Dancing With Noah

Just messing around, getting triple doubles

Category Archives: Poetry

All the way home, the rain didn’t stop

**This is the third in series of 10 poems and art pieces we’ll be posting leading into the 2018-19 NBA season. All art in this series is done by friend of blog, Andrew Maahs whose portfolio can be found at http://www.Basemintdesign.com.**

It’s October in Iowa
Raining like Seattle forever and ever
The NBA is in town
Kids, families, future would-be hoopers
Packing in Hilton Coliseum
Jerseys of all colors parade past in the wet slog
Somewhere in the bowels of Hilton sits Andrew Wiggins

No one expects much from pre-season games
Twenty some odd minutes
Odd indeed
Thibs is dressed like he just woke up from a Butler Bender or perhaps he’s still asleep
Bud’s hair is growing out and curls around behind his ears, it shines golden in the light
John Henson’s jovial and talkative, to opponents, teammates, fans
John Henson bangs and works but is powerless against KAT
Wiggins is a flat line

From the fourth row, Giannis is huge
Huge feet, huge shoulders, huge biceps with a huge vein pulsing
He’s serious
Brook Lopez is a mountain
Pat Connaughton’s hair is a high school dye job gone bad
The fans are mild, polite, the dads wear UnderArmour pullovers like they do everywhere else
I see Darvin Ham, Vin Baker, faces and names I’ve known for over 20 years
Thibs likes sticking Wiggins in the post
He’s game I suppose but it really doesn’t matter if it doesn’t matter

I barely notice the score, it really doesn’t matter when you’re in the fourth row and can carry on a conversation with KAT
“What size shoes do you wear?”
“TWENTY!”
It’s a large foot in Jordan 8s, a large man, an unkempt beard; he’s adept playing through contact
KAT laughs, carries on, scores 33 in a variety of ways
KAT Is the best tonight in Ames
Wiggins maybe cracked the top-ten and I don’t think that’s hyperbolizing

Giannis is as tall as the mountain Brook Lopez
He’s deadly serious, gives a damn
Even on a Sunday night in a preseason game at Hilton Coliseum in Ames Iowa
Bud signals for Giannis to sit sometime in the third
The Greek doesn’t bother hiding his frustration
In a 20 point game in the preseason at Hilton Coliseum, the Greek plays most of the fourth quarter
Upon finally agreeing to exit, he seeks out Bud, they squash it, Bucks win I think
Wiggins looks and plays like it’s a Sunday night in early October

With low energy and little in the way of expression
Wiggins worked the offensive glass for five rebounds
That tied his career high and it appeared accidental
Though sometimes offensive rebounding can be unintentional
But Wiggins isn’t really the right place, right time guy
Instead, from the fourth row, and from the TV
He’s detached, devoid of whatever’s coursing through
Giannis and KAT and probably Jimmy and probably Thibs and Bud too

Wiggins is not a flat line and I shouldn’t have written that but won’t delete it either
Wiggins snatched those five offensive rebounds because among athletes, he’s athletic
Quick leaping, high rising with
Good hands, but
I drank my beer and scanned myself for confirmation bias
Zero assists, zero steals, zero blocks, zero defensive rebounds, four turnovers
Maybe, on one of his two missed free throws, he grimaced in frustration, blamed himself
Blasé blasé blasé

Walking to the car, soggy in the rain, my jeans heavy,
Me and Hamilton raved about KAT and Giannis
White Donte and Christian Wood too
Luol Deng looked a shell and was mercilessly stuck on Giannis
The crowd chanted “We want Rose! We want Rose!”
Jeff Teague pumped his fist to the chant, grinning at Derrick
Henson fouled out in 15 minutes and got a kick out of harassing the refs
Josh Okogie’s instincts were on display, Bates-Diop’s were not

