Dancing With Noah

Just messing around, getting triple doubles

Tag 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

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

Ode to LeBron Raymone James

A post-Jordanian titanium mass of a man,

Rings be damned

If he never wins again

What we have is enough

Memories (feats, destructions) to last us a

Million basketball-less summers

Memories aren’t just for the lonely,

But for the longing too

And the longing don’t have to be lonely

The longing and/or lonely don’t

Need rings or royalty

 

Just a man moving through a

Slow-motion world of

Blank-faced helpless defenders,

A screaming freight train barreling towards punctuality

Narrative be damned

His ability exceeds our qualifications and

Accolades,

Definitions and Parameters,

His existence on-court is

Independent of contemporaries and

Forebears

I’ll take a ghetto blaster and destroy the

Trophy cases with heavy bass

I can’t wait to invent a ray gun just to melt the

Infinite statues symbolizing his greatness

I’m resurrecting René Descartes to help imagine a devilish saw and equations that

Undercut the stats and tables we use to articulate greatness

  

What is victory

Without the struggle?

What is war

Without the sacrifice?

What is success

Without the failure?

The anticipation of a hundred thousand years is

Finally over

We made it

We’re here

And free to believe in whatever we please

 

Rondo Interrupted

I’m not a Boston fan

I don’t love the city or their teams

I don’t drape my shoulders in anything remotely Celtic Green

But my heart can ache

For the injured Alien whose

Ligament(s) tore, ripped, shredded

Like sheets of paper

Covered in inky dreams

The point guard from another planet, another world or underworld

With extra-terrestrially long fingers

An infinite scowl that’s

Like looking into the bottom of an inkwell

Shifty shifting eyes straight from a Gorillaz animation,

Demeanor borrowed from Mad Max’s post-apocalyptic Thunderdome,

Always alert, always suspicious,

Trusting no one, no thing, not even the man-made ligaments he was given

A black hole mood that rises with the moon

…yes, Rajon Rondo has fallen

Kids choke back kelly green tears

Garnett & Pierce in their wizened years

Understanding now more than ever

The importance of young Rondo

But the shredded ligament (that we didn’t know he had), the last

Single elastic straw that held up

The hope of a million Celtics fans

Collapsed under the expectations

And amid the rubble, Celtics fans attempt to

Soldier on

While Danny Ainge painfully retrieves a stuffed,

Frayed, and Faded manila folder

Stenciled with red letters spelling out:

DECONSTRUCTION

Danny and Doc deeply contemplate deconstruction

While Rondo sits in a chair in the corner

Quietly sipping seltzer water

Thinking of the Moon

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