Ah!

To recall the parquet floor!

The parking- two miles away.

The Jones Brothers, Sam and K.C.

speeding like rockets to the hoop.

Havlicek on his hobbled legs,

but running never-the-less.

And there, solid in the key,

a mountain,

a monument to the mighty,

Bill Russell,

daring all and any

to face-up

and meet him in the paint.

Even the Great Gorgon himself,

Wilt, “The Stilt”

crossed the key at his peril.

Before them was Cousy

and after,

Bird!

Magic’s honing stone

and my Irish mothers heart throb.

Blessing him and giggling,

his rookie card in her purse

until the day we buried her bones.

Oh! Sure!

I know…

There’s gaps between reality

and my dreams.

Some of those guys

were never in a game together!

No matter!

In my memory,

there they are with God in The Garden,

winning all those seventh games.

And them micks at the bar

living or dying with each shot,

tears on their cheeks,

beer soaked and sotted.

I heard

they made the Finals this season.

(Will miracles never cease!)

Who knows their names?

Who cares?

They will, for ever, for me

be Bill and K.C.

and Bob and Larry

and The Chief and his guys,

shooting threes in all that noise!

The Guinness will flow

like the current in the Charles

and we’ll smell the smoke

from Auerbach’s cigars.

And once again,

for a few fine moments more,

we’ll all again

be Bostons Stars!