Up close, in the flesh,
If you didn’t know better,
If you didn’t know Andrew and his background and potential,
You wouldn’t have noticed him
But a preseason game isn’t a place for drawing conclusions
And I often think about Andrew Wiggins and hope it all comes together
He’s only 23, averaged 23 points when he was 21, led the league in minutes
All the way home, the rain didn’t stop

Marc & Mike: Against the West (we were runnin against the West)

**This is the second in series of 10 poems and art pieces we’ll be posting leading into the 2018-19 NBA season. All art in this series is done by friend of blog, Andrew Maahs whose portfolio can be found at http://www.Basemintdesign.com. The poem below should be read to the tune of Bob Seger’s Against the Wind.**

It seems like yesterday
But it was long ago (it was October 29th, 2008)
Marc was lovely, he was the king of the court (Marc as in Gasol who had 12 and 12 in his Grizzlies debut)
There in the darkness with the intros playing low
And the wins that we shared
The bloody battles that we won (it’s unclear which battle is referenced here)
Caught like starving bears out of control (probably referencing Memphis mascot: the Grizzly bear)
Till there were no Spurs left to maul and no Thunders left to roll (Grizzlies’ playoff opponents during their heyday)
And I remember what he said to me
How he swore that he knew we could win (it is assumed this was a private, undocumented conversation, though it could be referencing Mike Conley’s comments here in 2015)
I remember how he held me oh so tight (Marc & Mike in April of 2011)
Wish I didn’t know now what I didn’t know then (likely a reference to Conley’s unfulfillment in ultimate NBA success)
Against the West (could Memphis have had more success in the east?)
We were grindin’ against the West
We were young and strong, we were grindin’
against the West
And the years rolled slowly past
And I’m finding me and Marc alone (aside from Conley & Gasol, only Wayne Selden & Andrew Harrison appeared in the team’s last playoff run in 2017)
Surrounded by teammates I thought were my friends (could Conley be alluding to locker room issues?)
We found ourselves further and further from our goal (2018 was the first season since 2010 that the Grizz missed the playoffs. The “goal” in this case is likely an NBA Championship.)
And I guess I lost the day
It was Golden State alone (in 2015, after taking a 2-1 lead over eventual champion Golden State, the Grizzlies would lose three straight games; each by double digits)
I was living to play and playing to live
Never thought about injuries or even how much I hurt (Conley has missed 122 games since the 2014-15 season)
Moving 48 minutes a night for months at a time
Playing for Dave and for Fiz and JB
I began to find myself losin’
Losin’ with Marc again and again
Against the west
A little something against the west
I found myself seeking shelter against the west
Well those losin days are past me now
I’ve got so much more to think about
Media days and commitments
Nights in Houston, days in Portland
Against Lillard
I’m still runnin’ against Harden
I’m older now and still runnin’
Against the Brow
Still runnin’ against the west
Me and Marc still runnin’
Against LeBron
See the young man run (likely alluding to Jaren Jackson Jr, the probable torchbearer for Mike & Marc in Memphis)
Against Durant
Watch the young man run
Against Westbrook
Let the Grizzlies ride
Against the west
Let the Grizzlies ride

A Letter to Kawhi Leonard

**This is the first in series of 10 poems and art pieces leading into the 2018-19 NBA season. All art in this series is done by friend of blog, Andrew Maahs whose portfolio can be found at http://www.Basemintdesign.com. The poem below should be read to the tune of Lionel Richie’s 1984 hit song, Hello. A brief, entertaining background on the video of the song from Wikipedia:**

The music video, directed by Bob Giraldi, features the story of Richie as a theater and acting teacher having a seemingly unrequited love for a blind student (Laura Carrington) until he discovers she shares the feeling as demonstrated by the discovery that she is sculpting a likeness of his head. The bust used in the video, which bears little resemblance to Richie, has been parodied in popular culture. Richie himself complained to the video’s director, Bob Giraldi, that the bust did not look like him. Director Giraldi’s response was “Lionel, she’s blind…”

We’ve been alone with you inside our mind
And in our dreams we’ve won with you a thousand times
We sometimes see you pass the ball to Kyle
Kawhi! we think we even miss your smile … ?

