For a friend who died playing basketball
by Phil Kendall
I remember you at the little school
You wobbled on the court like a newborn calf
And squeaked like a referee's whistle.
I had only your dad to believe that you
would grow, come booming out of a
bottle of protein pills.
I don't think he ever missed a game, not even
when you were squatting like he was.
But you did come booming,
booming out of a bumper summer
And all the kids looked and said,
"Who's the new boy in school?"
I remember you practicing,
stuffing everything you had into
nets and sneakers.
You kept rising and nobody ever
thought there was a lid on your game.
But you wobbled off the court that frantic night
and your voice cracked for the last time.
I've tried hard to think of
what you escaped,
the fading clippings,
dust-collecting trophies
and the nagging belief
that you could have made it to the big time.
It doesn't matter, your dad is going through all that.
For me you are rising up again,
caught in a net you drop through.
Copyright © Philip A Kendall, All Rights Reserved.
