I.
the year my friend’s dad convinced me
to play travel basketball, wednesdays
and weekends i learned the best ways
to ride the bench and rock warm up gear.
the shortest, fattest kid on the team,
i pretended to be barkley in my backyard,
but puberty abandoned me until other boys
grew tired of trimming their beards.
my dad sacrificed his quiet nights parked
in the living room, books and bourbon,
for my tour of the premier gym benches
in northwest connecticut. we’d drive
through cold nights, uconn games soft
on the radio, strip malls and desiccated
christmas trees out the window.
II.
there is a specific sadness only known
to those who’ve driven through february
backroads of post-industrial new england.
III.
when we lost to east hartford by more
than any living soul will remember,
my dad and i walked to the car.
still in my warmups, the night crushingly
dark, i waited for the heater to kick on.
i didn’t care about basketball or winning.
my dad didn’t care either, which is
the point. which is how we ended up
idling in bright gymnasiums because
we thought it was what the other wanted.
by Brendan Walsh
Brendan Walsh has lived and taught in New England, South Korea, Laos, and South Florida. He is the author of seven collections of poetry, including concussion fragment, winner of the 2022 Florida Book Award Gold Medal, and november ninth (dipity press, 2024). He co-hosts the Fat Guy, Jacked Guy podcast with Stef Rubino, and you can find him online at brendanwalshpoetry.com.
back to Issue 16