We can see it in your eyes
We can hear it in your laugh
You’re all we’ve ever wanted, since we traded for you in the draft
‘Cause you knew what not to say
And you knew what not to do
And we want to tell you so much, we miss you

We long to see the bright lights in your rows
See you dab the sweat upon your nose
Sometimes we feel our team will crumble down
Kawhi! You really left us in a lurch

‘Cause we know just where you are
And we know just what you do
We know you’re feeling lonely, we know Masai is loving you
We don’t want to win your heart
‘Cause it’s unhealthy and unsmart
But let us start by saying, we never knew you
Kawhi! Do you know what you’re looking for?

‘Cause we wonder who you are
And we wonder who got to you
Are you somewhere feeling sated, or did someone hypnotize you?
Tell us who drove a wedge between our hearts
For we haven’t got a clue
But let us start by saying we miss you
Kawhi! Was it Tony or Uncle Dennis?

Does it even matter now?
We’d never blame Pop or RC anyhow
Like Toronto, this world’s so cold and so untrue
It’s the ones you love who end up leaving you
We hope your new friends keep you warm all through the night
Canada’s pretty damn cold, you know that right?
Kawhi! Dejounte tore his ACL

But you can’t hear us any more
The distance is oh so far
Kawhi …

 

 

2017 Pro Basketball MVP: Russell Westbrook

Art from Matt Hollister http://www.matthewhollister.com

Russell has a bad beard, barely a beard
So Harden Schmarden
Russell is broad-shouldered, jumps high, runs fast, shoots imaginary pistols, snarls, is the latest embodiment of a made-up mentality called mamba
Man-made of bones and flesh though sometimes it doesn’t seem so like when he’ll
Snatch a board and explode like the Flash or Usain Bolt with basketball
Passing Steven and Enes, and Victor and Billy, and Steve McQueen and Dutch McQueen
It’s impossible though to keep up the high forever
Acid wears off, paint runs dry, the sun grows cold and dim, and Russell, unlike Wilt,
Can’t play 48.5 minutes a game
Sit, rest, sweat, replenish with electric koolaid Gatorade
And witness and watch a wannabe empire crumble on a
Kevin Durant departure, like a
Prairie twister flinging Clay-B into snarling jaws of PNW throngs
Plus, minus, net, zero
 

Russell has knuckles that bulge, big hands I see during press conferences gripping thin-necked mics
Those same big hands the tools of a furious craftsman shaping a world of leather and wood and glass and steel and nylon
Big heart pumping, big heart probably three times the size of a normal human heart like he’s the human Secretariat
Chasing down Big O, Big Oscar, Big grouchy pants, while the pitched screams of the chorus clash in some unholy demonic din
Love, hate, sober, drunk, we can’t agree on anything
Even numbers lie these days
Over-contextualized
Down to the subdermal layers to the atoms of Russell’s being, scrutinizing
Every
Fucking
Rebound
 

Stack up all the stats like petty biscuits of achievement and gobble it up without milk
Choke on the numbers
Critical and confused in a day where we know everything and yet still believe in what we can’t see
Everything ends and every ending starts with some sprouting in spring or something
 

A car crash in Houston on a
Late night in April
Careening into Patrick
(“Your mom!”)
Beverley Schmeverley
Russell MVP rising so far so fast
Commercialized, commodified to sell product
In funny clothes, clownsuits
Prisoner of a musecage of his own design
(Oh, give it a rest, Kobe)
How though?
Head to head, I mean rim to rim nuclear-propelled missile bullet rocket projectile thundering sonic boom
Bukkake acid rain all over the NBA
 

But fizzle fizzle fizzle
No cupcake, no sadness, no victory
Those big hands crinkling, those knuckles crunching
Pupils big like frisbees
A multi-hued splatter on hardwood canvas
Bill Walton Jackson Pollock basketball
Drunk on a tappable fury reserve,
Futuristic basketball player in Joanie Mitchell hats
Validated in losing, but still
Validated, but still
Losing, but still
Validated …

The Turnover King

The turnover king, the turnover king,
Let’s not say long live the turnover king
He’s fallen in a heap of basketballs made of butter that don’t bounce but splat with buttery densities
His pockets picked clean like the dreams of a drunk passed out on the BART with destination of summer
The turnover king, you turnover king
Thirteen times you gave it away
Those 27 points that were nothing but average all year long
were unattainable,
A single point over half of average which is 14 total which is underwhelming when cities and states depend on you
Average was out of reach like the extra virgin olive oil-covered leather ball that betrayed you on a Wednesday night in May
Those seven assists you casually deliver with just a hair more than the effort I put into catching my morning bus or walking my morning dog
Were as fleeting as an acceptable assist-to-turnover ratio:
Yours was 1 to 2.1666666666667 tonight
(or something, could be there are too many or too few sixes)
But it doesn’t matter
The great turnover king, the turnover king
Exists in multispheres like this:
In my eye as a fan of trivial NBA history
In his eye as a human being trying to achieve something – such as a completed pass to a teammate
In the eyes of his opponents as a brown skinned equation that is a basketball version of the unsolvable, yet only if said equation collapsed on itself leaving mathematician
basketball opponents like, “Oh shit, the math did itself”
Historically bad is still historical you gnarled sweating
Turnover king
I swear to god if this was 1215 instead of 2015, probably the bards and songwriters would write about the turnover king with the amount of sadness on par with the amount of joy they write about the
Three point king or reverence with which they write about the regular king
Unnaturally bearded children would bury their heads in the bosoms of consoling mothers
While sober former players would chalk it up a bad game, shaking their heads shrugging massive suit-covered shoulders and reminisce on their own pimple covered failures in uglier-than-reality embellished memories
And in the sphere of emotional existence, do we not recall our scars as much if not more than our jubilations?
Oh you fucking immortal turnover king with all those errant passes and over dribbles
Are you mad man?
We know you’re not, you filthy turnover king
You just had a bad day like that time I stepped in dog shit with no shoes on before high school and nasty stuff in my toe nails and cuticles
Or that time I forgot my laptop even though my entire existence as a professional hinges to varying degrees around my laptop
Turnover king, I’ve never coughed up 13 turnovers, but I feel you
Or not, you know?
Dear turnover king, like that section in the US Weekly magazines my wife reads, I know you’re a star but you’re just like us – you have bad days
I know this because you had the worst fucking day possible short of a game-flushing timeout called when you didn’t have any timeouts like Chris Webber way back in the day
And I (and the people I know) have had shitty days
Oh sloppy turnover king, were you unfocused, distracted? Did you forget yourself?
I doubt it.
My friend thought you looked like Sidney Dean throwing that game in Watts with Billy Hoyle and who am I to argue even if I don’t agree
I don’t believe you threw the game but if you’d been wearing that Colnago cap with the bill flipped, then maybe
Suffice to say, not even turnover kings are immune to storylines and narrative
Someday turnover king, someday when you’re vanquishing the physical foes of the present, they’ll bring this up in the same way
Gatorade and Adidas and their chummy ad agencies with their truckloads of demographic audience data build storylines around bouncing back and overcoming failure
There’s no good that will come out of this, you gone fishing turnover king, but in our endless quest to attach meaning to every inconceivable
Mishap that befalls us, someone, perhaps you yourself, will invent the silver lining to create achievement out of failure
Like a technicolor flower sprouting out of the ugliness of a desolate wasteland
Whatever turnover king, just let’s take better care of that which we covet next time

Proxy Wars of Kobe Bryant

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Atlas in Detroit

I wish everyone would just shut the fuck up

Andre Drummond is here

So maybe people should pay a little respect

He’s like a pretty black version of Sloth from Goonies, but with symmetrical facial features,

A keen mind, and an NBA contract,

Unchained from Lawrence Frank’s basement of 20-minute games

To a freedom where he doesn’t wreak havoc

He wreaks hell on victims in bulging musclebound ferocity,

His calm demeanor contradicting a storm of terror delivered with the

Fury of a hundred angry, scowling Kenyon Martins crossbred with salty Donald Sterlings

The Pistons are dead?

How can that be when Drummond’s dunks are sporty homicides that

Sacrifice feeble-bodied opponents to the blood-lusting spectators at the Palace

His snarling rebounds snared with the wings of a Velociraptor,

Swoll from injecting organic biofuels and carrying the weight of ghosts of Pistons past

Andre Drummond is 20-years-old, carved from the mind of Greek poets and

Given life by the nefarious bioengineers who created Drago in Rocky IV

He’s the art and the science, the inspired and the diabolic

Fuck what you heard

Dwight Howard’s a clown who hasn’t learned the world’s laughing at him

Blake Griffin’s a knockoff Shawn Kemp and fugazi to boot

Andrew Bynum’s the black Bill Walton of the modern day

Brook Lopez has the agility of Jabba the Hut

Anthony Davis is a delicate spindle dancing on the levees of injurious doom

If Drummond plays Beast, LaMarcus Aldridge is tea and crumpets

DeMarcus Cousins is Mitch “Blood” Green to Drummond’s Mike Tyson

Al Horford, Chris Bosh, Roy Hibbert are Shakespeare in the Park. Drummond is GWAR.

Tim Duncan is on life support and Shaq is dead

Today the world belongs to Andre Drummond.

It spins on his axes, tilts toward his sun, operates in his orbit.

The 9th Wonder of the World is Andre Drummond …. Act accordingly

Caution, Contents may be Fragile

What oh what, have the playoffs become?

No Rose, no Rondo and now no Russ

Kobe’s Achilles, we lost Dr. Buss

 

D. Lee’s hip and the eggshell pacing Spurs

Tyson Chandler’s neck and Noah’s fascist fascia

Pain, disappointment and injurious-expecting paranoia

 

We’re lost and wandering in D. Wade’s aching knees,

And the strange Baker’s Cyst of MWP’s

Supporting characters’ ankles so brittle and Meek(s)

 

Under x-ray machines Steph Curry’s ankle still weak

The Linsane have crumbled under bird-chested contusions

While the unhealthy continue to foster successful allusions

 

Steve and Steve are baked in sunny LA, we put out a missing person’s report on Stoudemire, Amare

The most shocking of all is the tearing meniscus of a bionic man

Russell Westbrook has fallen; it’s more than we can stand

 

Reminds me of the woe I felt back in nineteen-and-ninety

When I watched another unbeatable, unbreakable, mythological man

Get pummeled to a pulp, his wobbly legs not allowing him to stand

 

Mike Tyson, meet Russell, Russ, this is Mike

So different, so same, made of futuristic metals and the like

Yet falling so sadly, the mortal myths settle

 

The excitement is waning, the birds are chirping

Turn off the TV because the hope has splintered

Let’s go outside because spring is here and it’s been a long winter

OR

23 in a Row! (inspired by Shel Silverstein)

23 in a row! Crown the kings! Plan the parade! The season is over!

“It’s only March,” cried the masses, “you front-running posers!”

 

We looked to Riley, pomading his hair. He consulted a calendar, made a few calls.

The season wasn’t done, “Let’s practice, get out the balls!”

 

“Not those balls, Bird!” and the team had a laugh

They played catch for a bit, then sat at the chalkboard and worked on the math

 

“23 wins in 23 games, 100% success, now isn’t that great?”

