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Poems 2003 Competition
Contains the three winners
and all other participating basketball poems
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Contents:
Various Basketball Poems Online:
Anonymous
Writer (1916): Basket Ball
Sherman
Alexie: "Defending Walt Whitman"
Justin
B.: "Basketball"
Derek
del Barrio: "About Basketball"
Jeremiah
Saul Cruz: "Above the Rim"
Lionel
E. Deimel: "Basketball"
Sarah
Fernald: "Basketball Solace"
Hart:
"Basketball"
Jenna
Henderson: Limerick
Rachael
Kerney: "Basketball"
Justin
G. Haulton: "Basketball Practice"
Edward
Hirsch: "Fast Break (in memory of Dennis Turner 1946-1984
Ron
Ikan: "Pur Sgooter"
Anurag
Kumar: "Basketball"
Tom
Krause: "Just Me: A Player's Poem"
William
Mathews: "In Memory of the Utah Stars"
Mickeysterstar
(age -12): "Basketball"
Ana Monnar: "Kevin"
Rachel
Roskey: "Real Basketball Stars"
RicciDanielle25:
"The Basketball Player"
Alan
Shapiro: "The Courts at Lawton Street"
Jeff
Smith: "It's Only One Possession"
Robert
Sward: "Basketball's the American Game Because It Is Hysterical"
Tanya
(age 14): "Basketball Star" (dedicated to Marcos Gonzales)
John
Updike: "The Ex-Basketball Player"
"Weird
Guys Who Write Poems"
--
Chris: " "A" Team"
--
Jason: "Shoes"
--
Mark: "Foul Shot"
--
Mark: "Rebounder"
From
published sources on the internet
--
Not part of the competition --
(Links
are provided through the titles)
***************
As a
starter, how about this piece of gem published in 1916 in the "Arcade
Echoes"
a
publication of Tulane University. Enjoy!
Basket
Ball
by
Anonymous writer (1916)
The whispered scuffle of moving
feet
And the lime chokes your throat that's dry;
Your body is tense, as you breathless watch.
Till you fling your arms up--high!
The pungent smell of the burning leaves
And the blue haze drifting by,
And the winter sun that is going down
In the oak latticed leaden sky
Are not for you, for your heart and eyes
See only the moving
ball.
So you thrust yourself past the wary girl
Who is only a human wall
Oh, it's not for you that the cricket wakes
And the bending tree-tops sigh,
For your body is tense and you breathless watch
Till you fling your arms up--high
(Published
in "Arcade
Echoes" in No. 18, Volume VIII, June 1916, Number 4, page 27)
***************
Defending
Walt Whitman
by
Sherman Alexie ©
Basketball
is like this for young Indian boys, all arms and legs
and serious stomach muscles. Every body is brown!
These are the twentieth-century warriors who will never kill,
although a few sat quietly in the deserts of Kuwait,
waiting for orders to do something, to do something.
God,
there is nothing as beautiful as a jumpshot
on a reservation summer basketball court
where the ball is moist with sweat,
and makes a sound when it swishes through the net
that causes Walt Whitman to weep because it is so perfect.
There
are veterans of foreign wars here
although their bodies are still dominated
by collarbones and knees, although their bodies still respond
in the ways that bodies are supposed to respond when we are young.
Every body is brown! Look there, that boy can run
up and down this court forever. He can leap for a rebound
with his back arched like a salmon, all meat and bone
synchronized, magnetic, as if the court were a river,
as if the rim were a dam, as if the air were a ladder
leading the Indian boy toward home.
Some
of the Indian boys still wear their military hair cuts
while a few have let their hair grow back.
It will never be the same as it was before!
One Indian boy has never cut his hair, not once, and he braids it
into wild patterns that do not measure anything.
He is just a boy with too much time on his hands.
Look at him. He wants to play this game in bare feet.
God,
the sun is so bright! There is no place like this.
Walt Whitman stretches his calf muscles
on the sidelines. He has the next game.
His huge beard is ridiculous on the reservation.
Some body throws a crazy pass and Walt Whitman catches it
with quick hands. He brings the ball close to his nose
and breathes in all of its smells: leather, brown skin, sweat,
black hair, burning oil, twisted ankle, long drink of warm water,
gunpowder, pine tree. Walt Whitman squeezes the ball tightly.
He wants to run. He hardly has the patience to wait for his turn.
