When my jumper in overtime glided
through the rim, only quivering webbed net,
life seemed to stop. Even the slab-sided
McConnell—greatest of our foes—who set
to block my shot but proved a step too late,
gawked in awe. A split second of silence,
then the fanatic five thousand earthquaked.
I rose to shoulders and rode existence
across victory’s great memory. My
brother Frank was grabbing my arm, shouting
You did it! I feared some shocked girl might spy
my jockstrap, so jerked my shorts, assuring
modesty. I recalled Mike, with easy breath,
sinking two foul shots leading to sudden-death.
Roger Armbrust
February 17, 2011
