Shane Battier, Bruce Bowen, Jeff Foster, Fabricio Oberto, Tayshaun Prince, Joel Pryzbilla and Michael Ruffin always play to their personal strengths and never to their weaknesses.

Chauncey Billups, Jason Kidd, Steve Nash, and Dwyane Wade are able to single-handedly raise the individual and collective consciousness of their teammates.

Tim Duncan is, after all, Mr. Fundamentals.

Luke Walton sees and knows, but often gets distracted when he overhandles.

Pau Gasol is so savvy that he picked up all the intricacies of the triangle offense within a fortnight.

Grant Hill and Joe Smith have been around long enough to understand everything.

And Yao Ming is another on-court genius.

Travels with Charley

Recently I described the best game I ever witnessed. Since then, many readers have asked me about the best game I ever played in. (The latest questioner being Rob Skimmyhorn from Portland, Ore.)

Granted that I've had many high-scoring outings (my intercollegiate best being 43 against Bridgeport), and how could I forget Artie Brennan's win-or-lose jumper that beat archrival CCNY at the buzzer? But the following contest is the hand's-down winner:

I was in my late 30s and still a rock-'em-sock-'em force in the paint when I was asked to participate in a charity doubleheader in northern New Jersey. The first game pitted an all-star pickup team of local players (that was augmented by me and a Woodstock Jones teammate, Al Dufty, a savvy 6-6 forward who had been tutored by the legendary Pete Carril at Princeton) against a squad that had won the city's recreation-league championship. In the second game, the winner would be matched against a team composed of professional football players from the New Jersey Generals of the since-defunct United States Football League. The gate receipts were earmarked for a local fund that benefited children with cerebral palsy.

The stands were filled with dozens of young children with cerebral palsy, their friends and relatives. They were all somewhat downhearted when the all-star ringers defeated their local favorites, but they clearly enjoyed the competition and were eagerly looking forward to the finale.

Against the rec leaguers, I had played with my usual almost-over-the-top frenzy and had succeeded in dominating the lane while managing to stay out of foul trouble (mostly because of the incompetence of the referees). Since the expected banging and roughhouse tactics would be right up my alley, I was also anticipating the second game and the prospect of competing with the football players. Here was my chance to prove that I was just as tough as those muscle-bound oafs.

However, between games, the two referees — crew-cut bozos with slight paunches and stone-colored eyes — demanded a bonus for officiating the second game. The promoters were outraged. But they were also stumped. No refs meant no game, and an early and disappointing end to the children's celebration. The promoters pleaded, but the refs were adamant.

That's when, seemingly out of nowhere, I came up with a great idea. What if we played the game without the greedy refs? If all the players were agreeable, we'd just call our own fouls.

Everybody seconded the motion.

The football players were uniformly powerful, athletic and eager for chest-to-chest combat, but the big men (tackles, ends, centers and guards) lacked the instinctive footwork necessary to work effectively beyond the line of scrimmage. We respected their professional status, and, although we were only civilians, they respected our superiority in performing the requisite dance steps.

As the game unfolded, a wonderful camaraderie developed. Even though we all played hard, we played clean. And we talked to each other constantly, complimenting good plays on both sides, and apologizing for any undue contact that fell short of being foul-worthy. There were no arguments and not a trace of ill-will.

On one drive hoopward, I was bumped off-stride and missed the ensuing layup. When my defender (a 6-6, 270-pound tight end) offered to penalize himself for the illegal contact, I surprised myself by saying, "Naw, that's all right. I should've made the shot anyway."

During the brief halftime intermission, the players mingled near the scorer's table, identifying ourselves and exchanging personal information — even though we knew we'd never see each other again once the game was over.

"I'm from Bear Country," the tight end said, referring to the legendary University of Alabama football coach Bear Bryant. "And you?"

"Woodstock. The town that time forgot."

Meanwhile, the kids lined up for autographs — and we remembered where we were, why we were there and how fortunate we were to still be able to run up and down the court. So we turned our full attention to the kids. The beautiful, cheerful children.

"Hey, buddy," we'd gently enquire, trying in vain to match the innocence of their joy and their forgetfulness. "What's your favorite team? Who's your favorite player?"

Too soon, the game resumed.

As before, the body-contact was aggressive and intense, yet within acceptable limits. The fouls were seldom called, particularly among the bigs. Each play, each move and counter-move was executed with a sense of joy that transcended any consideration of shots made and missed, of botched passes and misdribbles. We were all riding the crest of the same unexpected, yet delightful experience.

"Nice shot, man."

"How'd you get that pass through all that traffic?"

"All right!"

The final buzzer came as a rude shock. Only then did we bother to look up at the scoreboard — and it didn't matter who had won and who had lost.

Instead of Us vs. Them, instead of five-against-five, there were ten players playing one ball game.

Ah, hoops were paradise now.