There was mention in today’s NYT of Jason Kidd, who, as it turns out, grew up only a couple miles from where I’m typing right now. The article says he’s been playing with cracked ribs for the past couple weeks and that, despite the injury, he might be traded to the Lakers before today’s 3 p.m. trading deadline. But the part of the article that made me stare off in disbelief was this: “Kidd, who will turn 34 next month …”

34!!!! It feels like a couple years ago when I was watching the NBA draft to see which team would pick Kidd up. I hardly missed a single game in Cal’s ‘93 season. I still remember the squad - Kidd, Lamond Murry, Randy Duck. But now - watching junior high school students walk down the sidewalk in front of me - it’s surreal to comprehend that I too was a 13-year-old underdeveloped runt jumping up and down every time Randy Duck scored a 3 pointer.

Jason Kidd was my hero during junior high. As a point guard, he embodied everything I wanted to be on the court: the way he was able to control the tempo of the game, his peripheral vision, his awareness of everything happening at all times, how he ran fast breaks, and the unbelievable no-look passes. He was never a showman with the ball, but he was the one responsible for his teammate’s getting on the highlight reel. I studied his every move and modeled my own style of full court basketball after him. And when it was time to pick jersey numbers, while everyone else clamored for 23, I always asked for number 5. I also remember the intense disappointment I felt after learning about his hit and run case.

It all feels like just a couple years ago. Last night I had a dream about playing basketball. - I need to start looking for a league around here.