That figures,” Patty said. “They probably did this on purpose.”

Sensing a good story, one that defines the very essence of life in suburbia--not to mention the fact that when thrown into a homeowners’ association, most people will discover that they really can’t stand each other--I returned the following night.

Patty was there with her petition. Bobbie had the charts. About 20 homeowners were gathered in Mr. Pink’s living room.

After a discussion about one neighbor’s cement addition to his driveway (board member: “It looks like crap”; homeowner: “You’re crap”), we moved on to the hoops.

Bobbie took the lead. She was smiling, her voice sugary. She passed around the poster boards.

“I say it’s time to change,” she said. “Not allowing basketball hoops is mean-spirited and ill conceived. This was probably started by some yuppie who ironed his socks years ago.”

Hey now, wait a minute. One of the Pink board members told a little story about someone he knows who had a basketball hoop next door. Some kid was playing with it and the ball dented his friend’s BMW.

There was more, from the Browns and the Pinks, but the pro-hoop faction seemed to have the edge. Certainly they had more players on their team.

By this time, the sugar in Bobbie’s voice was beginning to melt. She was getting ready to slam dunk.

“I think it’s ridiculous and petty that we can’t have them,” she said.

Then one of the representatives of the association’s management company asked that the petitions be turned over.

Bobbie and Patty looked at each other, then said no. Some Browns had specifically mentioned their fear of retribution from the board, where the Pinks are believed to hold a 4-1 advantage.

The mothers suggested that the board members vote on the hoop issue, keeping in mind that almost 78% of the homeowners are willing to live with hoops in their midst. If the board’s answer is still no, then the petition will be presented to bolster an appeal.

Well, all right, the board finally agreed. The members would take the mothers’ motion under consideration and get back to them, by letter, of course. No sense rushing into this.

This was about where I made my exit. The homeowner with the cement driveway addition had taken the floor again.

(Homeowner: “So help me, if you hold up escrow on my house because of this little piece of concrete. . . .” Board member: “It’s a large piece of concrete.”)

I’ll get back to you on the hoops.

Dianne Klein’s column appears Wednesday, Friday and Sunday. Readers may reach Klein by writing to her at The Times Orange County Edition, 1375 Sunflower Ave., Costa Mesa, Calif. 92626, or calling (714) 966-7406.