He was 57 when he died,
lived long enough to remember
the halcyon days of Knick glory
when Dollar Bill and DeBusschere
ruled the courts, along with Clyde and Barnett,
and, of course, the captain, Willis Reed.
The ball whipped around the circle
like a flying bird, darting swiftly
from one post to another.
The father would bring his young son
to the Garden, tell him the stories
of the Knick five who were
the definition of teamwork.
He would tell him of the time
Willis walked out onto the floor
hobbling on his bum leg and
promptly sank his first two shots.
Joel never saw the old Knicks,
just had his father’s words
locked into a vault in his head.
He promised himself one day
he would bring his own kids to the Garden,
and tell them the stories his father had told him
THE POETRY OF THE GAME