"What's the score?" he asks. He asks, "What's the score?"
Basketball
is like this for Walt Whitman. He watches these Indian boys
as if they were the last bodies on earth. Every body is brown!
Walt Whitman shakes because he believes in God.
Walt Whitman dreams of the Indian boy who will defend him,
trapping him in the corner, all flailing arms and legs
and legendary stomach muscles. Walt Whitman shakes
because he believes in God. Walt Whitman dreams
of the first jumpshot he will take, the ball arcing clumsily
from his fingers, striking the rim so hard that it sparks.
Walt Whitman shakes because he believes in God.
Walt Whitman closes his eyes. He is a small man and his beard
is ludicrous on the reservation, absolutely insane.
His beard makes the Indian boys righteously laugh. His beard
frightens the smallest Indian boys. His beard tickles the skin
of the Indian boys who dribble past him. His beard, his beard!
God,
there is beauty in every body. Walt Whitman stands
at center court while the Indian boys run from basket to basket.
Walt Whitman cannot tell the difference between
offense and defense. He does not care if he touches the ball.
Half of the Indian boys wear t-shirts damp with sweat
and the other half are bareback, skin slick and shiny.
There is no place like this. Walt Whitman smiles.
Walt Whitman shakes. This game belongs to him.
********
Basketball
by
Justin B.
©
Basketball
is a sport that any person can play
If
you set your mind to it you'll learn the way
See,
people will like you because you show respect
If
you don't show respect they think of as a suspect
When
people seem to look at you a model
Kids
want to see they can follow
It
isn't always about money in the game
It's
about glory and fame
So
if you don't make it in basketball
I
could try it again -- there would be no sorrow
So
tell all you folks in radio land
Here
is something for y'all basketball fans
***************
About
Basketball
by
Derek del Barrio
©
a
waterfall of sweat
pours down my forehead
into my eyes
the loud noises fall
into the background
and eventually hear them no more
my heartbeat
my shoes
the ball
i cease breathing
and all of my concentration
is focused on winning
four second count
the ball is inbounded
six heartbeats
four steps
i am passed to
jump
and the defender blocks my shot
four heartbeats
three steps
recovery
i pull back on a single foot
launch
i find myself in a movie
this is unreal
front of the rim to the back
and the ball rolls out
bouncing to the floor
the buzzer echoes
i feel the scream inside
but hold back the tear
i walk to the locker room head down
the others' spirits are high
a fellow player pats me on the shoulder
'cheer up, we won'
i remained silent
'maybe you'll get to play again'
i held back the tear again
i lost
no one understands what
it is like to be last string
***************
Above
the Rim
by
Jeremiah Saul Cruz
©
Standing
in the middle of the court.
I see the rim was made out of glass and it is as high as 10 feet.
Like living in the dark world
I focus my mind
I feel the light surrounding me
I receive energy
Empowered now,
I feel ready.
I ran like a Quicksilver.
A whirlwind,
my silver path trailing behind
I jump.
High,
above the rim.
I slam it like an earthquake.
The backboard broke and the glass shattered.
When I let it go I screamed, "AAAAHHHH"
The whole world can hear me.
I feel good.
***************
Basketball
by
Lionel E. Deimel
©
A
small park was next to the new house -
A
two-level love affair with swings below and basketball court above
An
invitation to exercise
I
had a basketball from a cereal production -
A
black and white ball with red lettering -
An
embarrassment to a real player.
Basketball
was never my game;
My
sports were Scrabble and Monopoly.
Running
bored me.
But
I saw an opportunity,
A
possible antidote to a spreading midriff,
A
chance to hone a new skill.
I
began with free throws,
Standing
at the line and concentrating,
Launching
the ball hopefully.
I
considered the physics,
The
precise point on the backboard I needed to hit
To
drop the ball into the hoop.
I
got lots of exercise
Chasing
the ball as it bounced off the backboard,
Or
the rim, or the fence.
I
tried other shots—
Close
in, from either side, from far away.
I
played Scrabble better.
Most
throws were right-handed,
Though
I was willing to try anything that worked—
Left-handed,
two-handed, underhanded.
There
were rare successes.
You
can’t miss all the time,
Just
often.
I
reconsidered the angle
And
recalculated the location of my target,
The
flip of the fingers.
I
persisted, as weeks passed.
