I thought about working my way into the garage and searching for the tunnels, but, no, I couldn’t do that right now. For one thing, there were the various KEEP OUT–type signs. But more than that, there were neighbors out and about. A man mowed his lawn. A woman walked her dog. Two girls were drawing on a driveway with chalk. I debated circling around back, trying to find another way into those woods behind Bat Lady’s property, when I heard a sweet sound that always got my attention.

The tunnels would have to wait until the street was quiet.

Besides, someone was dribbling a basketball.

The sound called out to me. It worked like a mating call or something. I was drawn to it. The sound was soothing, engaging, comforting, inviting. If someone is dribbling a basketball and you want to join him, you are always welcome. It is part of the code. You could shoot around with someone or rebound for them or take winners. You didn’t have to know each other. You didn’t have to be the same age or the same sex or play at the same level. All that vanished when someone was dribbling a basketball.

As I drew closer, I could tell from the sound that it was someone practicing alone. Two dribbles. Shot. Two dribbles. Shot. By the speed of it, I’d say that the person was practicing low post moves. The sounds were too close together for outside shots. If you play the game, you’ll know what I mean.

When I turned the corner, I saw my team co-captain Brandon Foley taking hook shots in the key. I stopped and watched for a few seconds. He took three from the left, then three from the right, then back to the left. He made nearly every one. His face was coated in sweat. He was concentrating, focused, completely lost in the simple bliss of this drill, but there was something more here, something deeper and not so joyful.

“Hey,” I called out.

Brandon stopped and turned toward me. Now I could see that it wasn’t sweat coating his face.

It was tears.

“What are you doing here?” he asked me.

“I was just walking by when I heard the dribbling,” I said. “Look, I’m sorry about what I said after practice. I appreciate you reaching out like that.”

He turned toward the basket and started up his drill again. “Forget it.”

I let him shoot for another minute. There was no letup, no slowing down.

“What’s wrong?” I asked him.

Brandon dribbled outside and took a shot. The ball swished through the basket and started to roll away. Neither one of us went for it.

“It’s all falling apart,” Brandon said.

“What is?”

“All these years, all the different teams we played on together, all leading up to this season and now . . .” Brandon shrugged. “It’s all gone.”