We had been experiencing a long stretch of cold winter weather and it seemed every weekday morning started in the same way.

There I was, waiting for the bus with my hands in my pockets, my boots firmly planted in the squeeky snow, with thoughts of the upcoming long day stirring in my head.

As a senior at the Town of Webb School and member of the basketball team, I was mentally preparing myself for the big game that evening.

I began to reflect on the countless hours my teammates and I had spent since childhood shooting baskets and absorbing every bit of knowledge of the game we could get from our coaches, parents and peers.

All of my thoughts revolved around that night’s game.

Though I have a vague memory of spending much of my day in Al Stripp’s art room painting a piece for the Spring Fling Art Show, for the most part I remember having butterflies in my stomach in anticipation of the game.

During lunch the team sat together and tried to stave off uneasiness by laughing at just about anything we could think of.

The dried-out hamburgers and Tater tots we were served hardly seemed a fitting meal for a group ready to make a go for a sectional championship.

Back in the art room I created a mental list of the folks who had made my basketball experience good and qualitative over the years.

Don Hodel, who drove us to play ball at the Raquette Lake School gym when we were in elementary school, was the first to come to mind.

Then there were the owners of the Albedor who let us shoot baskets in the gym above the boathouse when we were in the sixth grade.

At the age of 13, Mr. and Mrs. Kalil would let the whole gang chop the ice off their driveway and shoot baskets among drifting snowflakes in the month of March.

I thought about our early Coach Dave Clark, who after taking a look at this gangly group of eighth graders, must have scratched his head and wondered if he would ever help us make any progress.

Our parents fostered our love of the game by allowing a hoop in every yard for us to shoot free throws and buzzer beaters instead of doing our chores.

Back then, Camp Eagle Cove hosted a Syracuse University Basketball Camp in Inlet. That gave us an opportunity to not only brush up on our skills, but to play against our SU basketball heroes.

Though physical education teacher Pat Farmer coached the ski team, as high schoolers he would let us sneak into the gym to shoot baskets instead of going to study hall.

Varsity Coach Risley, a dyed-in-the-wool Duke fan, pushed us to our potential

And there was a whole community who turned out, even on the worst wintry nights, to fill the bleachers and cheer us on in support.

Then, of course, were my teammates who consistently worked hard. They played with taped up ankles, never missed a practice, and paid close attention to the coach’s instruction so they could execute the game to the best of their abilities.

All of this had culminated into the big game that was to be played by a team of friends.

My friends Andrew Kalil, Mark Russell, Dave Olney, Chip Pierce, Tim Barkuskas, Colin Clark joined me every day at practice to hone our collective  basketball skills.

I thought about them as, back in the classroom, I dribbled some paint out on my pallet and stirred in some varnish. I wondered if they were thinking about the game as much as I was, or was this just another day for them.

I never did ask them. I guess I thought it was silly to get into their heads and find out what made them tick.

For me the game was never about a win, it was more about doing a good job.

If I set twelve perfect picks, stayed between my man and the basket, boxed out, and made good decisions, the game would take care of itself.

Little did I know that it was to be our last day on the court.

As I look back, I am amazed at the amount of community support we all received while we were growing up Adirondack .

Mitch Lee is an Adirondack illustrator & storyteller,

living in his boyhood town of Inlet. ltmitch3rdny@aol.com