Funny how much I’ve been thinking about my dad lately. I used to keep my trophies at his acreage and, one day, we had a minor earthquake. Boxes fell off the top stall shelf. Some of the little figurine basketball guys atop wouldn’t finish the season, losing an arm or head. I’ve actually played with teammates who didn’t have a head. It didn’t seem to affect their game one way or the other.

Pops called to report some of the squad were in pieces. I said I’d be over the next day to give the guys a pep talk, glue-up and rebox. I’m in my mid-30s then, just about past whatever thing that could pass as prime. A decade earlier, I was playing five times a week. We had a super tough team in the 6-&-Under League. My sibling-like substance, Willie Peters-Boston, was constantly nagging me that I was closer to 6-foot-2 because he was 6-foot-even. I’d gently correct Willie, noting that he was 5-foot-10, which made Willie stamp his foot and giggle.

I can appreciate Wilbur’s point. When we’d go to the park office to be officially measured, I may have shrunk a little. You see, there was this tiny 5-foot-zip Park Lady who measured us. She had to climb atop a chair to get a better view. As she bounced to get on top of the seat, I might have (in a wee Irish brogue) bent my knees a pinch to droop down to 5-foot-11. Willie’s in line, hands on hips, did the Death Scene from “Camille.” But, he never tattled.

“Who’s a good boy?!?!?! Who’s a good boy?!?!?!?!”

Willie.

We went through the league over........

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