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by Albert Fried-Cassorla
Again my beloved Philadelphia Seventy-Sixers
lost a close one, and somehow I care.
Why I do seems a mystery, such embarrassing juvenilia
-- perhaps I should not go there!
And yet tonight it's Iverson's angst I see,
coming back to me with such force and intensity --
this frustrated David unable to stone that Goliath O'Neal
on his elevated bean, or undo Reg-gee's long distance 3's.
But it's the faces and graceful moves that paint the scene and matter
to me,
And yet somehow I feel these values should not be --
not in a world of hunger, death and assorted large-scale depravity.
What diff the score to my time on Earth?
Or to any ripple I might make among those close to me?
What matters if a Geiger glares, Kukoc caroms,
or Ratliff rebounds successfully?
Plenty, and that's the mystery!
Is that where life's energies should be?
To be a fan seems a wasteful malady, but perhaps that's supercilious of
me.
Caring is what counts, conscience says, and losing is the price of just
so silly a misery.
But no -- life's not famines and wars and composite catastrophes.
Yes! To exult on another day will be the blessing, and this hoop setback
will seem…
just a fleeting memory.
Surely, someday seeing Allen on a float
will rock this fan's boat… and bring joy
that will last a good half-century!!
2-20-00