I
watched the clouds and the airplanes writing bright lines across the darkening
sky,
But
I saw few baskets.
Perhaps
physics wasn’t the answer.
Despite
my physics degree, I wasn’t a good billiards player, either.
Time
for Plan B.
Using
it seemed to offer a greater margin for error,
But
relying on the backboard wasn’t working well.
I
aimed for the basket.
I
imagined a point in space,
One
just above the hoop center—
My
new aiming point.
My
movement had been frugal—
My
body mostly still to avoid disturbing my arm motion—
Perfect
economy.
But
now I stopped calculating.
I
thought only of the point above the basket.
I
crouched slightly.
I
jumped into the air.
My
arm shot upward as my whole mind and body aimed for the basket.
Swish!
***************
Basketball
Solace
by
Sarah Fernald
©
The
boy
out there on the court
shooting again and again.
the ball hits the ground,
sound rings in the air
up to my ears, four floors above him.
I don't know much about this boy.
His name, and a few
random facts:
he was going to go to a movie with us
Thursday night,
but he worked on his German
instead;
and he likes to play basketball
shooting hoops on the court.
Today I found out one more thing
about this boy-
isn't it strange that while
I was dancing with joy
in the lounge last night
that same night, the boy's mother
died.
I watch him shooting hoops
and wonder
about him, about how he feels inside,
about loneliness and the sudden changes
from child to adult and
I think about the small comfort
in stepping outside the world to
play basketball under a Saturday night sky.
***************
Basketball
by
Hart
©
Leaping
in the air
Feel
the wind go past your body
While
you go to get the rebound
Or
jump up for the ally-oop
Feel
the ball smoothly on your fingerings
Meeting
the ball
Then
you notice
Your
coach screaming
Dribble
to the right dribble to the left
Shoot
The
ball goes up
The
buzzer sounds
Swish!
***************
Limerick
by
Jenna Hendersen
©
There
once was a tall basketball player
who
thought he was way up there
til one day he found
he was knocked to the ground
by a little boy with no hair.
**************
Basketball
by
Rachael Kerney
©
Why
be shopping at the mall,
When
you could be playing basketball.
Why
be standing still,
When
you could be doing basketball drills.
Why
be lying in a cot,
When
you could be shooting a foul shot
Why
be a cheerleader rooting,
When
you could be basketball player shooting
Why
be sitting in the sun,
Why
be talking to your sibling,
When
you could be in a gym dribbling.
Why
be on a couch being lazy,
Because
if you don't play basketball, you are crazy!
********
Basketball
Practice
by
Justin G. Haulton
©
"AGAIN!"
I sprint to the end of the court
my legs cutting through the oppressive air,
desperately trying to reach the endline.
"AGAIN!"
I take off, this time not as fast
wondering why I bother to give up
two hours each night to be commanded
like a remote control car.
"FIFTEEN FOUL SHOTS"
I walk slowly to the line
happy for the time to catch my breath.
I pick up the ball and begin.
"BACK ON THE LINE!"
Again I sprint to the end of the court
mouth wide open
sweat dripping from my face.
"AGAIN!"
As I run up the court
for what I hope will be the last time tonight,
I glance over my shoulder
to see my coach, red-faced and grinning,
remote control
gleaming in his hand.
********
Fast
Break
by
Edward Hirsch
©
(in
memory of Dennis Turner 1946-1984)
A
hook shot kisses the rim and
hangs there, helplessly, but doesn't drop
and
for once our gangly starting center
boxes out his man and times his jump
perfectly,
gathering the orange leather
from the air like a cherished possession
and
spinning around to throw a strike
to the outlet who is already shoveling
an
underhand pass toward the other guard
scissoring past a flat-footed defender
who
looks stunned and nailed to the floor
in the wrong direction, turning to catch sight
of
a high, gliding dribble and a man
letting the play develop in front of him
in
slow motion, almost exactly
like a coach's drawing on the backboard,
both
forwards racing down the court
the way that forwards should, fanning out
and
filling the lanes in tandem, moving
together as brothers passing the ball
between
them without a dribble, without
a single bounce hitting the hardwood
until
the guard finally lunges out
and commits to the wrong man
while
the power-forward explodes past them
in a fury, taking the ball into the air
by
himself now and laying it gently
against the glass for a layup,
but
losing his balance in the process
inexplicably falling, hitting the floor
with
a wild, headlong motion
for the game he loved like a country
and
swiveling back to see an orange blur
floating perfecting through the net.
