Three or four years prior, having fallen under the spell of basketball at the age of 12, this concrete pad had become my home-away-from-home, sunrise to sunset in the summer practicing finger rolls ala Wilt Chamberlain or fancy passes ala Pete Maravich.
It was time to defend my turf.
I had heard of Ken, who now in Grade 9, was already a name being bandied about as a future star.
Right away it was evident that he was a true gunner – a born shooter.
My own game was based on the simple fact that I could usually jump higher than everyone else.
A year later we would become teammates in high school, winning a city and provincial championship in Grade 12.
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