Some of my earliest memories come with a basketball in my hands. I was probably six or seven years old, standing beneath a ten-foot hoop that seemed impossibly high to a boy my size. I wasn’t strong enough to shoot with proper form, so I developed my own method—heaving the ball toward the rim with one hand and putting nearly my whole body behind it. It wasn’t conventional or particularly graceful, but somehow, I became a pretty good shot. Long before I knew anything about technique, I understood the satisfaction of watching the ball rise toward the metal backboard, catch the rim, and fall through the net.
Winter rarely kept me inside. Many days began with a snow shovel instead of a basketball as I cleared enough of the driveway to dribble, plant my feet, and shoot. Then I would stay out there for hours, repeating the same motion while the sun sank in the western sky and the Minnesota cold worked its way through my gloves and into my fingers. The quiet neighborhood would grow dark around me until the porch light came on and my mother stuck her head out the door, calling for me to come inside and eat. I usually wanted one more shot before I listened—and if that shot missed, naturally, I needed another. Some loves begin so early that you cannot remember choosing them. Basketball was that way for me.
I played wherever I could. By fourth and fifth grade, I was already playing in organized leagues, where the hours spent practicing often separated the experienced players from those still learning the game. When we eventually settled in New Lisbon, I discovered a town where basketball wasn’t just a sport; it was part of the town’s identity. Beginning in seventh grade, players understood that putting on a New Lisbon uniform came with an expectation to win—an expectation that followed them through their final high school game. Our opponents knew it too, and they came into the gym prepared for a battle. On Tuesday and Friday nights, the bleachers filled with parents, students, former players, and townspeople who followed every possession. The squeak of shoes, the roar after a made basket, and the conversations that continued around town the next morning made it clear that these games mattered.
Basketball also dominated life at home during the winter. Around the dinner table, my brothers Tom and Chuck and I replayed games possession by possession. We talked about shots that fell, calls that went against us, players we had faced, and what we needed to do better the next time we stepped onto the court. Practices, upcoming opponents, wins, and losses filled the conversation. Even after the dishes were cleared, basketball usually followed us into the rest of the evening.
When we couldn’t be in the gym, we created our own versions of the game. In the basement, we played Nerf basketball, turning cramped quarters into our private arena. In the garage, a coffee can mounted to a drawing board became a basket, proving that we didn’t need much to start a game. We also competed on our Cadaco tabletop court, working the flippers to send a ping-pong ball bouncing across its wavy surface toward the basket. Those games could become as spirited as anything we played in a real gym. Basketball gave the three of us something to compete over, argue about, laugh about, and share—and during those long Wisconsin winters, it shaped much of our time together.
No matter the season, the blacktop outside of the school was always a hotspot for activity. Pick-up games were common. Individual players practicing their jump shot were common. Some of the best high school scorers from New Lisbon played on this court. They included Tom Andres, Bob Melford, and Jon Ferch. Probably the best team I remember was back in 1971. It was led by Melford and also included Bill Mitchell, my brother Tom, Donny Hendrickson, and Roger Mortenson. They eventually lost to LaCrosse Logan back in March of 1971 in a game reminiscent of the movie “Hoosiers”, except the small school loses in two overtimes.
I was thirteen years old, sitting in the bleachers that night, and to me my brother Tom was more than a player—he was my hero. The gym was packed and hot, the wooden stands creaking as people rose to their feet, and every basket brought a roar that seemed to shake the walls. Through two overtimes, I followed Tom on every trip down the floor, holding my breath with each shot and feeling every whistle, rebound, and turnover as if I were playing beside him. When the final horn sounded and La Crosse Logan had survived, the disappointment was crushing, yet my pride in Tom remained. At thirteen, I could imagine no greater accomplishment than wearing that New Lisbon uniform under the bright gym lights—and someday following in my brother’s footsteps.
That love of the game didn’t stop for me after graduation. I played in a 3M league during the week, pick-up games at gyms over the weekends, and the occasional neighborhood games on Jonquil Lane in Plymouth at Steve’s house.
In my early twenties, our former high school principal/basketball coach came up with the idea of organizing alumni basketball games. It was a simple idea, really—bring former players back, mix the ages, let people relive a little of what they once loved. But simple ideas are often the best ones.
Those alumni games became something special. The first one I remember playing in, I was still young, very competitive, and still very much in shape. I was working at 3M at the time, lifting weights, playing regularly, and carrying a physical confidence that comes from knowing your body will do what you ask of it. Walking back into that gym felt familiar in the best way. Same floor. Same baskets. Same smell of wood, sweat, and anticipation. Only now, the faces were different.
There were older guys who had lost a step but not their edge. Younger guys who thought they had something to prove. And then there were those of us in the middle—old enough to know the game, young enough to still push the pace. The competition was real, but so was the joy. Everyone wanted to win, but no one forgot why they were there.
The games themselves were usually part of a small tournament—two or three games against different graduating classes to determine a “championship.” And yes, even as alumni, we cared about that championship. Maybe not as much as we once would have, but enough.
The games had their own unique character. One thing became clear pretty quickly: the referees weren’t going to call much. Sometimes it felt like their main goal was simply to keep the clock running and get through the game without anyone getting seriously hurt. And when players realize the whistle is staying silent, the game changes.
It got physical. Elbows were used. Screens were set a little harder. Drives to the basket came with contact. Slaps on wrists became more frequent. And honestly, I didn’t mind it. At that stage of my life, I enjoyed the physicality. I was strong enough to hold my ground and experienced enough to use my body. If a younger guy wanted to challenge me in the paint, I was happy to oblige.
There was something honest about that style of play. No theatrics. No flopping. Just basketball the way we remembered it—hard, competitive, and unapologetic.
One of my favorite memories from those years was getting the chance to play against my brothers. Tom and Chuck ended up on one team, and I was on another. There’s something about sibling competition that brings out a different gear. We knew each other’s tendencies. We knew who liked to shoot, who liked to drive, who didn’t appreciate being pushed around. There was history there.
I remember that game clearly. I had a very good game that night. Shots fell. Rebounds came my way. And when the final buzzer sounded, our team had beaten theirs. If memory serves me right, that game was for the championship. Winning felt good. Beating your brothers felt even better.
But the alumni games weren’t just about the scoreboard. They were about the feeling of being back among people who shared the same roots. After the games, we’d head out to the local bars, laugh about missed calls, exaggerated fouls, and shots that “should have gone in.” Stories were told. Old rivalries softened. New friendships formed. There was camaraderie in a way that only shared experience can create.
We played those alumni games for years. Ten, maybe fifteen. It’s hard to remember exactly when they stopped. Eventually, no one picked up the organizational slack. It takes effort to schedule gyms, find referees, track down alumni addresses, and coordinate dates. When the one person who carried that responsibility stepped away, the games quietly faded.
Looking back now, what I appreciate most is that basketball gave us a reason to come back—to reconnect with a place and with people who shaped us. It gave us permission to be competitive again, even if only for a few nights. It reminded us of who we were before careers, responsibilities, and time took their toll.
I played basketball regularly until I was probably 35 or 40 years old. Eventually, the knees and ankles spoke up. The recovery took longer. Life filled in the gaps where games once lived. But the love for the game never really left.
Every now and then, when I walk into an old gym or hear the familiar bounce of a ball on hardwood, I’m right back there again—running the floor, guarding my brother, laughing afterward with friends—and it still feels like home.
