The thump of the basketball against the asphalt is steady, almost rhythmic.

Overhead, the sky is a rich, coffee-colored black; the first stars twinkle in this vast celestial cathedral.

A soft wind blows warm and, against the thump of the ball, the sounds of the night fill the air — tires whine against pavement, crickets chirp from an unseen chorus, and somewhere down the street a door shuts.

Near me, children laugh.

It’s well past 10:30 p.m. at my house, and the 9-year-old, Clayton, is working hard on his lay-ups. He’s shirtless and his thin, wiry frame is damp from sweat and rough with sand and dirt.

For Clayton, the night is too scary to take out the trash, but it’s perfect for basketball.

And Clay’s played hard today.

While most of the world paid homage to that most wonderful of household appliances — air-conditioning — Clayton and his cabal of third-grade basketball players were outside, mixing it up in the street.

They stop, just once in a while, for the ice water and something to eat.

I’ve watched them most of the day; running, juking and throwing — the type of intense, serious play that exhausts most mortal men.

But not Clayton.

If he’s vertical, he’s playing.

And if you’ve got a ball, he’s got the time.

During the summer there is nothing else; We move the vehicles to the end of the driveway, to create a kind of makeshift cement basketball court.

The neighborhood kids scurry in and out; our refrigerator is their refrigerator. And our food is their food.