From
"Wild Gratitude" (1995. For biography of poet Edward Hirsch,
click
here
*******
Pure
Shooter
by
Ron Ikan
©
His
sleeves have been rolled
since the tender age of six
when a first miniature backboard
got tacked up above the door
there in his rural bedroom
for him to shoot at repeatedly
any time of the day or night,
and since then the feeling has
spread throughout his system
as these lifelong addictions will,
fixing from the third grade on
this time-honored tradition
of the true Midwestern farm boy
dangerous from the top of the key
whose folks breed Poland China
and vote straight Republican,
saddled when he was twelve
with the costly installation
of a utility pole built special
near the basket out behind the barn
giving him all the needed light
to shoot them in on those
late November evenings across
entire seasons of chill weather,
with an electric fence humming
and his basketball fairly echoing
on the smooth expansive concrete
he and a proud father poured
one long Labor Day weekend,
turning the ball over and over
in his hands a thousand times daily
there in the darkness long after supper
when all the other kids for miles
have gathered in the basement
of the old Methodist parsonage,
shooting it up even now
into orbit after soft orbit
pure as the driven snow.
"Pure
Shooter" by Ron Ikan appeared in Voices on the Landscape
published by Loess Hills Books.
*******
by Anurag Kumar
©
Bang in hand,
Passed to Chang,
Round and round,
Up and down,
As if a Ping-Pong ball,
Ball goes up the crater,
And then falls down,
Rolling over,
Bumping by,
On the net,
Sometimes set,
Under hats,
In the hands,
Sometimes there,
Others ours,
At last,
The pass,
To hit the case,
With the ball,
'In' doesn't matter,
'Out' does matter,
Well ball is in,
The game is fin,
Win or lose,
Doesn't matter,
But at last,
We have won.
*******
Just
Me: A Player's Poem
by
Tom Krause
©
"From
the time I was little, I knew I was great
'cause the people would tell me, "You'll make it - just wait."
But they never did tell me how great I would be
If I ever played someone who was greater than me.
When I'm in the back yard, I'm king with
the ball
To swish all those baskets is no sweat at all.
But all of a sudden there's a defender in my face
Who doesn't seem to realize that I'm king of this place.
So the pressure gets to me; I rush with
the ball.
My passes to teammates could go through the wall.
My jumpers not falling, my dribbles not sure.
My hand is not steady; my eye is not pure.
The fault is my teammates - they don't
understand.
The fault is my coaches - what a terrible plan.
The fault is the call by the blind referee.
But the fault is not mine; I'm the greatest, you see.
Then finally it hit me when I started to
see
That the face in the mirror looked exactly like me.
It wasn't my teammates who were dropping the ball,
and it wasn't my coach shooting bricks at the wall.
That face in the mirror that was always
so great
Had some room for improvement instead of just hate.
So I stopped blaming others and I started to grow.
My play got much better and it started to show.
And all of my teammates didn't seem
quite so bad.
I learned to depend on the good friends I had.
Now I like myself better since I started to see
That I was lousy being great - I'm much better being me."
**********
In
Memory of the Utah Stars
by
William Mathews
©
Each
of them must have terrified
his parents by being so big, obsessive
and exact so young, already gone
and leaving, like a big tipper,
that huge changeling's body in his place.
The prince of bone spurs and bad knees.
The
year I first saw them play
Malone was a high school freshman,
already too big for any bed,
14 a natural resource.
You have to learn not to
apologize, a form of vanity.
You flare up in the lane, exotic
anywhere else. You roll the ball
off fingers twice as long as your
girlfriend's. Great touch for a big man,
says some jerk.
**********
Basketball
By
mickeysterstar
© (Age - 12)
I know someone
who adores basketball,
But that is not it, not it at all.
For one I adore him so truly so long,
But next year he will be gone.
He acts like he doesn't even know i'm there,
I love him so much and that's not fair.
Not fair that I came so late in birth.
Why couldn't I have come two years earlier to earth?
Why is it that he is in eighth grade and i am in sixth?
I wish the whole world could be fixed.
He knows that I have liked him three years and counting,
I wish he could care for me more than all the reboundings.
He always has a flavor of the week right by his side,
Looking like Britney Spears and with more pride.
