Some loves start early and never really leave you. Basketball was that way for me.

I can trace it back to a hoop mounted near our driveway in rural Minnesota. I was probably seven or eight years old, shooting at a rim mounted on a metal backboard, dribbling on cracked concrete with the quiet Sunset Acres neighborhood around me. There wasn’t an audience, no scoreboard, no refs—just repetition, imagination, and the pure satisfaction of seeing the ball drop through the net. From that moment on, basketball became a constant companion.

I played wherever I could. In Winona, there were competitive leagues for 4th and 5th grade—at this age it was easy for the better players to dominate against players that had not put in the hours or had the same determination. In New Lisbon, where we eventually settled, basketball wasn’t just a sport; it was part of the town’s identity. Junior high teams were competitive. High school teams were competitive. Tuesday and Friday nights in the gym mattered. You felt it in the bleachers, in the way people talked about the games, in the pride the town took in its teams.

My brothers, Tom and Chuck, were right there with me. We all played, we all cared, and we all took it seriously. They were on good high school teams, and basketball was one of those threads that quietly stitched our teenage years together. We didn’t always talk about it, but we lived it—practices, games, rivalries, wins, losses, and the unspoken understanding that when you stepped on the court, you gave it what you had.

Now 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.

That love of the game didn’t stop 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 Woo’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, still very competitive, and still very much in shape. I was working at 3M at the time, lifting weights, playing regularly, and carrying that quiet 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 quiet, 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 was in good shape and still playing with an edge. 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.

No big ending. No farewell game. They just… stopped.

Looking back now, what I appreciate most isn’t how many points I scored or how many games we won. It’s 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.

Those alumni games weren’t just about reliving the past. They were about honoring it—about recognizing that some parts of who we are get formed early and stay with us forever. And for me, basketball was one of those parts.

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.