Can’t shoot well enough for a team to rely on.
My passes wobble, wing-shot ducks.
A right hand only dribble, easily picked pocket.
I never fail to fail the expectations of the crowd.
Yet, one Sunday afternoon, on an unknown court
where I had wandered to watch,
nine big black players settled on one white stranger
to make ten for a game of shirts and skins.
Something happened.
There was a zing to my passes,
stole 5 on defense,
a rainbow arc to god in my three point shots.
Got an invite to return next Sunday,
which I never dared to accept.
One golden game of glory is enough of a memory,
not to risk.