Leaves and Grass, Poetry by Thomas Sorrell

Genre: Sports, Life, Fantasy

Leaves and Grass by Thomas Sorrell

Pete Maravich and Oscar Robertson stand
on a moonlit basketball court in the heart
of the South Dakota Badlands – two hardwood
legends, set for some one-on-one on blacktop.
Pistol Pete, from Louisiana, nods at
his Ohio opponent, called The Big O.
He wants to say something, but a whistle blows.
Chief Sitting Bull is tonight’s referee and
he takes guff from no soul, alive or not. Both
men turn and listen to his instructions and I
take a quick trip around, looking at the crowd.
Ghosts of living and dead people line the court.
Hank Aaron’s there, 41 feet from Babe Ruth.
The two of them nod, politely. Mean Joe Greene
has a wheelbarrow full of jerseys, some his,
some not. The natives refuse to accept them,
fearing small pox or athlete’s foot or something.
John Madden, Walter Cronkite, Howard Cosell
and Gus Johnson are being led into a
soundproof box, so no one has to hear them speak.
Kobe Bryant and Shaq are separated
by Aristotle and Sonny Corleone.
Al Pacino and Meryl Streep want to talk
to John Cazale, but he’s busy chatting with
R.P. McMurphy and Ken Kesey. Vroom-vroom!
A line of motorcycles pulls up, led by
Marlon Brando, Sir Ralph Barger and Charlie
Hunnam. Hunter S. Thompson and the Rolling
Stones just ran for the hills. Bob Dylan and Joan
Baez looked up for two seconds, then went back
to whatever they were laughing about. John
F. Kennedy keeps glancing at Marilyn.
Joe DiMaggio seems pissed. Chief Sitting Bull
is done instructing The Big O and Pistol.
He calls for the basketball. McMurphy smirks
and tosses him a bounce pass under the pale
moonlight. A loon flies past at full speed as geese
soar overhead. Sitting Bull blows his whistle.
A single star falls from the heavens above.
and we’re ready. The ball is tipped. Here we are.
Oscar controls the basketball. The crowd cheers,
then falls deathly silent. The only noise is
the steady WHUMP of leather on cold concrete.
Robertson goes right after a crossover.
Maravich blocks his path with his left knee. Tweet!
The ref calls a foul. General Custer boos,
a bit too loudly. The whole crowd turns and glares
and old Custer just throws his hands up, like, “What?”
One minute into the game and I feel ill.
The wind picks up and I’m scattered away with…



    * * * * *

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