Let Us Talk of Basketball! Read online

surest route to victory.”

  “It seems so out of place,

  “Not ladylike,” the mother joined

  In conversation, cold, disconnected,

  Somehow from her flesh and blood,

  She analyzed the attitudes of both

  Her oldest and herself. Three girls

  She’d spawned when all he ever wanted

  Was a son. Now all that joking with

  A ball comes home to roost on Thursday

  Nights and Fridays of the season.

  “You play with girls the

  Way you play with boys and what

  You get is basketball.” The father

  Squelched his smile.

  “And yet is not

  Possible to watch her moves

  Beneath the rim and think that

  She belongs in any other place

  Than on the edge of violation

  Waiting for the chance to twist

  Her frame and jump, acrobatics

  In mid-air. I’ve tried it;

  Vertical; a thing a parent

  Cannot do! It’s only after

  Things are over, and I go down

  To hug her sweating shoulders

  That I wonder most of all

  What it is of basketball

  So captivates the purpose

  Of existence. I’m in the

  Kitchen fixing soups; she’s on

  The driveway shooting hoops.”

  “And she does her flirting

  With disaster on the balls your

  Daughter passed her,” grinned the

  Father nodding to the lioness

  who returned his smile.

  (Forward)

  Initiator’s turn to choose

  The next whose view would

  Be upon the table for dis-

  Cussion and commisery. So

  With a beer and flourish, he

  Pops the tab its gaseous

  Relief familiar to the one who

  Paced, never stumbling on the

  Hearth, a long ellipse in neutral

  Carpet, by the fireplace he

  Crushed the soldier dead and quickly

  Put another in its stead, rapid

  Sucking ‘fore the foam

  Soiled their hostess’ vacuumed home,

  The forum on this winter eve

  That all who enter never leave

  But pay their way in conversation

  To the master of this house

  And his wife the lioness.

  “Money is what

  Basketball brings to this

  Community; money at the door

  Money at the store where only

  Weeks ago my Mastercharge did

  Choke and gag upon the price of

  shoes!”

  “Now of a kind they were, my

  Dear,” the wife reminded him,

  “That hold her ankles firm in place

  As dashing through the traffic

  She assaults the rim.”

  “Yes, but need they

  Be so fancy? Curved edges cost

  So much? Why are they all so

  Necessary? Is it, can it, only

  Be, the forces multiplied by ‘g’

  That work against my daughter’s

  Legs? It’s that tiny bit of curve

  I’m told, along the edges of the

  Sole, that takes the impact of

  Her leap when it Earthward comes to

  Claim its price upon the way she

  Walks to class the following day,

  That makes the choice unconsciously

  To flip support beneath instead of

  Turning traitor to her wishes for

  The layup into points to further

  Gild her reputation as the highest

  Scoring forward in the league.

  Such a piece of grand design

  Upon an item lowly

  Stomped upon the floor each night!

  And still I think, if only

  They did not cost so much!

  Red and blue and white

  The colors of her country

  Are the specially constructed

  Uppers, laced so carefully around

  Her second pair of socks. They’re

  Marked with her initials! Like

  The kneepads that she wears!

  The mark has nothing else to

  Do but make her feel professional

  With a felt-tipped pen she writes

  Two letters and the periods that

  Separate the symbols of her name

  Upon the property that’s hers for

  Going nightly into war that they

  Conduct among the lines and circles.

  I read S.I. so faithfully and

  Do discover what it is that makes

  Her mark her belongings so, she

  Never does with nicer things, only

  Kneepads, socks, and bag

  Bear the in-group sign: that’s

  How they do it in the leagues

  of men.

  I see their pictures—on the

  Bench with scattered towels they

  Use a bunch each minute of a

  Frantic time—and each has

  Markings on his knee, initials

  For the laun-der-y

  Never go to court

  Without an elemen’try sort

  Of superstition, could we?

  No. The answer’s clear.

  Could I have another beer?”

