This poem helps explain why I'll always be in love with basketball.
Twenty-five years ago
I went with my dad
To an old stadium
Gone and dearly departed
If not regretfully
To see my Indiana Pacers who
I loved stridently
At home
In the new Curtis Mathes set that
How were we to know
Lasted far too long
But there in person
For the first time
Was a different kind of feeling
Since they were bad
And most of my focus
Started and stopped on a man named
World B. Free
Although I’m not sure how much of
This poem
Is true
I have no doubt
About World B. Free
It started with his hair
Though it was not exceptional
Except in its lack of exception
Stuck in a time
I may never understand
But all the rest fit too
How much he loved the game
Even when it was an awful game
And tried without ever looking
As if he were trying
Mostly though
The shooting
Like little orange only rainbows
Up and down
With no gold at the end
Only more orange
And then at its beginning
The look that might have been a smile
If he’d known no one was watching
At the end of the game
It seems that no one else noticed him
Because watching him play
Might have kept someone from skipping school
As it did me from stealing gum
Off the too short racks
Meant to taunt me
At the store
But lots of kids did that
And their parents drank too much
Cheated with a waitress
Then left home
(Not because of the children)
Even though they’d seen World B. Free
On the court downtown
When I asked later on
My dad said he used to be called Lloyd
That may well be
But he was always World B. to me
© Gayle Force Press 2002
The WhoDeannyPod 