Halfway through an alley 

smoke & a classic third

quarter Knicks collapse,

the kid upstairs who shit 

plastic as an infant & woke 

our whole building & now 

leads Whitney Young’s varsity 

squad asks “Who you 

like here?” 

Before he was

born the Rockets 

tore my heart

out. I recount Ewing & Hakeem 

in the pivot, how a police chase across

the country interrupted my burgeoning 

hope’s dousal, how I once knew Chicago 

as just the Bulls horns fading to Sears Tower 

antennae cause Jordan was as nasty as the old-

heads claim. It’s the first time I’ve spoken to him, 

engaged deeper than an adoration of youth, 

seen him as more than a totem 

for temporal hope. “Both these teams suck.”

Ja Morant is his favorite, lingering

adolescent lisp softening the ‘r’ into a cherubic 

’w’. We agree when available he’s the absolute truth,

capable of explosive grace the league

gravitates around. We wonder if he can leap

with the same altitude & agility 

he has in transition to over-

come demons. I learn his name is Malachi 

& the local ball he saw growing 

up taught him how not to play, modeled

the demise of a team forced together

by circumstance, by powerful men with-

out a plan unable to bridge

difference. He wants to stay out 

of trouble, get a scholarship, earn 

the life he was told he could. I’ve sat 

with his mom over a cig. She wants 

her ashes scattered down Division,

from DuSable to Melrose

Park, to cover the

sense of here she’s expanded 

through displacement & called 

home for 40 plus years.

I ask what he thinks 

of the current Bulls 

& we 

again agree, they’d be in 

the mix with Lonzo 

healthy. Sometimes you got 

the wood, just need glue. He 

admires steals & blocks & can 

cite advanced analytics. 

There’s an adult in his life

he still loses to 1 on 1, crafted 

footwork putting a fake 

hip into his torso to make space

for sky hooks, an adult who’s cared 

religiously. “You gotta work & 

credit will come.”  I can’t help 

but recollect the sweat fly

off Charles Smith’s frame

as he bricked a series of shots

every Joe in every borough could

hit up & over four defenders,

how Starbury was deemed

selfish playing with panache 

guys get respect for today,

how Anthony Mason got 

dissed postmortem by a local

I can’t believe they still allow 

at MSG. To dedicate your body

to the win is to accept that one

day you’ll get dunked on.

Even my mortal knees 

will never be the same. 

All passion is monastic

decontextualized, saved us all 

from something. I just hope 

the game keeps paying him 

back, that he’s seen 

as more than a product. I send 

Malachi upstairs with a pop 

after a bushel of missed free 

throws sink the best Knicks team 

I’ve seen since I was his age & kinship 

is solidified. He continues roasting

me while ascending our wooden

fire escape.  “Small guards

can’t lead a team in the playoffs 

man…& you better stop smoking 

if you wanna defend me!” Zeke 

grew up just south of here. I wonder

if people are still bitter he won

with the Pistons instead of

at home. His name’s never come 

up & maybe that’s my answer. 

ALEX WELLS SHAPIRO (he/him) is a poet, artist, and organizer from the Hudson Valley, living in Chicago. He serves as poetry editor for Another Chicago Magazine, and co-curates Exhibit B: A Literary Variety Show. He is the author of a poetry collection, Insect Architecture (Unbound Edition, 2022), and a chapbook, Gridiron Fables (Bottlecap Features, 2022). More of his work may be found atwww.alexwellsshapiro.com.