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cc&d v180

this writing is in the collection book
Charred Remnants
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 Charred Remnants, the 2008 Down in the Dirt collection book
‘ball

Marshall Fant

I

Driving past the old home
I saw my basketball goal
Dad installed when I was two-years-old
Still clinging to its half-rotten pole.
With age, the broad backboard
That began its life
Fastened five feet above freshly-laid concrete
Became dirty and unstable—
The once clean net now a shade of uneventful brown
Anchored to a blood red rim
Against the board
Against the pole
Against the knee-high brick wall.

Shortly after my basket was finally raised
To the height of ten feet,
My father
(One night after dinner)
Joined me in the driveway
Wearing his comically short bright orange running shorts.
In this arena he explained
Th’ intricate rules of
one-on-one,
Father-versus-son
Basketball:

Rules demand a foul line, he said,
And pointed to the nail that was
Accidentally poured with the cement
Exactly fifteen feet from our pole.
(But fouls are for wimps
And the girls needing extra points.)
Blood must be tasted
For fouls to be counted.
That night, we played ‘ball
Till the bright red rim melted into the night sky.

The ritua poured into the autumn months,
And the games stopped sooner as the evenings
Lost their light.
My father mounted a bulb to the corner
Of the roof
So we could continue to show our love
By crushing each other into the pavement.

II

After finishing the dinner dishes
I slap-dry my hands
And pick up the ball on my way out the front door.
Out of college now,
I don’t come often.
But here—
In the outside cold,
Of the new home
We have an elegant motion-sensing flood light,
And the new goal is one of those exquisite
Machines
That has a black rim and comes in a box.

I roll up the sleeves
Of my nice business shirt,
Spin the ball
On my finger,
Back up to the end of my narrow, long driveway,
And take a shot.
Perfect.
My father had missed dinner
To counsel a broken home.
I take one more shot—and this time, though less perfect, I still get the roll.
Two for two.
Finally I hear
His big black car
And turn to see him come
Down the driveway.
He climbs out of it and says hi to me,
His suit and shirt still pressed as neatly
As when he picked it up
From the cleaners.

I smile and
Toss the ball without saying a word.
He catches it with those same soft hands.

My bursitis,
He reminds me through a clenched smile.
Tosses the ball back underhand.

Of course,
I tell myself.
The youthful father who taught me—
To
Crash the boards,
Take it to the hoop,
Pull up for two
Drive the hole,
��Dribble with y’ head up,
��Jump-stop shot,
Three fouls minimum,
��And be a man,
��Suck it up—
Grimaced as he carried his heavy briefcase
Up the steps
Into the house.

My father,
I remind myself,
Is more of a man than I ever hope to be.

Then
he
watched

From the third story look out

(And I pretended not to see him)

as
I
played

‘ball
And he cradled my child.

I only hope he still remembers how to teach young boys to dribble.



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