AND WHEN I'D DRIBBLE A BASKETBALL

in the heart of winter on the outdoor court of the Collins brothers, Larry and John, I would get these little round sores on my fingers. They were bloody from the friction of the leather ball and cold concrete meeting. They were about the size of a dime and I would have three or four open sores for most of the winter.

I'd even play in the snow, if it had been removed enough to where the key was dribbleable. I didn't need much to feed the sores. Which looked a little like ringworm when I stop to think about it.

I was "Angela's Ashes" on the winter courts of my youth. We played indoors, of course, on the Field School gym in practice. But that wasn't enough for me. I had a basketball fix that I needed to sate. I still love the sound of the swish when nothing but net catches the good shot.

I still love the smell of popcorn in the gym, though I miss the sound of kids crushing, or popping coke cups with their heels. I also miss the old clocks that counted down the seconds like a real clock only when there was one minute to go in a quarter, it turned red instead of yellow. Tens of a second? Forget it. They also didn't allow so many time outs. Or is it times out/ I never did know. Brother-in-laws or brothers-in-law? I don't know that either. I also don't know if I could care less or I couldn't care less.

But I'm digressing now. I wonder why I never got those sores on my lips when I'd kiss the ball before I fired up a set shot? Just kidding, I'm not that old. That's not me in the picture either, though it could have been.