by Bruce Lowry
Because of Friday nights at the Garden.
Because chaos is more interesting than order.
Because the Brooklyn Nets
bore the hell out of me.
Because Clyde Frazier, Spike Lee
the Knickerbockers’ name.
Because all-white warm-ups,
The ‘ol orange-n-blue, Melo
raining 3-balls while
Willis Reed beats Chamberlain
on bad knees.
I think Knicks, I think four kids in the Bronx
beatup asphalt, rims with no nets.
I think four kids on a Louisiana playground,
three black, one white, no foul to be found.
I think Quon Bell, Terry Cox and
Jimmy Manning, ballers who
introduced themselves with elbows
to the chin, and jive about my pimples.
They didn’t give a damn about my drunk father
or dead sister, but sometimes
they’d feed me the ball,
And sometimes I’d hit a shot. Quon
said I was ‘awful’
around the basket, but “deadly’ from the corner.”
I see stubborn in the Knicks,
I see scowl on Terry’s face as he drains
another jumper in my eyes.
I see the Knicks in home whites,
I see us in shirts and skins.