Been a rough couple of weeks, folks. 9/11; David Thompson's death, which those of you in the writing world know was a big blow to everyone; then I heard that another friend recently died, something I hadn't known; my knee's been a problem, so I haven't been working out, which always brings me down; Yom Kippur, Day of Atonement and reflection, which was appropriate but didn't lighten my mood any.

Then this morning, first day of the new basketball season. I was thinking, my knee's a wreck, I'm a hundred and three years old, what am I doing? Why even go? But I went. I told myself, if I stunk up the joint, I was quitting, that's it, the end.

But guess what? I didn't. Not really, not entirely. I wasn't great, because I'm never great, but in my mediocre way I was okay. So I ran for an hour and a half, made some passes, made some cuts, shot a few, hit a couple. Sitting here now with ice on the knee, and as sometimes happens after a workout, I'm wondering if maybe this isn't quite as bad a world as I thought it was this morning.