Somewhere, safely wrapped away, is my old Hart letterman’s jacket. Me being me, I couldn’t just stick with the traditional maroon and grey school colors. No. I procured an ancient wool red wine-dyed coat, an inch thick from the 1950s. It has a giant Indian chief head sprawled across the back. The rare few times I wear it, I get compliments — even from Indians.

Darn time. So whimsical and beyond measuring. One, self-mutilating chemistry class from 1967 took a seeming ice age to pass. A lifetime goes by in a blink. I’ve a dear gal pal I haven’t chatted with in a few decades. She’s still a kid, flirting with 40. We wasted a lot of hours, shooting hoops, and she became one bona fide college all-star, the status of that I take full credit. I learned from my coach, Fran Wrage, to smile, take zero crap and plant someone on their butt, whether they needed it or not. I passed that on to Lisa. I played my last, serious pickup game with her on my side and shall never forget that.

A bunch of us pals vacationed in Yosemite’s Wawona and there’s a little elementary school on the way to a community of humble cabins and epic log homes. In my 20s, I played with a semi-pro team sponsored by the sports shoe giant, Adidas. In real life, I was pretty darn good. On the Adidas squad, I was the worst guy on the team. Still. It was a blast. A couple of years, we just changed uniforms and last names and competed in the state AAU tourney, winning it both times in the unlimited Valhalla division. I’m surprised (and........

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