One of the biggest blessings I've had bestowed upon me is that I have had the same best friend for 36 years. Our childhood homes were three doors apart, we went to college two hours away from each other, lived together for a year or so upon our returns to Jersey, and have remained very close throughout the years.

Our neighborhood was a surburban haven for young families when we were kids, and our families spent a lot of time together back in the day. I have many memories of everyone hanging on the back porch or by the pool, a combined five kids running around as our mothers, both graduates of the same college and teachers, chatted hours away while our dads amused themselves with old school cans of Budweiser and horseshoes. They also played men's league basketball and softball together.

I also remember that when we were in high school, her older brother and his friends - a collection of all-county hoopers - used to wage some battle royales in their driveway. Their hoop was torn down so many times that her father finally got fed up and dug a ridiculously deep hole in the ground and filled it with several feet of concrete.

Although they moved quite a few years ago, I still pass the house frequently as my brother now lives on the street. The backboard is partially torn off, but that pole is still firmly in the ground.

Her dad died today after a mercifully short battle with cancer. But that pole is going to be there forever.

And I'll think of him everytime I see it.