Two amateur teams battled for the national basketball championship in 1962—it was not televised. We cleaned up, Grandad would say…
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Hardwood
Players line up as kids flood the risen floor like confetti. Lenses sprout in the teeth of embrace, illuminating sweat stuck to foreheads, a tide of surface fish hiding in sunlight…
H-O-R-S-E
From behind the hoopsteetering in uncertain spring wind, held firm by sand bags leaking hourglass steady, shooters factor air, arcade style swaying…
Sometimes you dangle
the puck, pull it
back, and a tank-
shouldered giant
with a hooked stick
pins his eyes
like a boutonniere
on a prom lapel
and plants his gloves
in your sternum.
July 11th, 2016 ~ Stage 16 of 21: Moirans-en-Montagne to Berne.
“It feels like we’ve been swallowed by Moby Dick!” I screamed through the ear-splitting din of the ferocious Swiss tunnel.
At first, there was nothing
here. At least, that’s what we say
about a place before the building begins.
After practice, the twelve-man Catholic Youth Organization team huddled around the coach for an announcement. I prepared to hear the news about the next game and what time we would have to arrive…
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Two black boys in sport goggles
and highlighter green gym shorts
play the display piano and talk
From the electric orange cover, to the #NiUnaMenos protest with green handkerchiefs, to the cleats hitting the grass, Yamile Saied Méndez gives us the story of Camille Hassan of Rosario, Argentina an intense player of energy, understood strength, and the humble and sturdy eye of a midfield futbolera.
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