In South Philadelphia the b-ball hoops
in the playgrounds and parks mostly had no nets,
no nets on the rims—they’d been stolen
or ripped down after being torn by leaping teenagers.
When my son was a boy the difference mattered
because he loved basketball, he loved the Sixers,
he loved shooting baskets and there is beautiful satisfaction
when a good shot falls through the net—
“Swish” we said—“Nothin’ but net”—
and so as I moved around town I always noticed
where the hoops had nets
so Nick and I could shoot there.

The difference mattered.  Life should be a certain way
but often the right way becomes unavailable—
the nets disappear—you have to be alert
to find the courts where a perfect shot really does go
swish.  Life has disappointments
but you don’t want your boy to feel that life is
mainly or mostly disappointing
or that the Sixers on TV are absurdly far from his real life—

because he needs to believe
that life allows moments of sublimity—swish

so even now when Nick is almost forty
wherever I see good intact nets on the rims
I make a mental note for half a second:
Nick and I could play here.
The difference matters.

Credit

Copyright © 2025 by Mark Halliday. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on January 24, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.

About this Poem

“Parents tend to feel there is a sacredness inherent in all the details of a child’s early life. When my son Nick was born in 1987, I felt that his presence made everything around him radiant with significance. Nick was already noticeably athletic by the age of three. We played hundreds of hours of sports in South Philadelphia. Nick is now thirty-seven; he is an artist in Providence. But in any city, I immediately think of shooting baskets with him when I see hoops with nets.”
—Mark Halliday