[And now, for something completely different. At least for this blog. What follows are 13 poems penned by the great player-bard Tom Meschery when he was pounding the backboards (and opposing forwards) with the Seattle SuperSonics. The poems appeared in the magazine Fast Break: 1969 All-Pro Basketball Annual.
Meschery said of the poems, all penned during the late 1960s, “I think they will be of some value to the physical types who think poetry is for queers, that poetry is an effeminate form of art. Poetry is a very masculine form of communication.” Fifty-plus years later, I like what I read. And I think you will, too.]
To A Boyhood Friend
You were all of Notre Dame
and I was all of Army.
We were every player
that ever played.
Hour after hour
with ball in hand
we soared our dreams.
Phantom crowds applauded
from the stands of our playground world.
We were surrounded by rain puddles;
guarded by cement cracks.
We stole the ball from the “blind side.”
We fought the final game
in its final seconds
down to the wire.
Dear friend,
do you remember when
a loss would make us cry;
but then how cockily
we smiled with victory?
Some passersby would glance
at us
weary from our bouncing
ball game
and smile knowing smiles.
I wonder if
they ever were
Notre Dame or Army.
Lowell High
Our red brick square gymnasium was an anachronism
Among the steel-ribbed, concrete muscled ellipses
And angles of the day; it was full of shadows—
The floor corduroy, the backboards wood
And the rims were bent with age
(the relentless ricochet of basketballs)
It had none of the embellishments
Found in more modern gyms.
It was simply a no-nonsense structure
Built to house players not spectators.
Surrounded by its gray walls and wrinkled floor
We practiced two-to-six, six days a week.
And throughout that time—four years—
Our coach, who was as old as the building,
Taunted and inspired us, swore and cajoled us.
He taught us to play without frills.
We became red brick and corduroy
And learned to see through shadows.
The Market Place
They’re dealing in talent, not men.
In winning and losing, not men.
Emotions were fine
When the contract was signed.
But now let’s live with facts.
They’re working with bodies, not men.
With forwards and guards, not men.
The better passer or shooter
Can change the mind of an owner
When the team is going aback.
They’re working with cash, not men.
With dollars and cents, not men.
If the gate is decreasing,
Instead of increasing
They’ll look for a trade to make.
But dealing in cash, not men
Is not only the owner’s end.
For we who are players
Are just as well traders
As we play for money’s sake.
The Rookies
Athletes filled with hope and vigor
Try and fail and leave,
Beggared, not enriched.
What they gave was not enough.
No longer does life seem as glorious
As it did a year ago
When stronger and bolder,
Each strode the campus hero.
Now in three short weeks
Their bodies beat by hands of tradesmen,
(less delicate but in their eyes more fortunate)
They must go to build their hopes anew.
The agony is not returning
For hearts that beat this brand of sport.
The agony is not discerning
What is the end and what is not.
To Elgin Baylor
You’ll be hung up to dry
Painted on some hall of fame wall
Given a perfunctory smile
A trophy and a fond farewell
Then legend will seep in like arthritis
And bend minds in other directions
And you will become a gnarled oak
And be chopped down for conversation fuel
And your ashes will blow across the land
And having once been you will disappear.
To Wilt Chamberlain
He appears from afar
A giant Cimmerian statue
Contested for a goal
He shivers great strong ebony beads
Of sweat from his body
Turns suddenly
From inanimate to animal
Coils and springs
Sending men like ripples
Into inevitable nonexistence.
Off the court
He is enigma
Tropical and dense as the jungle
Of his forebears
White men fear
Black men genuflect
And once long ago
We argued
Over a fallen tear.
To Bill Russell
I have never seen
an eagle with a beard
but if there is
in some strange
corner of the world
and the Hindu
belief is true
you will return
and bear your wings
violently
over my grave.
To Alex Hannum
As a boy I walked
Between the solemn pillars
Gazing with awe
At the paintings
Of mighty buckskin men.
Their steely eyes
Stared back at me
And I dreamed that someday
I might also stand
As straight and firm
Within the painter’s frame.
I dreamed that I might grow
To be a mighty buckskin man
And conquer some expansive plain.
There were idols
To be worshipped as a boy
And every year I grew
I sought them out
One by one
All in the image
Of my buckskin men.
Last year I traced my steps
Back to the gallery
Where I had dreamed as a boy
And found to my dismay
The paintings had been taken down
And in their place
Hung paintings of a newer day.
Basketball: A Love Song Because It Is
I will always remember:
the din of Madison Square Garden
filled with Saturday night people
the sadness of the loss
or the gaiety of a victory
that tomorrow could change,
traveling the early hour jets
cards shuffling
endless insomnia,
tired muscles,
bawdy conversations,
pointless anxiety
over yesterday’s statistics,
the tunneled echoes
of airports at four A.M.
and the moment when
with absolute certainty
the ball slipped soundlessly from my fingers
backspinning beauty through the net.
The Bull Session
We talked about
a ballplayer this
a ballplayer that.
Into the night
our conversation
rose and fell:
a pick and roll
a lousy call
a stolen ball
The three of us
Would commiserate
until the light of dawn
crept stealthily through
the drawn hotel curtains.
As It Should Be
A black hand supports
the white body of a falling teammate.
The ball that scored the winning goal
was placed in motion by a grey hand.
The sweat pouring from our bodies
is neither black nor white.
After the Game
The tension and strain have ended
Forty-eight minutes in our lives
Have passed into recollection
We are exhausted.
As I gaze around the black and white of men
Through the rows of hurriedly hung clothes
And knots of inquiring reporters.
I can smell my sport:
Bland soap steam
Newly lit cigarettes.
Drying sweat.
The damp starch odor
Of wet cloth and towel.
I return slowly
Like the passing of seasons
In the murmuring world of voices
And grasp congratulatory hands
Back to the reality of victory.
I don’t think we truly comprehend
What we won today could be lost tomorrow
Yet we are joyous.
Tired hands and feet
And muscles strained
(Beyond the definition of sport)
Were not in vain.
I get up and stumble to the shower.
I wash away the past hours
With floods of water
And massage my aching limbs
With thoughts of cold beer and a night’s rest
As I leave the arena
Dressed in grey, blue or black
Like any normal businessman.
I glance back on my day.
On the now shadowed hardwood
Of the basketball court
And the empty seats where,
Not long before,
The crowd yelled on and on and on
And a smile creeps slowly past my mouth.
The Last Poem
When
the game has ended
and the roar of the crowd
has faded into the past
and only the cleaning brooms
click-clack echoes
on the empty rows of seats
drumming through
the dim lit concrete corridors
of the stadium what
then?
From Way Downtown 