Asked Juwan and Mike Miller as they calculated the rate

 

“23 is the number that I used to wear,”

Said a goofing LeBron, but nobody cared

 

Spoelstra diagrammed and analyzed equations

While Chalmers and Cole were mesmerized by chalk dust, “amazin’”

 

Meanwhile in China, McGrady poo-poo’d and moaned

Over in Boston, Jet Terry clutched his aching back and groaned

 

Video replay showed the Death Machine flying without wings

Riley used a Chinese calculator to tabulate his rings

 

In the locker room where they filmed the famous Shake

The team gathered around the schedule looking for a mistake

 

Nope, the games were all there, everything was all clear

The Cavs were on Wednesday, there was nothing to fear

 

“Going home, going home where they love and hate me so much”

Sang a balding LeBron while Bosh made up his lunch

 

Then it’s the Pistons, Bobcats and Orlando

“For that last one, I just might go Commando”

 

Said a chucking Birdman while he sketched a new tattoo

And Battier hummed that he was feeling blue

 

About what he wouldn’t say

After all it was Pierce’s copious behind that ended the game the previous day

 

Wilt the Stilt rolled over in his grave

Passing along ill-intentioned curses that the Heat would misbehave

 

Jerry West laughed and said they had a nice run

But he hoped that the boys from Miami could continue their fun

 

If you love them, it was a blast, but if not you hated

And only a Heat loss would leave you satiated

 

Screw off LeBron and you too Dwyane Wade

Superstars or not, you’re both overpaid

 

Why so much anger and blood curdling envy?

They’re just playing and winning and Shane seems so sophisticated and friendly

 

“But what happens if we get to 24, 5 or 6?”

Asked little Chalmers, his face in a twist

 

Everyone hushed and looked on at old Riley who lit up a fat stogie

Stared back at the team and puffed out so slowly

 

“It’s not a title, but it’s more and it’s less

Little Mario Chalmers, consider yourself blessed”

 

23 couplets for 23 wins

It sure is something and no one can say if we’ll see it again

Relief in the City of Roses

Deep in the bowels of the Rose Garden

Lays a mausoleum, a skeleton-less, mummy-free catacomb

Where memories and dreams are Laid to rest Bill Walton, Sam Bowie, Brandon Roy, Greg Oden

Their starched jerseys stretched across the walls in black, red and white, permanent defiance

Paul Allen and the sons and daughters of Portland weep when they remember

Clyde and Rick Adelman and Jack Ramsey are helpless to ease their pain

But what if hope landed in PDX in a

Lithe, lean, young point guard from Oakland

What if he was stolen out from under the inquisitive eyes of the analysts, the

Noses of the scouts who know

Talent when they see it

A sequence of events as fruitfully unexpected as prior tragedies had been unfairly unfortunate

Damian Lillard, not the flashy teenage prodigy or the

Entitled one and done junior maestro whose destiny is interwoven within NBA

No.

Damian, Dame, with his boyishly angelic face barely sprouting whiskers

Psalm 37 inked down his left arm in an expression of his faith

Reflected in his discipline and patience to

Wait it out in Ogden (to work it out in Ogden) while his peers bounded towards riches (?), professionalism, fame and the

Trappings that have become cliché

Dame waited

And waited in Ogden at the feet of hills and mountains, a cultural antithesis from the haunts of Oakland

While Portland languished through the inconceivability that Brandon Roy’s knees were without

Cartilage, just bone grinding on bone until the inevitability that Brandon’s knees couldn’t

Ever hold up

But that’s past now

Wearing number zero, zed, O—for Ogden, O-for Oakland,

O for the emptiness Portland can leave behind

Lillard is here with his mature pick-and-roll game, a generously balanced blending of inside-outside-all-inclusive

involvement that breathes anticipation and excitement into Portland’s sons and daughters

And for today and tomorrow allows Paul Allen the

Respite to forget and lock up the gates that provide entry to the

Dark, dank cemetery of dreams that sits in quiet and peace deeply forgotten beneath the Rose Garden

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