Division I? Only if you're (NOT) 5-3

Chimney sweep frames with pipe cleaner legs that extend like old car antennae.

Balloon-man bodies with legs sprung by helium hops.

Walk into Temple University’s rectangular Liacouras Center, scan down at the strip of black premier seats, up again at the rows of red seats, and then ogle the moving action figures bounding around the hardwood. Temple with their home whites craning into inelastic poles that release layups, or two-hand dunk shots with the here-and-gone quickness of a pickpocket.

The visiting team, Wisconsin, in road red, shoots three-pointers at one basket and plays a loose, poor-man’s game of Sweet Georgia Brown near half-court, some heading passes to teammates in a circle, some foot-tapping soccer passes.

Post players like All-American Ethan Happ, all of 6-foot-10, launch three-pointers, execute intricate dribble moves like the crossover followed by a behind-the-back move into an effortless, might-as-well dunk.

Their warmup pants drape down over their lithe bodies like they would on a tailor’s mannequin, between loose and tight, fitted just right. The garment hangs, but in perfect proportion to the leg or the arm. Think of schoolmaster Icabod Crane (were he remotely agile) regally returning home after his finest lecture.

“Look down there!” I want to scream at parents of ballers who think their sons are Division I material. “Look at them! Do ANY of your kids look anything like that? THAT … THAT is what Division I basketball players look like!”

Vertically, they resemble you or me. Only twice.

Horizontally, they’re not yet bulging with Lebron-sized biceps. Taller and thinner than the NBA logo Jerry West in his prime, but angular at the elbows and knees on cuts and box-outs.

I’ve come with a friend who coached high school football, baseball, golf and middle school basketball. I can’t keep this to myself.

“Parents don’t have any idea,” I said, this time out loud.

“Nope,” Steve says.

“But they think they do,” I add. “And that’s what’s so sad. Doesn’t it make sense–if you want your kid to play a sport in college, shouldn’t you go out and see what that looks like up close?” Probably, their son looks more like me. Today! A below-average 5-foot-7 scrapper, now 47. Probably without my tenacity. Hopefully without my gut.

They’d probably fixate onto Wisconsin freshman Brad Davison. He’s white, a mite doughy, and about the same size as the average American male (about 5-foot-10, 195 pounds). Yet the program says he’s 6-foot-3, 205 pounds as a freshman.

And he’s starting on a Big Ten team! Therefore, ipso facto, average Joe from the Lehigh Valley could at least make the team at a small D-I like Lafayette. Let’s prove it through research.

Davison’s numbers probably match the local hometown hero.

Let’s see … he averaged about 25 points per game as a high school senior … your kid averages 12 … averaged 7.4 rebounds and 7.9 assists … your kid had seven assists in December and had that one awesome rebound where he spanked the ball with his off hand like he was its daddy! … 4.2 steals per game … my kid Kobe told his coach he didn’t want to play the other team’s best player so he could stay “out of foul trouble and fresh for offense.”

Plus, my kid was second-team all-league last year … Davison was first-team all-state and a finalist for Mr. Basketball in Minnesota … My kid takes two AP classes … Davison finished high school with a 4.0 GPA and participated in various leadership organizations … My kid helped out at the car-wash fundraiser, waking early one Saturday morning … Davison took service trips to Costa Rica and Jamaica and volunteered closer to home to help impoverished communities … Well, my kid’s no friggin’ egg-head. He’s got a life and a family. You should see him teach his younger brother Marko the crossover in the driveway then lower the basket and dunk on him all night … Davison had to overcome being dominated by his older sisters, both of whom went on to play Division I basketball at Northern Iowa … Well, my kid doesn’t put all his eggs into one basket and focus on hoops. He’s what you call, well-rounded. Last fall he helped take photos at the school play, dressed like Biff in Arthur Mallard’s (sic) Death of a Salesman … Last fall Davison continued breaking school records as a dual-threat quarterback on a team that went 27-7 his final three seasons … My kid would have been a D-I running back, but he didn’t want to risk injury and screw up a chance at a scholarship to Villanova … Your kid sounds like an above-average high school athlete. And that’s great, too, if you let him be what he is.

But let me pull back the curtain and show what Division I looks like down on the court here at Temple. Pick out the weakest-looking player on either team in warmups. Compare your son to him. Then do some research.

For once, Pops, do your own homework!

Pops actually stays for a half. Those balloonmen never hurry. They don’t take on the world on offense. They sprint back on defense and slide into ballscreen hedges like a patrolman blocking the path of a burglar. These players can all can dribble, pass, and shoot. They all are expected to stay in front of the player they’re guarding, contest his shot, then box him out, or their coach pulls them from the game. The nerve!

Even the stars play defense. Even the ones who reverse-dunked in warmups leave the game to rest so they don’t slack off for even one possession. Watch them during timeouts. They all look at their coach. They all make eye contact. They all nod to affirm understanding.

Watch them when they head to the bench. Nobody walks. Nobody shrugs. Nobody shouts their disapproval. Nobody causes a scene with a spasmodic fit that closer resembles an Elaine Benes jig.

Does your kid look like those mature D-I players down there? Does he play like that? Is he built like that? Is he molded like that?

Don’t take my word for it. Do some research if you don’t understand how infinitesimal the odds are of being in one of those layup lines.

NCAA studies show that over half a million kids play high school basketball. About 1 percent go on to play at the Division I level. So maybe you can target Division II. Another 1 percent play there. Division III? Another 1.4%. Overall, 3.4% of high school players compete at the next level.

Is your kid the best in his high school class? On his team? In his league? In his district? In his state?

Is he 6-foot-8 or taller and freakishly skilled or athletic? Is Division I a place to compete, or a place to spectate like the 7,700 at Temple to see the Owls beat Wisconsin 59-55?

Of those 16 players listed on the Badgers’ roster, how many play? How many are on scholarship and how many walked-on? Of those 16, only Ethan Happ proved he could score consistently against the Owls, tallying 23 of his team’s 55 points.

And down the stretch, once Temple learned that Happ wasn’t nearly as effective when turning to score over his right shoulder as opposed to his left (he’s right-handed), Temple three times forced him left. Twice they blocked his layup attempt, and the third time Happ came up short on a left-handed baby hook.

From high school on, the percentages to succeed funnel into a minute grain of unlikelihood to contribute, let alone shine.

Is your kid gifted with balloon-man measurables? All-American character traits? D-Day devotion? Or would he be more comfortable making the next run for popcorn?