  Refueled he hurtled through the night

  With his thoughts of those who shared

  The screaming tumult greeting all

  The fans that chose to gather there

  In high school gyms’ ungodly dins

  The bands exploded into fight

  On each and every conf’rence night

  As from the dressing room they

  Came in single file around the

  Floor and bouncing pompoms showed

  The crowd the way to yell while

  His daughter led the pack with

  Thund’ring dribbles, pumping hearts

  Right hand, left hand, behind

  Her back then flipped a firey

  Bounce pass to

  Her friend and partner Mary Lou.

  They never shared an ounce of time

  Except along the home court baseline

  And in the halls between their classes

  With their eyes reviewed the passes

  Made for working as a team

  Scoring plays that seemed routine

  Kickout blockout get the rebound

  From the skirmish of the backboard

  Mary Lou and then his daughter

  Fought the good fight for each other

  But late at night they hit the sack

  A universe apart; they lacked the

  Geographic culture ties that bound

  Some forward pairs together.

  Mary Lou was black.

  (Forward)

  What was this child of broken home

  Poorer section down between

  The mainline of the Burlington

  And Northern doing in the suburbs

  Fair? Her fingers put her there.

  Not the ones with which she felt

  The roughened surface

  Of the ball she pounded to the floor

  Or stole with cunning quick finesse

  Their special brand of full court press

  But the ones which as a child

  She’d taken pencil then to paper

  And turned the lines upon themselves

  To gain control the way she did

  With everything that came her way

  Amid the heated rivalry

  She now enjoyed as daily traveled

  To a culture not envisioned

  Any more than starting guards

  Who never had to work at all

  Whose fathers bought them basketballs

&nb
sp; Instead of left them in the street

  To find their places, make their route

  Torn by evolutionary forces

  Working in the concrete wildness

  Finding refuge in a home

  A mother tried so hard to make by

  Service as a janitor.

  Through the night she saved the paper

  Tossed by those executives

  Into the files from every which

  Escape was lost except as Mabel

  Read her girl-child’s new desires

  And salvaged all the stuff she could:

  Contracts old, in legal style,

  Mis-printed forms their language

  Stuffed with education in itself

  for Mary Lou.

  But the girl

  Ignored the front and con-

  Centrated on the back, which

  Then became the front by virtue

  Of her hands’ true mark attack

  With pencil broken as her life

  And those of all her brothers

  She bent the lines in imagery

  Abstractions of her friends and

  Neighbors. By the time she’d

  Reached eleven it was obvious

  She’d been given gifts beyond

  Resources strained of an

  Inner city school.

  Special help: she was gifted.

  So they arranged a transfer to

  A place where she could receive

  All the program had to offer

  No intention to deceive

  At high school conference never made

  Mention of her other talents.

  They brought her to the new affluence

  Let her walk the hallowed halls

  Lavished her with art supplies:

  Brushes, ink, and basketballs.

  Basketballs?

  Yes; it took a week

  For Mary Lou to hit a peak.

  Back at home they cried a foul

  Spun their hands symbolic protest

  Scuttled now their championship

  But her mother stood beside her

  Strong and tearful as she handled

  Bristol board and Strathmore fine

  Mary Lou had taken special time

  To bring her, leave upon the

  Table, for her to find in afternoon

  Waking from her all night labor

  As she dressed and cooked again

  Before her journey into suites

  Of bankers’ cloistered hierarchies.

  In the winter afternoon, Mary Lou

  Away at practice, Mabel rested

  For a moment; and held the paper

  softly.

  Then she whispered “draw yo’ pictures, child!”

  And at that instant way ‘cross town

  Mary Lou was feeling down

  For having missed some easy shots

  There came a mysterious surge of strength

  And Mary Lou raised up her chin

  And said in angry whispers: some

  Day Mama’ll never work again!

  (Guard)

  Such a calm and loving couple

  Always last to join a fray

  OR confrontation with the values

  Leading lesser souls astray

  From the freedom God and

  Country—health and wealth

  Were theirs a joy, for

  After years of only-childness

  Late in life they’d had a boy

  Whose toddling chances always guided

  Evenings out, commitments time and

  Time again denied; baby sitters

  Were a problem: neighbor girls

  Had moved away, grown to college

  Full time working, chasing lads

  potential med school.

  You’d think advantages accrue

  To children of a pair like this

  That rare indeed an evening out

  Would