His girlfriends are always same age or older,
I wish I was stronger and was much bolder.
I wished that he liked me just as I,
I wished that he loved me with each passing me by.
I locked eyes with him once but not for long.
I knew I had to admit I was wrong.
To give him my heart, my love, my soul.
And all he did was crush it in a bowl.
Tears strolled down my cheek each day.
But one day I will tell him again maybe during May.
One day when I am fully reconciled.
And after his number I have dialed.
He will say to me that he loves me to.
But I will never know if that will come true.
I don't know why it's me he hates.
I'm usually easy to relate.
Not many broken heartaches for me.
One day I will just all let this be.
Maybe when everyone's flawless and when all the piggies
fly.
Maybe that's when
i'll say to him good-bye.
**********
Kevin
by Ana Monnar
©
Kevin is a cute boy
Cute as can be
When he's shooting
baskets
He does it quite
precisely
He dribbles so quickly
He zooms right by
the players
The other team is
speechless
The coaches say
their prayers
Hurray for Kevin
You're quite a hero
Hurray for the home
team
The final score was
fifty to zero
Check Ana Monnar's main site at:
http://www.readersareleadersusa.net/
**********
by
Rachel Roskey
©
I
Grab My Jersey And My Shoes
I Am Going To A Game That I Will Not Lose
I Put On My T-Shirt And Throw On My Shorts
Because Today I Will Play On The Basketball Courts
I Am Going To Play With My Basketball Team
We're Going To Win Gold, Or So It May Seem
I Practice My Lay-ups, Dribbling And Shot
I Shoot It And Score, It Was Right On The Dot
Now I Went In A Little Cocky, Because We Began To Lose
But My Team Will Not, No Way, We Refuse
So As I Became Angry, Also A One Man Team
I Got A Foul And Of Course Wanted To Scream
Half Time Came And My Coach Told Us To Bring It In
How Could We Lose, We Needed To Win
We Pulled It Together, And We Became A Squad
I Pleaded And Prayed To The One And Only God
There Was 5 Seconds Left, It Was A Tied Game
Jamie Passed It To Sam, And We Tried For Our Fame
She Tested For That Lay-up And Did Miss
But That Was That And This Is This
That Was Two Years Ago And I Have Learned One Thing
Work As A Team And Success It Shall Bring
**********
The
Basketball Player
by
RicciDanielle25
©
He
was the greatest 16 year old athlete
you will ever meet
like nobody else he could take it down the court
he was even a foot too short
he was a very sweet guy
with potential reaching the sky
he knew his goals and always went for them
i mean, at only 5'5, he could even touch the rim
he was also really cute
but he thought he had some things to boot
everyone loved the all-star
they knew he would go so far
everyone was oh so jealous
they all said, "but he's so much better than us"
but in his life he thought he needed to re-arrange
who was to know everyone's outlook on him would change
he started liking things that had no morality
ruining his wonderful personality
with no one knowing what was next
he got involved in mostly drugs and sex
in total surprise
one of the girls called with tears in her eyes
"this can't be happening, this only happens in books i've read"
"i'm too young to be a daddy" he said
running out of the house with great stress
he wanted to do what he knew best
speeding into the woods on his 4-wheeler
he got some weed from his dealer
he claimed "i have the money, i'll pay you back"
trying to figure out what to do because he didn't have jack
after saying this time after time
the dealer realized this guy didn't have a dime
being in so much debt, the dealer come to his house
he was as quiet as a mouse
for they both knew he had nothing
all of a sudden, the dealer said i want to show you something
he pulled a gun out of his pocket
and blew the basketball star away like a rocket
his parents later returned home
to find his body cold and alone
with the daddy's life cut short
the young girl knew she had a child to abort
what could have went wrong with him
he got caught up with the wrong crowd again
he could have had a beautiful life
without so much pain and strife
his life was taken after 16 years
now his loved ones shed many tears
i know i can't say, for judgment is not to be chosen by man
but i pray that you are shining down on me from heaven
i loved you very much, and so did everyone else
i just wish, at the alter, you would have knelt
***************
The
Courts at Lawton Street
by
the poet Alan Shapiro
©
Soon
when the sun drops over the rim
of buildings, across this small tar court
the out of work, the working, students
and dropouts will be running till dark.
But now they are only gathering
in a loose arc before the basket,
in a fog of heat where they forget
what they forget, lazily shooting.
