My dad’s professional basketball career with Philadelphia ended when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. After World War II (or “the War” as it was known for two generations), he and my mother decided to raise a family. Dad never returned to the hardwood.

Before the War, basketball players were not the larger-than-life figures they are today. They weren’t even large. At six feet, my dad was of average height for the game. Without television, their faces weren’t nationally known. But thanks to radio and newspapers their names were.

And there my dad had an advantage.

For three decades past his playing days, mention “Shikey Gotthoffer” and many a middle-aged New Yorker, denizens known as much for their stoicism as their incorrect pronunciation of “Long Island,” would exclaim how Shikey was “the greatest basketball player I ever saw.”

When I was 13, the greatest basketball player they ever saw bought me a pair of basketball shorts. They were royal blue and gold and truly a sight to see.

“The guy at the sporting goods store recognized me,” my dad said. “He wanted to know if you played as well as I did. I told him you were much better.”

I doubted it.

Even when my father hoisted me onto his shoulders and carried me to the basket, I missed every time.

At 13, there are some things a son cannot say to his father. That athletic prowess skips a generation is one of them.

I put the basketball shorts in a drawer with sweaters my Aunt Lil gave me for my birthdays. Lil was long on sloppy kisses but short on fashion sense. I wouldn’t be wearing those sweaters, either.

In high school I found most of the male teachers knew of my dad and were inclined to cut me slack when I needed it. “After all, you are Shikey’s son,” they’d say, as if befriending me meant some of dad’s fame rubbed off on them. Not that I questioned it.

My teenage years were a constant struggle. There was so much my parents didn’t know. If my dad’s fame got me an extension on a homework assignment or forgiveness for a lapse in grammar well, I earned it.

But fame, even inherited fame, has its price, and when I was 16 the creditors came a’calling.

Mr. Levinson was short, stocky, and round-faced. Every muscle-bound inch identified him as the PE teacher he was. He, too, had heard of my dad—he’d even seen him play—and when Levinson said, “Your father was the greatest basketball player I ever saw,” his tone left no space for second opinions.

“Gotthoffer,” he said on the first day of class, “any relation to the basketball player?”

Levinson’s mouth dropped open when I said the relationship was father son. This was a common reaction. People expected me to be his nephew or second cousin, as if it were illegal for famous people to have direct descendants.

I adopted my best aw-shucks look ahead of the usual, “Your father…”, et cetera, et cetera to hide my regret that there were no girls present. Signing my autograph on pink panties was on my fantasy bucket list.

“Any son of Shikey Gotthoffer,” Levinson said, “ought to be able to handle the rope climb.”

Huh?

He grabbed the end of the 10-foot-long rope dangling from the ceiling. It was the kind of rope you’d use if you were planning to off someone in the East River.

“Show us how it’s done,” he said. It was painfully clear that Levinson also didn’t know about athletic prowess skipping a generation.

I made it about three-quarters of the way up the rope that day, even with my classmates cheering me on, although with the sound of my heartbeat pounding in my ears, their cheering sounded more like snickering.

Levinson gave me a second chance a few weeks later, and a third a few weeks after that. By the end of the term I was famous in my own right, as the only student who didn’t make it to the ceiling (even though, in desperation, I’d taken to wearing those royal blue and gold shorts). I figured my secret was safe when my parents returned from open school night without saying a word.

A few months later, as I was putting Aunt Lil’s latest birthday gift in its drawer, I noticed the basketball shorts were missing.

I never saw them again.