All Text, Music, and Illustrations, including Paintings, Photographs, and 3D models, Copyright © 2022 by Jim Robbins.
HOOPS
I shoved the ball toward the hoop
with all my might, missing by two or three feet.
The second shot, the ball hovered on the rim
and dropped in. My brother punched my arm
while my father cheered. I dashed into the house
to tell my uncle that I had made a basket. On TV,
fire was consuming a cross-legged man in an orange robe
as traffic swirled around him. Sobbing,
I flung myself back outside. “Why would a man
light himself on fire?” I bleated. My uncle
stepped into the doorway: “The boy just needs
to get used to it.” (My Dad told me later
that my uncle’s plane was shot down in WWII,
and my uncle was still waking up screaming
at night.) My brother kept bouncing the ball.
My Dad draped his arm around me for a moment,
then sauntered over to my uncle to ask
what caused the outburst. Soon they all went inside.
I paced the driveway for awhile, then grabbed
the ball, shooting again and again until I made it in.
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