Globe Ball

EVEN NOW in my mid-eighties, there are nights when before I drift off to sleep I remember days in the schoolyard of P.S. 32 in Queens. The other night, for example, I brought back the day Jimmy Nidds, Nick Petrides and I—high school players all—beat two guys from the Boston Celtics—Ed Leede and Joe Mullaney—and a six-foot-six college player from Dartmouth in a game of three-on-three. All of us were white. It was 1950.

I still dream of days on that court when the three of us were unbeaten from morning until dark when they brought cars inside the fence to light the place with their headlights. Days when no one could beat us—we knew all the dead spots in the metal backboards—and we were, snap, just that quick. There were some good days afterwards for me playing at Hofstra, for Nidds at N.Y.U., but finally in retrospect, nothing truly comparable to the memories of playing ball in that schoolyard in Queens. Of course, that was then; this is now…