Boxing Out

I never had hops, so I got on at Bertha Ross Park the same wayI kept my spot on the middle school squad: immaculatelyfree-throwing with follow through, flicked wrist left hanging

for the imaginary game winner when winner meant fly girlfriendinstead of sulking solo in the gym corner like I was backat the Spring Formal as one slow jam after another played

for the couples-only dance. At Bertha Ross, we bunched intoour pickup corners, right in front of a white construction workerwho said, Gerry Cooney will put that big nigger in his place

to no one while chewing a ham sandwich down to the red rinds.We all heard him say it between warm-up behind-the-backdribbles & almost-raindropped jumpers, but acted like we didn’t.

& we almost won the game anyway until somebody’s drunkuncle in a Peaches & Herb shirt called one of those old-man fouls.But Cooney didn’t beat Holmes. He didn’t even come close.