Who knows these new players? I don’t.
The ghosts of Bradley, Debusschere,
Reed and Frazier parade before my eyes
as I watch the current Knicks
run up and down the Garden floor.
I remember the old days in the 70s
when I used to scream into the TV
urging my team to playoff heights.
Before that, way back, in prehistoric times,
I used to play basketball, you know,
heaving my old-fashioned hook shot
up towards the waiting basket.
I measured my growing up
by the number of bounces my basketball made
against the concrete of the 2nd Street Park,
harboring dreams of playing for the high school team.
“He shoots, he scores,” ran the play-by-play in my head,
only to transfer those inflated dreams
onto the jerseys of my beloved Knicks.
Who knows these new players? I don’t.
But ask me anything about the old teams.
They were my heroes.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME