Round Two - Game Four
CHI 84 CLE 86
The end of this one
Could have been remembered
A few different ways.
Let’s be honest--
We all saw Blatt
On the court
Calling for a timeout
His team didn’t have.
Right?
An uncalled technical--
Quite possibly the difference
Between 2-2
And 3-1.
One man
At the line
At home
With the chance to win it.
Is this story not exciting enough?
That's some high fucking drama.
Come on.
A true blunder
Ignored
For a taste of flashy heroics.
Turning a human drama
Into an action flick--
As if the audience is too dumb
And the writer’s too lazy.
Could have been remembered
A few different ways.
Let’s be honest--
We all saw Blatt
On the court
Calling for a timeout
His team didn’t have.
Right?
An uncalled technical--
Quite possibly the difference
Between 2-2
And 3-1.
One man
At the line
At home
With the chance to win it.
Is this story not exciting enough?
That's some high fucking drama.
Come on.
A true blunder
Ignored
For a taste of flashy heroics.
Turning a human drama
Into an action flick--
As if the audience is too dumb
And the writer’s too lazy.
I Don't Mean to Complain, But...
My mom tells this story
About when she was little.
She was at a friend’s house--
A perfect little gentile girl
With a perfect little nose (her knee-jerk measuring-stick)
And a man to operate the elevator.
Around the dinner table,
In its own special room,
Sits the family
And their visitor.
Everyone seeming so comfortable
Catching up.
Discussing things.
A surprising, hypnotic rhythm--
Question?
Answer.
Clarify?
Explain.
The little girl--
“I don’t mean to interrupt, but…”
My mom doesn't remember what her friend said next.
It didn't matter.
What did matter
Was the attention she got.
The whole table turning toward
Her.
This type of attention
Around my mom’s table
Was reserved for Brother
And Father.
She held this move
Like a secret--
Waiting.
Later that week
Around the table
In her crowded kitchen,
She tries it,
While Father talks about the store.
I don’t mean to interrupt but…
“Then DON’T.”
He flashes a cold look and continues.
About when she was little.
She was at a friend’s house--
A perfect little gentile girl
With a perfect little nose (her knee-jerk measuring-stick)
And a man to operate the elevator.
Around the dinner table,
In its own special room,
Sits the family
And their visitor.
Everyone seeming so comfortable
Catching up.
Discussing things.
A surprising, hypnotic rhythm--
Question?
Answer.
Clarify?
Explain.
The little girl--
“I don’t mean to interrupt, but…”
My mom doesn't remember what her friend said next.
It didn't matter.
What did matter
Was the attention she got.
The whole table turning toward
Her.
This type of attention
Around my mom’s table
Was reserved for Brother
And Father.
She held this move
Like a secret--
Waiting.
Later that week
Around the table
In her crowded kitchen,
She tries it,
While Father talks about the store.
I don’t mean to interrupt but…
“Then DON’T.”
He flashes a cold look and continues.