Let Us Talk of Basketball! Read online



  Let us talk of basketball!

  Copyright ©1986 John Janovy, Jr.

  Note: this combination of sing-songy, Ogden Nash wannabe, doggerel was actually written in the middle 1980s and discovered while cleaning out some files. Regardless of the structure or quality of the poetry, the message about high school athletics is still valid.

  Designed by John Janovy, Jr.

  ISBN: 9781311743954

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  Contents:

  Let us talk of basketball!

  Other works by John Janovy, Jr.

  **********

  Let us talk of basketball!

  The dapper parent cried

  And placed his coated elbow

  On the mantle there beside

  His glass of wine, amber white,

  Its legs inside the crystal glass

  Ran up the sides to catch the lights

  That also swirled among this crowd

  Broken into colors shining playing

  Off the walls, glinting in his eyes,

  Reflecting off his plastic lenses.

  And all the other actors took their

  Places.

  Svelte and quiet poised, she

  Made the Chippendale look drab; elegant

  In her finest dress for the intimate

  Of all her groups she rested on the

  Couch, her hand upon her husband’s knee.

  It did the same, and he relaxed and

  Contemplative, sipped his drink and

  Savored both the liquor and command.

  Of a type all prone to stress, excitement,

  Was the fifth, who paced along the

  Fireplace drinking beer. His mate,

  Slightly overweight herself, watched

  Him with familiar fear that this would

  Be the night she came alone into her

  Future. Upon the couch, seats three

  And four, the final couple sat, she

  Forever as a mother, lovely in security;

  He contemplating every day of fat to burn

  By jogging in the frosty air.

  For their journey into challenge, philosophy their

  Monthly leisure, a group less qualified

  Did not exist.

  None of them had ever taken ball to

  Court in open war against their friends.

  (Guard)

  Enfolded in the antique beauty

  Her voice was misty, saddened, yet it

  Carried through the relaxed atmosphere

  Of weekend in the nicer sections, that

  Certain softness of a mother

  Remembering

  “She was so tiny, third in line,

  There beside me in the bed, behind

  Two rowdy brothers she would have to

  Live—we knew,” and smiled as far

  Away in time she wore the gown that

  Graced her slender frame that perfect

  Autumn Sunday morn when they were young.

  Her eyes flicked to her husband; her

  Glass was empty; the other women

  Knew their men could not erase

  The vision of this lioness in act of

  Giving birth, or in conception, while the

  Challenger, smug, filled her chalice,

  And with the deed did ask the line

  Of thought continue.

  “Delicate, I marveled at

  Her gentleness, and fed her at my

  Breast, and cried with joy for

  Company, at last, to help negotiate

  The years—I love my men,

  As I did then. But a woman needs

  a daughter!”

  The touch of independence earned

  Flashed through her eyes above the

  Crystal rim, as the speaker took a

  Sip all caught their breath at

  Elegance revealed along her wrist.

  “She was happy all the

  Time, my light, salvation, while

  The other two smashed furniture, and

  Threw their food, and fought like

  Jungle cats above a bloodied kill!”

  Again she smiled. All understood.

  Some choice: to have them back like

  That or off at college. Their rooms

  Now echo with the silence of reminder—

  We all are grown

  Except the daughter.

  “Dolls, we finally bought,

  In quantity and style. They cried

  Their little plaintive calls and wet

  Their little pants when squeezed,

  And went to sleep upon command

  And were so easy, for her to dress

  In training for her proper role.

  We thought, back then, that

  Females should be mothers first,

  and lovers next,

  Then volunteers, while some would

  Play at war.” The one with elbow

  On the mantle raised an eyebrow

  —a gesture of experience that

  defies all sense of what should be.

  “So through their early years they

  Crawled, then walked and ran.

  I was in a state of bliss, my life

  Complete: handsome husband, handsome

  Money, stalwart lads my father’s genes

  Did show, a daughter of such fragile

  Limbs, golden hair that washed like waves,

  I’d watch them fall across her pillow

  As she slept.” She raised her chin,

  “I have these pictures in a

  Gallery.”

  All had seen the oval

  Frames upon the bedroom wall,

  As they’d entered inner sanctum

  To lay their coats upon a bed that

  blust’ry winter night.

  “My boys grew strong, and ornery, so

  Uncontrolled.” And now the

  Room grew silent—this history

  Familiar to them all, unfolding.

  “She would not stay away from them.

  And then one day, from the curtained

  Window of our room, I looked upon

  The oily place where he could usually

  Park his car. Her little arms could

  Hardly hold the giant thing. Behind

  My back the boys had thrown to her:

  a basketball!”

  “I buy her clothes, the

  Finest blouses, pants that fit,

  Heels to make her walk correctly;

  Her appointment at the beauty shop

  Tomorrow morning, turns her

  Silken locks to silver in the

  Artificial light. My daughter is

  A beauty, at seventeen. She also

  Has a game tomorrow night!”

  The

  Front door slammed and

  Into celebration walked the

  Subject of their conversation.

  Perspiration’s healthy odor

  Drifted to the corners with

  The colder January drafts from

  Which this evening’s luxury

  protected them.

  “Good evening, dear,”

  She smiled.

  The child removed her stocking cap

  Returned the happy glowing glance around

  The room and creaked her weary

  way to privacy.

  “My beauty wears the

  Tape,” she said, “and even now

  She sits with surgeon’s scissors

  On the quilt I made with my two

  Hands, and cuts the sticky reeking

  Braces, peels them from her skin

  So white, sprayed, protected with

  A finer laye
r, on the twisted ankles

  Other girls would use to tease

  Their future mates in English class!

  A mass of tape, and ice in plastic

  Bags beneath her covers as she

  Rests for one more day.

  I see her feet in summer.

  Calluses they bear, with evidence

  Of some jam-med toenails, fossil blisters

  Even July’s sun cannot erase.

  My little lady is a jock.

  My boys are playing in the band

  Or writing essays with their hands,

  While hers caress a basketball!”

  (Center)

  “Likewise,” said the second,

  In a wry accepting tone,

  “We know the story well. At

  Least your beauty’s of a size

  Society accepts as one within

  The normal range, while mine

  is tall.”

  How biased is a parent’s view

  Of children that they call their own

  The paradox of wishes/admiration

  Emotions such as love of

  One’s own family prevents those

  Lasting judgments harsh the

  Greater world condones.

  “And still she has to

  jump and scratch

  among the giants.

  How do they grow them up that way?

  Lace their feed with hormones?

  Who would think a center such as

  She, who never has a date,

  Yet pines away just wishing in her heart

  The shortest boy in school would ask

  Her for a minute of her time,

  Would look so small among the

  Crowd those nights we play Beatrice?

  We show to her the models,

  Vegas girls, dancers more

  Women statuesque than anybody sees

  And yet she’s found her place.

  She does ballet upon a wooden floor

  Marked with lines and circles.

  Exhaustion is

  Her constant friend/companion

  Rules her waking hours,

  Sets the atmosphere in which

  She moves and breathes to do

  Her daily rounds of history

  And Spanish, computer math

  Our only introduction to the

  Age that greets her years from

  Now. Our daughter seeks a scholarship.

  She’ll never get one with her mind.”

  “But she’ll get one

  With her body,” says the

  Father—proud—the child

  Had set a scoring record

  Not too long ago. “Older

  Men like taller girls. “It’s

  A sign of growing up/the

  Other gender passing through

  Those high school standards—sex

  And passive flirting—to

  A deeper kind of meaning.

  What she does upon the floor

  Is what she’ll do forever: seek

  The