Dark days are short. Birds sit mute in their nests. Sunset is a perfunctory dot fading behind the crisp white crests of the Olympic Mountains, framed by twilight-black sky.

Into the one-note monochrome of winter slips a few courageous, purple-streaked white blossoms, volunteer crocuses sprouting improbably on the front lawn — irrepressible, triumphant beauty.

After school my little brothers and sister and I used to watch flickering black-and-white reruns of “Star Trek” or “I Dream of Jeannie” on an immense, prehistoric console TV. At the console’s demise, the black-and-white image abruptly collapsed into an oscilloscopic flat-line with a single bright star in the center that hung for a moment on the black screen, then slowly faded, like a winter sunset.

For our oldest son, the brightest spot in the doldrums of winter is youth basketball. And he and I have 12 minutes to try to make the 11:50 ferry for a game in town.

We, of course, miss the boat, because it takes longer than 12 minutes to get there. Once, perhaps mid-2002, I made it to the ferry in 12 minutes. We wait on the dock in stony silence, mentally rehearsing recriminations.

We eventually double-park in front of the gymnasium a half-hour late, in a poorly marked warren of World War II-era military buildings converted into community centers and quasi-governmental neighborhood non-profits. Sprinting from the car, we hear the muffled tattoo of dozens of bouncing basketballs and squeaking rubber-soled shoes on wooden floors.

We run through glass double-doors plastered with posters for community events, down a dark concrete stairwell and burst into the cavernous gym, momentarily stunned by banks of bright lights gleaming on polished oak floors and the booming cacophony of bouncing basketballs like the drums of distant cannon-fire. The teams are still warming up. Shouted admonishments blur together like splotches of dark watercolor on wet white paper.

The gym smells of musty sweat-wet wood and decades of floor wax. Along each side of the court are banks of Eisenhower-era portable varnished-plywood bleachers. My son trots across the court to join his team, while I sidle self-consciously in front of rows of bleachers, searching for usual and familiar faces.

I hear a mom gasp, “The twins!” and point out a pair of kids on the opposing team, two menacing brutes wearing protective goggles, black rubber mouth guards and some sort of experimental and expensive-looking hi-vis-magenta athletic shoes. A full foot taller than any of the other sixth-graders, they look like they might have been models for those Dawn of Man drawings in middle-school science books, pigeon-toed descendants of hairy primitives whose success as a species may have relied on well-honed basketball skills. They smile cunningly through their mouth guards, twirling in mid-air like dainty dancing bears, spinning the leather ball into graceful arcs that float through the cotton net as if guided by wires.

There are other kids on the team, but it’s pretty clear their only purpose is to pad the roster. It’s not like they’ll ever touch the ball, except to chase it when it rolls under the bleachers.

One of our dads crows excitedly, “They’ve only got four players!” Sure enough, we count only four green jerseys. And according to league rules, that’s an automatic forfeit.

A wave of relief like a rolling heat mirage passes over our traveling squad of moms and dads. We won’t have to watch those twins double-handedly decimate our children’s team after all. No long, moping car ride home. In youth basketball, it’s not whether you win or lose that counts, it’s whether you win.

But the coaches decide the kids might as well play anyway. At the opening tip-off, one twin bats the ball to his brother who churns down the floor for an easy layup. A new guy, possibly someone’s uncle, stands to cheer, apparently a connoisseur of fine basketball, in addition to being a traitor. The other twin flattens my boy, steals the ball and hits a three-pointer. Several other parents cheer wildly as if they, too, have joined the cult of the twins. One of the brutes pushes another boy into the bleachers and is called for the obvious foul. They boo the referee.

I realize with horror that I’ve chosen a seat in the twins’ rooting section. I clap tepidly for both sides. Our team gets creamed.

Even so, on the way home, our boy is jubilant. I point out that his team won just by showing up. In the doldrums of winter, sometimes just showing up is a victory.

— Kevin Pottinger lives with his wife Maria and their four children on Vashon.