Meditation on My High School Varsity Basketball Portrait

Aethlon: The Journal of Sport Literature, Fall-Wntr, 2007 by H.R. Stoneback

Meditation on My High School Varsity Basketball Portrait

   I do not know the boy in the picture.
   I deny any knowledge of his identity.
   I remember nothing. Did I choose that number,
   that tight uniform? Was I ever that skinny?
   I haven't shot that hook-shot since 1960.
   I remember nothing. I remember that shot.
   I remember the first time I palmed the ball
   in 7th grade, the first slam dunk in 9th grade.
   I remember that time in the locker room
   with--what was her name--before the game.
   I remember all the basketballs, spinning spheres,
   globes, the earth on my fingertips--rivers,
   mountains, countries, turning at my command.
   I remember nothing. But my hands,
   arthritic now, count the hours spent fondling
   a basketball, caressing a guitar,
   writing words--192,333 hours.
   What is the return on my investment?
   Poetry is a form of life insurance
   (as our actuary Poet Laureate might say).
   Hand me down my walking cane, my memory.
   I remember cheerleaders, their uniforms,
   their legs, their voices, not their faces.
   I remember all the broken guitar strings
   and the way music made my jumpshot flawless.
   And Oh now I remember the team bus,
   champagne-skin cheerleaders riding with us,
   all of us singing like children in the chantry:
   down-down-down-down-down-down-dumby-doobie-doo
   I am the Viking in the Dell woe-woe-woe-woe-oh--
   Come play come ride come sing come go with me.