Let Us Talk of Basketball!
John Janovy, Jr
Let us talk of basketball!
Copyright ©1986 John Janovy, Jr.
Note: this combination of sing-songy, Ogden Nash wannabe, doggerel was actually written in the middle 1980s and discovered while cleaning out some files. Regardless of the structure or quality of the poetry, the message about high school athletics is still valid.
Designed by John Janovy, Jr.
ISBN: 9781311743954
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Contents:
Let us talk of basketball!
Other works by John Janovy, Jr.
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Let us talk of basketball!
The dapper parent cried
And placed his coated elbow
On the mantle there beside
His glass of wine, amber white,
Its legs inside the crystal glass
Ran up the sides to catch the lights
That also swirled among this crowd
Broken into colors shining playing
Off the walls, glinting in his eyes,
Reflecting off his plastic lenses.
And all the other actors took their
Places.
Svelte and quiet poised, she
Made the Chippendale look drab; elegant
In her finest dress for the intimate
Of all her groups she rested on the
Couch, her hand upon her husband’s knee.
It did the same, and he relaxed and
Contemplative, sipped his drink and
Savored both the liquor and command.
Of a type all prone to stress, excitement,
Was the fifth, who paced along the
Fireplace drinking beer. His mate,
Slightly overweight herself, watched
Him with familiar fear that this would
Be the night she came alone into her
Future. Upon the couch, seats three
And four, the final couple sat, she
Forever as a mother, lovely in security;
He contemplating every day of fat to burn
By jogging in the frosty air.
For their journey into challenge, philosophy their
Monthly leisure, a group less qualified
Did not exist.
None of them had ever taken ball to
Court in open war against their friends.
(Guard)
Enfolded in the antique beauty
Her voice was misty, saddened, yet it
Carried through the relaxed atmosphere
Of weekend in the nicer sections, that
Certain softness of a mother
Remembering
“She was so tiny, third in line,
There beside me in the bed, behind
Two rowdy brothers she would have to
Live—we knew,” and smiled as far
Away in time she wore the gown that
Graced her slender frame that perfect
Autumn Sunday morn when they were young.
Her eyes flicked to her husband; her
Glass was empty; the other women
Knew their men could not erase
The vision of this lioness in act of
Giving birth, or in conception, while the
Challenger, smug, filled her chalice,
And with the deed did ask the line
Of thought continue.
“Delicate, I marveled at
Her gentleness, and fed her at my
Breast, and cried with joy for
Company, at last, to help negotiate
The years—I love my men,
As I did then. But a woman needs
a daughter!”
The touch of independence earned
Flashed through her eyes above the
Crystal rim, as the speaker took a
Sip all caught their breath at
Elegance revealed along her wrist.
“She was happy all the
Time, my light, salvation, while
The other two smashed furniture, and
Threw their food, and fought like
Jungle cats above a bloodied kill!”
Again she smiled. All understood.
Some choice: to have them back like
That or off at college. Their rooms
Now echo with the silence of reminder—
We all are grown
Except the daughter.
“Dolls, we finally bought,
In quantity and style. They cried
Their little plaintive calls and wet
Their little pants when squeezed,
And went to sleep upon command
And were so easy, for her to dress
In training for her proper role.
We thought, back then, that
Females should be mothers first,
and lovers next,
Then volunteers, while some would
Play at war.” The one with elbow
On the mantle raised an eyebrow
—a gesture of experience that
defies all sense of what should be.
“So through their early years they
Crawled, then walked and ran.
I was in a state of bliss, my life
Complete: handsome husband, handsome
Money, stalwart lads my father’s genes
Did show, a daughter of such fragile
Limbs, golden hair that washed like waves,
I’d watch them fall across her pillow
As she slept.” She raised her chin,
“I have these pictures in a
Gallery.”
All had seen the oval
Frames upon the bedroom wall,
As they’d entered inner sanctum
To lay their coats upon a bed that
blust’ry winter night.
“My boys grew strong, and ornery, so
Uncontrolled.” And now the
Room grew silent—this history
Familiar to them all, unfolding.
“She would not stay away from them.
And then one day, from the curtained
Window of our room, I looked upon
The oily place where he could usually
Park his car. Her little arms could
Hardly hold the giant thing. Behind
My back the boys had thrown to her:
a basketball!”
“I buy her clothes, the
Finest blouses, pants that fit,
Heels to make her walk correctly;
Her appointment at the beauty shop
Tomorrow morning, turns her
Silken locks to silver in the
Artificial light. My daughter is
A beauty, at seventeen. She also
Has a game tomorrow night!”
The
Front door slammed and
Into celebration walked the
Subject of their conversation.
Perspiration’s healthy odor
Drifted to the corners with
The colder January drafts from
Which this evening’s luxury
protected them.
“Good evening, dear,”
She smiled.
The child removed her stocking cap
Returned the happy glowing glance around
The room and creaked her weary
way to privacy.
“My beauty wears the
Tape,” she said, “and even now
She sits with surgeon’s scissors
On the quilt I made with my two
Hands, and cuts the sticky reeking
Braces, peels them from her skin
So white, sprayed, protected with
A finer laye
r, on the twisted ankles
Other girls would use to tease
Their future mates in English class!
A mass of tape, and ice in plastic
Bags beneath her covers as she
Rests for one more day.
I see her feet in summer.
Calluses they bear, with evidence
Of some jam-med toenails, fossil blisters
Even July’s sun cannot erase.
My little lady is a jock.
My boys are playing in the band
Or writing essays with their hands,
While hers caress a basketball!”
(Center)
“Likewise,” said the second,
In a wry accepting tone,
“We know the story well. At
Least your beauty’s of a size
Society accepts as one within
The normal range, while mine
is tall.”
How biased is a parent’s view
Of children that they call their own
The paradox of wishes/admiration
Emotions such as love of
One’s own family prevents those
Lasting judgments harsh the
Greater world condones.
“And still she has to
jump and scratch
among the giants.
How do they grow them up that way?
Lace their feed with hormones?
Who would think a center such as
She, who never has a date,
Yet pines away just wishing in her heart
The shortest boy in school would ask
Her for a minute of her time,
Would look so small among the
Crowd those nights we play Beatrice?
We show to her the models,
Vegas girls, dancers more
Women statuesque than anybody sees
And yet she’s found her place.
She does ballet upon a wooden floor
Marked with lines and circles.
Exhaustion is
Her constant friend/companion
Rules her waking hours,
Sets the atmosphere in which
She moves and breathes to do
Her daily rounds of history
And Spanish, computer math
Our only introduction to the
Age that greets her years from
Now. Our daughter seeks a scholarship.
She’ll never get one with her mind.”
“But she’ll get one
With her body,” says the
Father—proud—the child
Had set a scoring record
Not too long ago. “Older
Men like taller girls. “It’s
A sign of growing up/the
Other gender passing through
Those high school standards—sex
And passive flirting—to
A deeper kind of meaning.
What she does upon the floor
Is what she’ll do forever: seek
The
