This is an opinion column.

I watched basketball with a Donald Trump Republican.

Did that sentence read as silly as it felt to type? Did you laugh or did your head explode? Either response is reasonable because, well, here we are. All gaining our footing as the presidential election tremors subside.

As our emotions subside. As our calibrations recalibrate.

Who are we? Whom may I trust? Who do I share my time with? My most precious time. Time I cannot redeposit. Can’t get back.

It was not the first time I watched basketball with Republicans, clearly. I’ve probably done it more times than I know because until the last few years political parties weren’t really a thing. Not a vital thing. Not a self-defining thing.

Not even close.

Especially not when sports, food, and maybe a libation or two were involved.

Sure, we may root for different teams. Root vociferously for our teams. Even your team being our rival, though, didn’t stop me from sharing the basement and big screen with you — unless your team was Cal-Berkeley. Just kidding. Not.

Once the final whistle blew, everybody shook hands and went home. Yeah, maybe there was some smack talk, victory dancin’ and verbal throwdowns, but it was a game. Just a game. No one was hurt, nor harmed.

There will always be another game.

Then teams began to matter. Political teams. Matter way more than they should.

Sides of the aisle. Matter.

Party mascots. Matter.

Colors. Matter. Heck, there was more hate and disrespect spewed between Democrats and Republicans than Crips and Bloods.

The two teams — Democrats and Republians — suddenly mattered. To everyone. Way more than they should’ve. Way more than they should still.

“Any chance you want to watch some hoops tomorrow?”

I’ve known this Republican for a few years now. Good dude. (From here on, I’ll even call him Good Dude Republican.) I consider him a friend. We have our differences but none of them mattered more than what we had in common. We love sports. We love our families. We love good food. We love building brands and businesses (i.e., makin’ money).

We worship the same God (he and his family visited my church this summer).

Indeed, the Sunday they came to Rock City Church was the late July Sunday President Joe Biden announced he would not seek re-election and was supporting Vice President Kamala Harris to be the Democrat’s presidential nominee.

Suddenly teams mattered. And Good Dude Republican and I did not root for the same one. Not even close.

From jump, he made it starkly clear he would not vote for Harris. Like before she had secured the nomination — which was, what, 20 minutes after Biden’s bounce? Before many of her positions and policies were outlined and digested.

Soon thereafter I wrote a column: “America is ready to elect a female president, especially when women’s rights are at stake.” (Yeah, I whiffed on that one.)

“I’m not,” Good Dude Republican shot back immediately after I sent him the link.

I challenged him to say that to his wife and daughters. Yeah, it was game on.

“Let me rephrase that,” Good Dude Republican quickly followed. ” I would vote for a female. Not her though.”

Our text exchanges over the next weeks? Fire. He touted immigration. “They welded parts of the wall open.”) Questioned Harris’ intelligence. (“I don’t think she’s very bright…I have listened to her speak.”) Flamed her record prosecuting marijuana offenders. (“I think it was like 1,900 weed cases.”) Jumped on Trump’s humiliation of Haitian immigrants in Springfield. (“Population 60k… 20k roll into town. That’s like 30k people showing up in Hoover.) Blasted her 39.5 percent capital gains tax proposal (though it would not have affected him).

He raged over boys playing in girls’ sports.

I challenged his positions, debunked many with facts. No matter. He was sticking with his team.

By September we had quietly retreated to our separate digital corners, tacitly agreeing to put our communication on timeout. There were a few texts, certainly. We purposefully, though, avoided our teams. There was clearly nothing for either of us to gain from playing political pickleball. With a grenade.

Early last Wednesday, before the sun arose, after purging my feelings about the election outcome through the night in a column, after catching my breath and remembering no weapon formed against me …. I did not possess a spirit of fear. …. I texted Good Dude Republican.

“Congrats, brother. God bless us all.”

“He is far from perfect,” he responded. “As am I. Hopeful that he makes the country better.”

“We shall see.”

Five days later, on Monday, Good Dude Republican sent the text about watching basketball. At his house.

I paused. Purposefully paused. I hadn’t seen him in person since that Sunday in July at my church.

Now, here we are. Re-evaluating spaces. Reassessing friendships. Rechecking tickets at the door of our circle.

I accepted the invite, embracing the gesture as a reminder what we shared when only teams mattered, not teams. And what matters still. Or should.

The evening went well. Good food. Good friends. Good game.

His daughters remembered me from their church visit. His wife hugged me and said they’d be back.

There were debates — some political, but mostly sports. None related to teams. The fire we both fueled before the election was diminished. Our political disagreements faded to their rightful place.

Behind what should matter more.

Behind faith, family, food and our teams.

Oh, the basketball we watched: No. 19 Kentucky upset No. 5 Duke (and 17-year-old freshman phenom Cooper Flagg) 77-72.

Later, I thanked him for the hospitality.

“Great time! Much love for u!!,” he responded.

There will be another game.