In the old days, this would be where the robber barons camped out, or the guys who had invented something huge and life-enhancing, like the refrigerator or air-conditioning. Now it’s reserved for the occasional A-list Hollywood mogul or the anonymous mathematicians who sit in front of their computer screens and run the hedge funds. A mile from here, Steven Spielberg slapped together three lots on Georgica Pond, then bought the parcel on the other side so he could own the view too.

Before I get pulled over for rubbing the rich the wrong way, or being a grouch for no good reason, I spot a break in the hedges and rumble up a long, pebbled drive.

Beyond a huge, sprawling manor built in-no, decorated to look like it was built in-the 1920s is a shimmering pack of cars parked on the grass, each one chromed and accessorized.

Just beyond them is the reason they’re here, and the reason I’m here too-a brand-new, custom-built, state-of-the-art, official NBA-length-and-width basketball court.

But if there’s a Hampton sight more welcome and less expected than a full-size basketball court with an ocean view, it’s the dozen or so people hanging out beside it, and they immediately come over to greet us-the guys lavishing attention on my vehicle, the ladies giving it up for my faithful dog, Wing Daddy.

“This baby is pure class,” says a hustler named Artis LaFontaine as he appraises my antique Jag.

“And this baby is pure cute!” says his girl, Mammy, as Wingo gets up on his hind legs to lay a big wet one on her pretty face. “Can I adopt him?”

The warm way they all greet me feels as terrific as always-and not just because I’m the only white person here.

Chapter 4. Tom

I DON’T HAVE the honor of being the sole Caucasian for long.

In less than five minutes, Robby Walco arrives in his mud-splattered pickup, WALCO amp; SON, the name of his and his old man’s landscaping company, stenciled on the cab.