The Legend

Just about every morning, I see him there, A solitary figure on the basketball court. He is shooting free throw after free throw, And most of them go in, but some do not. But it doesn’t matter now like it once did, Not anymore, not so far away from fame, And a half century away from big crowds. I bet it would have meant everything once, Back in a time when the lights were bright, And a crossover dribble was second nature. For the shooter, it’s the allure of the game, This city game that spread out like wildfire, A game played in small, overstuffed gyms, And any patch of country dirt with a hoop. For some, the game’s siren call never dies. The days, months, and years turn to decades, And the shooter keeps shooting free throws, No doubt seeking the sweet swishing sound, Of the ball going in with spinning perfection. There is no other alternative for the shooter, It is just him, the basketball, and the basket, And the slow rhythmic cadence of each shot, Chasing the game until the final buzzer sounds, Shot after shot, in the still, tropical, morning air.