Children in Kentucky, because of its wildly differing economic situations, may be born into Calumet-like affluence, where even animals munch their oats with a silver spoon; or into coal miner hardship, where livelihood can be measured one sunrise at a time.

One will know privilege, the other poverty.

But they both will know of a single, common ground that’s oblivious to pedigree or paycheck stubs when extending its invitation. It’s a shared dream. A Kentucky birthright, if you will.

Basketball. And its childhood heroes.

A ball, a rim affixed to some structure, and semi-flat ground are all that’s required to put every Kentucky kid on equal turf because the amenities, if not already in place, are added through a glorious imagination.

At first glance into an Elizabethtown, Ky., backyard some 30 years ago, the casual observer would recognize a rim and plywood backboard nailed precariously to a pair of spindly cedar poles. The grass below had long ago surrendered its fight to relentless trampling of canvas sneakers. And there, stirring the dust was a skinny kid mercilessly clanging the rusting rim with a succession of errant shots.

Within that inner sanctum, however, the goal was glistening fiberglass; the dirt court a splendid hardwood; and the kid was Kevin Grevey, a University of Kentucky All-American who managed to swish the game-winning basket every night before supper.

To be certain, it was a simpler time.

There were no AAU circuits or summer camps, now mere cattle shows for prospective basketball talent. A gathering of neighborhood kids sufficed quite nicely.

There was no high-top, high-tech footwear. Weathered PF Flyers or Red Balls were the norm with canvas “Chucks’’ reserved for big games.

And there were no expensive athletic fashions where, for the price of a house payment back then, one could buy an authentic basketball jersey top. Mine was a white sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off; the lettering meticulously scribed with a felt marker as KENTUCKY arched over Grevey’s No. 35. I was an all-city printer.

The storyline from this scene is tireless, having been trotted out with children of the ‘40s and Wah Wah Jones into the ‘60s with Cotton Nash and through the ‘70s and ‘80s with Jack Givens, Kyle Macy, Rex Chapman and others.

It continues today.

It will continue tomorrow.

And the memories built will continue forever. Those days of Grevey & Me still ring clear.

The ball was red, white and blue from the old American Basketball Association, though a dusting of red clay had since dimmed the vibrant colors. No matter. Each bounce still kicked up dust that stuck to sweat-drenched arms in the summer, or stung numb fingertips on a raw winter day.

There were baseline jump shots – near the fence to the right of the goal, next to the family Caprice to the left. Anything straightaway was taboo, as it required balancing on the side of a hill.

And the kid? Well, he was a prolific shooter. He just couldn’t hit. It was an impairment from birth, heightened immeasurably by the right-hander’s desire to mimic Grevey’s left-handed style.

But Grevey & Me plodded along – oblivious to a mother’s threat about ignored chores, unfazed by icicles dangling from a tattered net. There were championships to be won, careers to be launched ...

Oh well, at least Grevey made it out of the backyard.

“When we’re kids we all live out that dream to play basketball,’’ Grevey recalled on the day Kentucky retired his jersey to the rafters of Rupp Arena. “Not many do. I was one of the fortunate ones.’’

Grevey wasn’t alone that day at center circle. The kid from the Elizabethtown backyard was in the crowd, too, as fate seemed to demand.

“I have a hard time putting myself in the same breath with some of the Kentucky legends,” Grevey said in reflection. “Those were my idols growing up. But who knows? Maybe I was somebody’s idol, too.”

During the ceremony at Rupp Arena, the kid’s beaming face blended easily with the crowd that paid tribute, looking skyward as Grevey’s uniform was unfurled from the rafters.

There were thousands of smiles that day, but only one knowing smile. That from a kid imagining a ragged sweatshirt scrawled with a homemade 35 hanging next to Grevey’s.