A
slow impersonal music winds
through their voices, a great friendliness
so casual nobody needs
to notice; they talk of this and that,
old games,
miraculous old moves . . .
Now
there are three balls, three drab moons
turning through the gold soot of evening,
colliding on the bent rim, making
the metal chain net whisper applause.
At the other end someone dribbles
behind his back, between his legs, while
two small kids chase him till they stumble,
lunging at that ghost between his hands.
And
when singing, "Got to sweeten up
my jams" he lopes slowly to the hoop
and stuffs the ball in over his head,
the kids, knowing they watch a god
they could become, with solemnity
slap each other's palms and say, "Nasty,
nasty," as though the word meant only
fame to them, and all there is of hope.
NB: The
poet Alan Shapiro played on his high school and college basketball teams,
and now
he teaches poetry at North Carolina.
**********
It's
Only One Possession
By
Jeff Smith
©
It
was only one possession, Why must my coach scream,
My poor defense permitted the basket, But what can one hoop mean?
As the pass comes my direction, And I fumble it into the stands,
The coach's voice rings loud and clear, "Catch with your eyes and
hands!"
C'mon, coach, it's a single possession, Our team will be okay.
It's just the first two minutes, My gosh, we've got all day.
At the 10-minute mark I remember,
That the center is strong and stout.
A putback for two, quite simply due, To my failure to turn and block out.
But it was only one possession, I didn't commit a crime,
My team is ahead and I'm playing well, And there's
still plenty of time!
As the halftime
buzzer is sounding, And I watch the ball bank in,
I know that I will hear from my loving coach. Of my questionable effort to
defend.
But it was only one possession, Coach - don't have a heart attack!
We're down by one, but we're having fun, I know we'll get the lead back!
The second half
mirrors the first, But it's early, it's not a big deal.
That my failure to use a pass fake. Results in an unlikely steal.
But quickly I sink a jumper. I'm greeted by high fives and slaps,
But next possession I give up a layup. While suffering mental lapse.
But it's only one possession, C'mon, Coach, chill out.
It's crazy to see you disgusted. As you slap the assistant and shout.
"Victory favors the team making the fewest mistakes.
Single possessions are the key. So treat them like gold and do as you're told,
And play with intensity."
I step to the line
for one and one, But I have a concentration lapse.
The ball soars through the air - Good Lord, it's a brick!
I'm afraid the support will collapse. In post game I sit at my locker,
Pondering what more I could do. I realize the value of each possession,
What a shame that we lost by two.
**********
Basketball's
the American Game Because It Is Hysterical
by
Robert Sward
©
"Basketball's
the American game because it's hysterical," says Lorrie Goldensohn
as the
players and coaches come
off the bench and the crowd is on its feet yelling
and the Knicks are ahead
97-95 with just over three minutes
to go in the fourth quarter and Perry hits from the side and Lorrie's husband,
Barry,
comes downstairs with a
bottle of scotch and a guide to English verse.
"Unless there is a new mind, there cannot be a new line," he reads
refilling our glasses.
"Without invention the line will never again take on its ancient
divisions..."
All evening we have been watching the New York Knicks battling the Boston
Celtics and having a running
argument about free verse, traditional rhyming poetry, syllabic verse
("what's
the point in counting for counting's sake?"), the critic Hugh Kenner,
John
Hollander's 'Rhyme's Reason,' the variable foot and the American idiom.
"In and out by Williams," says the announcer, "he's got a nose for the basket."
The crowd is on its feet again, roaring.
"We know nothing and can know nothing but the dance, to dance to a measure
contrapuntally,
Satirically, the tragic foot," Barry continues.
The Celtics race down the court. "Talk about the green wave coming at you."
Bird hits and the Celtics even the score.
"Basketball's the American game because it's like the variable foot," says
Lorrie,
"it's up in the air all the time. It's
quick and the floor is continually moving and there's
this short back and forth factor."
"What I like best about the game," I say, "is shutting my eyes
and tuning out the announcer and hearing
Barry read and arguing about poetry and drinking and listening all the while to
the music of
seven-foot black herons in gym shoes, the stirring squeak of twenty over-size
sneakers on the varnished floor,
a
floor which has been carefully and ingeniously miked in advance for sound."
