For years I was a basketball groupie,
forgivable only if I were still a kid,
but alas, I was a full-grown man
who followed high school games
as ardently as a suitor to his love.
I followed my team from
from high school gym
to high school gym,
relishing the victories,
crushed by the defeats.
I tracked the career of Stephon Marbury
as if he were Jesus of the Courts,
and later even wrote a book
based on his exploits.
But what does it matter now?
Marbury left for China and
I still live on Bedford Avenue.
And who cares now
how many points he scored,
how many championships he won?
I am late to realize that the dropping
of a spheroid into nylon netting,
even over the course of many games,
is of very small importance now.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME