In middle school, basketball was my escape. I played non-stop, especially in my cement driveway.

Rain or shine, for hours. Long enough for my hands to go raw. The steady rhythm of dribbling and shooting was like therapy, helping me process a rough patch in my life.

Decades later, an adult neighbor — whose living room window faced my bball goal — told me, “You bounced that ball all day and night. But I didn’t mind. I knew you needed it.”

Wow. I never realized my obsession must have driven people crazy. But his kind words stuck with me.

That memory came rushing back tonight as we did something we hadn’t done in years: we went to a middle school basketball game.

We were there to support a family that means a lot to us, watching their son take the same court ours once did. Sitting in those gym stands, I felt the weight of time. Memories of my own boys playing, then flashes of myself at 13, a skinny kid shooting for peace of mind.

And in that moment, it seemed like a final goodbye. A goodbye to middle school basketball. A farewell to the Berkeley Bulldogs. A grateful nod to yesteryear.

Life moves on. Eventually kids grow up, seasons change, and driveways go quiet.

But I’ll tell you this — I can still drain a jumper.