NB:
Published in Zuzu's Petals Quarterly
**********
Basketball
Star
(Dedicated
to Marcos Gonzales)
By
Tanya
©
(Age - 14)
He's
fast,
he's cool,
he's good.
he's basically a basketball star.
I'm sure he'll go very far.
He makes the girls drool,
and their boyfriends jealous,
his basketball skills are just too cool.
but he's got a beautiful smile,
that even makes me go wild.
he's got gorgeous eyes,
that twinkle when he play ball,
i hope he doesn't make me fall.
I wouldn't be the only one.
He's a basketball star,
and much more.
Watch out Kobe,
this guy can make it big,
and i'm sure he will.
and he'll forget about me.
but its aight,
cause this guy's tight.
and will always be quite a sight.
**********
The
Ex-Basketball Player
by
John Updike
©
Pearl
Avenue runs past the high-school lot,
Bends with the trolley tracks, and stops, cut off
Before it has a chance to go two blocks,
At Colonel McComsky Plaza. Berth’s Garage
Is on the corner facing west, and there,
Most days, you’ll find Flick Webb, who helps Berth out.
Flick stands tall among the idiot pumps---
Five on a side, the old bubble-head style,
Their rubber elbows hanging loose and low,
One’s nostrils are two S’s, and his eyes
An E and O. And one is squat, without
A head at all--- more of a football type.
Once Flick played for the high-school team, the Wizards.
He was good: in fact, the best. In ‘46
He bucketed three hundred ninety points.
A county record still. The ball loved Flick.
I saw him rack up thirty-eight or forty
In one home game. His hands were like wild birds.
He never learned a trade, he just sells gas,
Checks oil, and changes flats. Once in a while,
As a gag, he dribbles an inner tube,
But most of us remember anyway.
His hands are fine and nervous on the lug wrench.
It makes no difference to the lug wrench, though.
Off work, he hangs around Mae’s Luncheonette.
Grease-gray and kind of coiled, he plays pinball,
Sips lemon cokes, and smokes those thin cigars;
Flick seldom speaks to Mae, just sits and nods
Beyond her face toward bright applauding tiers
Of Necco Wafers, Nibs, and Juju Beads.
**********
"Weird
Guys Who Write Poems"
(They
are Chris, Derrick, Jason, Jeff and Mark, basketball mates
who
came together to write pieces and put them under the "Weird Guys" name
Site
is at: http://www.geocities.com/SoHo/Lofts/8981/index.html
These
are poems by Chris and Mark on basketball)
By
Chris
©
I
watched in reverence as they played
and I saw the buckets that they made
I watched as Jeff drained the three
and Jason hit J's as I could see
Mark
got one board after another
while Jason and Jeff passed to each other
But what about Tike, the smallest of all?
he'd run up behind you, and steal the ball
There's
one thing I must say before I die
These guys are the best, of that I can't lie
Shoes
by
Jason
©
Shoes
Many sizes, many shapes, and many colors
There are Jordans, and Pippins, and Pennys
There are Mashburns, and Hills, and Shaqs
There's even LJs, Kidds, and Stacks
How many shoes I wonder
Man will never know
By
Mark
©
One
second is left in the game
you're at the foul line and going insane
the game is on your shoulders the score is tied
right now you feel like want to hide
the first attempt you shoot like a brick
and you just wish there was something to kick
your hands are sweaty, your knees are weak
the adrenaline in your body is at its peak
the ref hands you the ball
you feel very very small
you remember how you shot the ball and feel like a jerk
and then you remember you have science homework
you concentrate with all your might
your stomach is very very light
the crowd is so loud it awakens the dead
your feet feel like buckets of lead
you shoot the ball that is what you do
do you make it? that depends on you
By
Mark
©
The
shot is shot
and in the paint, there is a battle about to be fought
There is a war to be won in the land of the tall
for you cannot win without the ball
They
push and shove a kick and bite
for this is a battle that they must fight
They want the board an that is all
for you cannot win without the ball
The
ball hits the rim that is all to hear
but to the men in the paint "tis music to the ear"
Then
when it's over the one who is strong, smart, and tall
will be able to say "Ha, I got the ball"
For
this is the job of David, Shag, Hakeem, and the Worm
and many, many others who are willing to squirm
who are willing to push, to jump and to fight
who are willing to take the bet, though they may not right
For
this is a rebounder who is young and receives the call
for he knows well "you cannot win without the ball"
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