Thursday, August 20, 2020 - Hoopin’! Via Matthews-Palmer Park: West 46th Street (between 9th and 10th Avenue).

There is a park on West 46th Street, between Ninth and Tenth Avenue. It’s also a playground.

You can go there and be whoever you want. You can go there and do whatever you want.

In the morning, I like sitting and facing north on the steps that ascend toward the south.

I like the feeling of the sun on my face.

I like the casual way four men in work-boots and heavy khakis and denim play basketball:

standing and shooting and talking, then –––-

every now and again /

an almost quick drive to the hoop.

There’s no keeping score. They’re all on the same team. Work is in a little, but not now.

The oldest and sturdiest amongst them: early forties, stocky and a few inches over six feet, wears a black t-shirt, black denims, black low-cut Keds, and a black backwards-facing baseball cap.

With love and a booming voice, he calls out tips, instructions, and advice toward his compadres:


“Use your body! Use your body! Lean into the contact!” he says.

One, bounces the ball, gradually ––––

and slowly, between his legs and glances up at the rim,

as the other, with intention and focus, squats in front of him, as a declaration: his arms stretched-out wide –––––– in defense. 

I like how their fourth, the only one wearing a mask (light blue and white), and the least athletically gifted of the crew, shoots his J’s without jumping -––– 

and with only one hand: the ball, held like a trophy in his right palm before his eyes ––––––

everyone watches, and waits . . . then at the decisive moment, he does not shoot

/ but propels the ball toward the rim.

The ball only hangs in the air for a moment,

rotating and careening through the wind

just long enough for everyone to glance up

toward the trees’ branches and leaves:

dancing and swaying above the backboard /

then between every exhale, and every inhale,

ruffling and resting

quietly beneath /

the all blue

/ and the all clear

/ morning sky.