A brief reprieve from the the typcial article slinkies. A quick poem on my relationship to the game. Hope you dig.
The parables of my youth were written in crossover dribbles
By giants and titans foreign to my area of the suburbs.
These were the manifestations of my hopes and dreams
And shortcomings I did not yet know existed.
What Jesus would do was irrelevant.
As it was written in the Scripture in the Book of Jordan:
And Nike spoke unto them, 'Just Do It'
And yea there was much rejoicing amongst the people as they supped upon their manna sending many a hosanna with voices raised and hands to the sky paying homage to the billboard of Larry Johnson in drag.
Always respect your elders.
Jock Jams were played on portable CD players while pick up games ebbed and flowed by the light of the star leading them to the little town of New York City where the Messiah was deep in prayer within the Garden of Madison Square.
I, like most, had no idea what "it" was, but I was certain my Air Jordans would help me traverse fallow fields of asphalt presided over by twin ten-foot scarecrows with Mutumbo fingers waving, screaming
Don't bring it in here unless you got it in here.
I tried to ask Spike the Baptist about it, but Reggie Miller systematically suffocated and decapitated that cat in '94.
His films ain't been the same since.
Armed with nothing but my pride, confidence, love of the game
And other addictive substances, I had the world at my fingertips.
It was leather and as orange as the fire within me.
I carved a step back jumper in the image of Cartwright
Out of sweat and carpenter's wood.
I could not make a quick move to my right to same the season of 1998.
In my fantasies I was not audacious enough to assume the alter-ego of
His-Airness.
I would always be the one who gave him the rock where he wanted it for the fade.
If the laces were aligned and the tongue was out,
You might as well get back on offense; it was wet without a doubt.
But God so loved the game that he gave
His only begotten son to baseball and Bugs Bunny
So that his children may know what it's like not to lose in the final seconds.
Shaqtun Pilate washed his hands and wept as the equipment supervisor's son
Was stripped down to his comfort fit Hanes and hung upon the rim.
Shaq could have saved him, but never could make a free throw when it mattered.
To His right,
In His image.
A man monikered Malone
From the time post Moses appealed to Him.
Are you not the greatest of all time?
Save yourself and prove it.
Then they will never refute you.
Michael countered thus,
Do you not suppose I could appeal to my Father,
Who would at once send me Phil Jackson and Dean Smith
To come to my aid?
Truly I tell you, you will never reach the promised land.
Malone stared straight ahead, unfazed.
A Mailman doesn't require deliverance.
Stockton sighed in shorts that remind us
"Hoosiers" is inspired by a true story.
Stockton hung his heavy head, disheartened,
Forgive him Father, for he know not what he do.
To His left, another.
Head of hair the color of a lost, enlightened brother.
Tattooed to the toe
Vibrant incarnate
Rodzilla
Board killer by birthright
Prodigal son of Detroit and San Antone.
'Can you not see?' said he
I am a faithful sinner.
Unabashed cousin of calamity.
Creature of chaos and crime.
Shepherd of a forgotten flock.
Simply put, I'm a bad motherfucker.
We all pay the piper,
To my fate I am resigned.
We have earned this
It is ours
We have earned this
It is ours
We have earned this
It is ours
'Be free from your burden,' said Michael to the apostle.
I bestow upon you the name of St. Dennis.
I assure you, you will be at my right hand in the kingdom of Springfield.
With gold upon our fingers, we will be together in paradise.
A redeemed Rodman was on the rebound.
'I will always love you, Michael.'
Said a sullen Scottie Pippen with a snake upon his shoulder.
McDonald's fries in hand.
The fallen king was silent and only spoke
Following a 20-second timeout of which he had three remaining.
'Scottie, you will deny me three times before LeBron wins a ring.'
A
K
A
Before the cock crows.
Pippen, perplexed, swore his loyalty until the summer of 2011.
When he realized what he'd done, he fell to his knees
And banished himself from the United Center.
The legacy of Michael Jordan was buried in a cave.
Three days later, his banner was risen to the rafters.
The Rapture occurred as one season turned
The faithful rewarded with three more championships
To sail into the sunset.
And like that he was gone again.
Bryon Russell's broken ankles
The only evidence of his presence.
What was left was the abyss.
Extinct was the Magic of Johnson,
The medicine of Dr. Julius.
The knowledge of McAddos and don'ts.
The game was devoid
Of all things team based.
Except in the Spurs, but America grew weary of Tim Duncan's humility.
The lepers of Los Angeles, sequestered to Sacramento
Were the only glimmer of hope that one day,
Five men would play as one again.
Darkness fell upon the land as Allen Iverson became the face of the professional game.
And he didn't even have to practice.
If that man is the answer,
I no longer give a shit about the question.
Just when things were at their bleakest,
There came a European liberation
Rescuing basketball from apathy and stagnation.
The watching world reviled and revolted against the uniformity of the slam dunk.
Born again was the jump shot and bounce pass.
Symbols of the era time forgot were rejuvenated
As the ideals of Jason Kidd and Ray Allen were reinforced
By kindred spirits like Nash and Dirk
Even Grant Hill made it through a whole season.
If that's not an act of God, I don't know what is.
It would seem as though the dove above had returned with an olive branch.
The flood was over.
Ah, but alas, not to be outdone.
Axis armies amassed in New York, Miami,
And other major metropolitan areas just out of Superman's jurisdiction.
No matter how charming Dwight Howard may be.
Basketball is not about the journey, but the destination.
So began the contemporary testament.
But even that was okay.
The Empire of South Beach crumbled
Leaving a self-proclaimed patriarch crestfallen
With a cracked crown inscribed,
"Chosen One"
There was redemption in Dallas.
An illustration of teamwork unbridled and unrivaled.
This was our rebelion against the imperialism of sports.
This was the consummation of faith punctuated by the cliche,
But no less profound moral:
Good things come to those who wait.
This storybook ending shattered
By the reminder
Basketball is a business.
Small market teams are sinking like the three pointers of Glenn Rice.
Any hero of the hardwood worth his weight in Gatorade wants out to where
The fables have already been etched in the floorboards.
They want no adversity and a shortcut in their perennial pursuit of immortality.
This is the Negro spiritual of the 21st century.
Filtered through auto-tune and pumped inot our living rooms
In the background of sneaker commercials.
These songs are sung while athletes wade in the waters of their luxury swimming pools.
And collect residuals on endorsements.
In the middle, there is me.
Still gripping my leather planet
Reeling with the revelation
That the only thing in the world that's free
Are the verses I share with you now.
The NBA is about reaching the land of milk and honey.
The modern paradigm of rings and money.
Everything else... is a chump.
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