On the playground, the men laugh and swear.
A young man receives the object.
With half a frown he takes the long shot.
His opponents scoff as the ball sails,
Careening down the back of the net.
Back-peddling, the man scowls to cover his pride.
Later he says, “It seems to go back and forth that way.”
A small boy waits just outside the base line,
As the men finish their game he asks,
“How’s come the really close shots always rattle out,
But the bad shots seem to bounce in?”
All the men stop and look
As if he had said something very profound.
After a few seconds the boy’s father says,
“If it hits the rim, it’s your own fault.
Try to never hit the rim.”
The sweaty guard attends the game.
The shooter sees his pass before it is made.
A quick flick, and the ball carves a curve to the goal.
At a time-out, they meet to slap hands.
“You are a creator,” says the shooter.
“And you a prophet,” answers the guard.
The long black man attends the game.
Palms up with wide open eyes.
Neatly extending he snags the ball.
“Mine,” he smiles as the nine race back.
A minute later he slaps a poor shot
To the hungry crowd.
Raising a clinched fist he shouts,
“I am the judge.”
At the line of judgment they all pay homage.
One man mumbles superstitiously.
Another pounds the ball against the floor in ritual,
So he will not forget.
After, one lifts his eyes in thanksgiving.
The other recoils with shame,
His offering rejected.
“Basketball is a discipline,” says the manic coach.
“And we are its disciples.
Are your feet shoulder width apart?
Does your elbow follow your wrist in a vertical line?”
Now he watches the skinny boys practice,
Smiling with a far away look he says,
“When they move like the fingers of a hand,
As if with one mind, one purpose,
It’s so beautiful.”
As he speaks, white froth shows in the corners of his mouth.
“I can smell the popcorn, too,”
Says the blind man in the front row.
“I feel it when the object thumps the wood.
I can hear each squeak and tweet.”
Behind him, the ocean pours a wave onto the floor.
As it washes over him, he finds himself standing,
Adding his voice to theirs:
In the final second a whistle has sounded.
The smallest man steps to the line.
On the left, the crowd hollers and waves its hands frantically.
They pound their feet against the bleachers.
On the right the crowd sits silently,
Waiting.
Later, as we linger in the dispersing crowd,
I ask the blind man,
“How is it that a shot can graze the very inside edge of the rim,
And find it’s way out? Or it might smack the rim dead on
And ricochet through the hoop?”
Then the blind man laughs, and he says to me,
“Do you understand, ‘Art is Imitation?’
The bards of basketball don’t fling their shots,
They let their wrists recite from memory.”
