Game Time: Jazz 105, Rockets 96

This was a strange ball game. The Jazz had a nice outing, but not a spectacular one. On the other hand, for most of the game the Rockets played as though they had little at stake.

Here are the specifics.

Utah

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Our version of basketball featured a small rubber "Spaldeen" and the vertical lower square of a fire escape ladder, which served as the goal. That's why hoops was not considered to be a viable athletic activity back there and then.

But my life changed early one cold Saturday morning in early December when I was a month shy of my 13th birthday. I'd had a loud argument with my parents about a pair of new pants I'd ripped while playing punchball in the street, so, defiantly escaping from our apartment, I undertook a long, brooding, solitary walk down Fulton Avenue.

In the Bronx, the ethnic makeup of neighborhoods changed dramatically every mile or so, and as I wandered unaware into unknown territory, I became intrigued and then lured by the sound of a bouncing ball.

I soon entered the locker room of a public swimming pool in a black neighborhood that was the scene of a "steady run" — a full-court game played between portable baskets on a cold stone floor. Wandering in out of sheer curiosity, I was instantly welcomed. "Lace 'em up, big fella. You got next with me."

The game was presided over by Bill, rumored to have been a Harlem Globetrotter in his distant youth. It was a ferocious and honorable game in which the shooter was the only player who'd ever dare admit to being fouled.

I loved the company of these joyful warriors who played with such sheer aggression and passion. Smelling from booze on Saturday and Sunday mornings. Laughing away everybody's mistakes. "Keep on shooting, Mister Charley," Bill would urge me. "You throw enough stuff against the wall, some of it's bound to stick."

But at the time I couldn't master the fine art of shooting a jump shot — the ball seemed to squirt our of my hands like a gigantic watermelon. Yet Bill encouraged me ("big as you are and bigger as you gonna be ...") to persevere.

And I did.

So, a belated thanks to Bill and the joyful company of weekend hoopers who taught me that it's equally as important to play well as it is to learn from one's mistakes.

Thanks for the run, guys.