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In those late Winter months when the sun broke early, and then night came urgent, as if the sky was flicked on and off—for in those days when we were ghosts outside and our shadows paced in the overcast of a street-light—back then, after homework was finished and before dinner was served, you could find us on the court—jump-shots, lay-ups, behind-the-backs—phantoms on fast-breaks in high-tops. You could find us living for the glory of fade-away-three-pointers. You could find us mimicking the sounds of a swish or the clank of a missing basket on the board. You could find us...

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