I understand what
a jump shot is,
certain mechanics
of the body, hand
positions, elbow
alignment, follow
through. Enough
player names to
mention around
the imaginary water-
cooler if I found
myself there. A body
at rest still needs
to hydrate. I cried
watching Bird
and Magic in that
documentary and
own a small collection
of expensive high-top
sneakers in various
colorways—used
exclusively to walk
my pets or to the
coffee shop for
an almond croissant.
Fresh to death. On
my mantle, four second
place trophies from
intramural wrestling
all before fifth grade.
Pitter patter sprawl.
I can’t remember
swimming. I mean,
I can’t swim. I can’t
drive. Sometimes
I miss a high five,
the pat on the ass.
I swung and missed
at tee-ball, golf. Traded
cards for the love
of the potential investment.
George Brett, I’ll always
love your name.
I appreciate highlights,
trick plays as much as
the next: The Statue
of Liberty, Flea Flickers,
The Changing Light
at Sandover. I was
born in the suburbs
of the city of brotherly
bullies, poor sports,
famous boo-ers and
stadium court houses.
I was the only boy
cut from my seventh
grade soccer team.
It’s in my blood to lose
at all games, even Uno,
especially Monopoly,
and when I do, I spit
into my palm or refuse
to shake hands.
Copyright © 2015 Brett Fletcher Lauer. Originally published in the Winter 2015 issue of Prairie Schooner. Used with permission of Prairie Schooner.