Sunday, May 10, 2009


My sweat stutter steps
with time ticking 2:47, 2:46,
2:45 remaining fourth quarter
time out, Celtics. Knicks
(shove it up your ass,
play already, I was never one to win
or lose, slowly). AND ON DECEMBER 7TH,
SHOW, and all around me
I could see
early exits. Fine suits, and finer women,
as bored with basketball as they are embarrassed
by underarm stains, clinging
to cigar chompers who somehow had comps
that night; even though The Knicks
were losers 1975. Seeing
or being seen in The Garden was no big deal back then;
not very impressive to big accounts,
just, like wives, a tax-deduction...or favor...or both.
Me, I loved them
but bet against them. I mean, shit,
3 and half points, a New York sucker line:
this was Boston 1975, New York 1975;
no Reed, no deB, Frazier playing
like he was caught stealing, Bradley
back to the books, Gianelli looking like a pimp
from Debuke, just The Pearl
was, well... The Pearl; all in all
not nearly enough
for just love.

Celtics inbound, cross
mid court, working the clock, (how many of us have been able
to use time like that?) a shot, a miss,
rebound Knicks, 2:21
quick up court pass
Frazier, Monroe back
to Frazier baseline good.
Boston by 4 (less the 3 and a half leave a half) shit
don’t slow, play
your game, run, now’s no time to forget
who you are. Depleted audience
filling The Garden like 19,500
shouting methedrine as I feel
sleep coming on as Scott gets trapped,
panics, throwing the ball to someone
who isn’t there. Momentum shifts;
Knicks look like 1970, take there time
set up, 1:23, Monroe working one-on-one (trouble
for me) twist, twist, fake crippled knees
spastic garbage magic 2 points
:59 seconds time-out
Boston. Plenty of time
Heinsohn tells em, be cool
but careful, work for a good one---
problem: Holzman’s sayin’ the same thing.
And with two teams working
for the same thing
I’m paralyzed, being choked
by simple arithmetic---
down 1 and a half points, :59 seconds it’s almost
train time. The only thing keeping me
is the hope that give men erections
in the desert; or the last woman
4 a.m. bar time as I pour her a free one;
so I’m still there
with 100 ways to pull this out
up here surrounded by maniacs who only leave the arena
when the competition is over.

Jojo at the key, pulls up,
flicks his wrist, shoots, rims
the basket, a ton of muscle
straining for a ball,
it’s Silas, thank God, (He must of bet Boston),
back out, :24, :23, :22
Knicks going mad for the ball,
Scott, White, back to Scott, :17,
:16, :15, Scott rainbow shot
slash & a foul I smile.
Scott converts 3rd. point as The Garden
empties like the hoop after the ball goes through:
air & twine.
I stay around, hell, there’s still :11 ticks.
Ball in bounded, up to Pearl (no, no) quick
to Bradley, (No,No) behind double screen (NO!)
too much rim & SILAS again like God
when he does the right thing,
is there. I get up,
fingering my pocket;
wanting to remember thin
to fantasize fat
by 1 and half points and a yard;
1 and half fucking points, I mutter.
It’s getting really tough
to make a buck.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 1975

No comments:

Post a Comment