RECREATION LEAGUE by Full Court

recreation league

Published by Full Court. Brooklyn, NY Copyright ÂŠ 2014 http://fullcourtbooks.com/ Edited by Matt L. Rohrer Cover by Matt L. Rohrer Layout by Jacob I. Evans

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introduction by seth landman You are about to read a collection of poetry swirling around the experience of playing, watching, and feeling basketball. I am not using the word “feeling” casually. I mean it with great seriousness. Basketball is a communal experience. Unlike baseball, it is not made up of separated outcomes, and unlike football, it is not comprised of separated instances. The game moves along like a storm system, incorporating into itself the very medium through which it moves. It gets stronger. People who play together a lot develop a secret, wordless language. Basketball is a game in which you might find yourself surrounded by your friends and shouting, “Help! Help! Help!” This is poetry. Towards the end of 1851, Herman Melville wrote a letter to his friend Nathaniel Hawthorne. The letter was Melville’s attempt to express his gratitude to Hawthorne for reading and responding to Melville’s most recent book, Moby Dick. Somewhere along the way, Melville writes, “Whence come you, Hawthorne? By what right do you drink from my flagon of life? And when I put it to my lips -- lo, they are yours and not mine. I feel that the Godhead is broken up like the bread at the Supper, and that we are the pieces. Hence this infinite fraternity of feeling.” I swear to God, basketball can be like this. I don’t know how to explain it, but when it really gets moving, you can forget yourself.You can get lost in there.Your teammate needs help, and you thoughtlessly shift your position.You fight through a screen, and someone is there to cut off a driving lane.You dribble towards someone, and they cut backdoor, and you deliver a pass, and they simply deliver the ball to the goal. It’s like being part of a machine, but you are still you, and you can feel how good it feels. 3

I am a terrible basketball player, but I am not oblivious to these charms. As I get older and more out-of-shape, I notice that when I’m playing basketball, my body refuses to do the things my mind tries to suggest. I set screens and end up just standing there. I see where I should be sliding over to help on defense, and I can’t move my legs. I fail to box out for rebounds. I make passes a full second after their window has closed. Still, I see all this stuff. I notice it happening. I still play sometimes, I’m just not any good at it. I never used to write poems about basketball. Basketball and poetry were separate parts of my life.You could read hundreds of my poems and have no idea that I watch a least a little bit of basketball nearly every night from November through June. Now that the game itself is slipping away from me, I’m finding myself discovering the poetry in it more and more. Or maybe the poetry of basketball finds me when I need it. Hopefully, we are all trying to be better people. I can’t speak to the experience of someone else, but for me, basketball and poetry both help connect me to my fellow human. They help me reflect on where I’ve been and anticipate what’s coming.You should play basketball, and you should watch basketball, and you should write poetry, and you should read poetry, and this is a good place to start.

the game is on christopher cheney

Can’t sports be a catalyst for romance But what is romance if not a catalyst For moving to a rural mill town All the hard questions you ask To college students at a sports bar Romance is the sport of enthusiastically Recalling the past, it’s done here a lot too I drove drunk to Cape Cod but then I can’t Remember is what everyone tells themselves But actually remember making love in a gazebo The sandy boards against skin, walking the stone Jetty and making love again on the shoal, scattering Rabbits and drying shrubs It’s hard not to trail off into a glass of water Gawk at the replays of your team losing But what is losing if losing means you return home Marry the first receptionist that is rude, show her Children how to play a game where you have to imagine Nothing and there aren’t points, bagging wet leaves Maybe

THE SONS OF GREGG POPOVICH christopher cheney

Every clipboard that was handed to us was handed to us willingly Every laudation, every letter of recommendation we received We waded up and threw into a metal waste basket When our immigrant mother wove us a regal maroon cloak We wore that cloak over our rec basketball jerseys And pulled down a pair of contested rebounds The intercourse we heard through our walls sounded to us Like the dribbling of a basketball on a gravel driveway In the throes of unmitigated suffering our hands palmed A basketball as if it were the stomach of our pregnant cousin We chain smoked butts in the shade of our garage The same garage we mounted a hoop to Unknowingly repeating what our father said Things can always get better and things can always get much worse

lebron james + co luke bloomfield

Carmelo Anthony: Carmelo Anthony signed himself as “The Naval Engineer” as often as he did just “The Engineer.” “Larger-than-life,” Carmelo Anthony was not quite a giant among his peers, standing at about 4 feet 8 inches. His ability to consume great quantities of vodka and hashish stood him apart in social settings almost as much as did his dark, mahoganyframed monocle. Carmelo Anthony lived a life that other men dreamed of having but lacked the audacity to do so. He possessed an indefatigable rhetoric, penning seventeen manifestos over the course of his career. He used rough language and often radically upended his syntax when talking passionately on a subject. Carmelo Anthony hardly distinguished between his personal and private life, often involving himself in other people’s relationships. Above all, he was the most cavalier about his passion, equally taken by men as by women. In a text to Kobe Bryant he wrote, The arms of every athlete have squeezed my suddenly female self, and the mere thought made me faint in imagined muscles. Not to be mistaken for a philanderer, Carmelo Anthony was deeply moved by his own feelings to greatly affect the people around him. He was at heart a Romantic, having traveled to the Far East and idled in the various preoccupations of all he encountered for nearly two years. Travel 7

was all the work he could stomach. To relax he sought kinship with others—everyone was preferable to him for at least a moment in his life. To everyone who knew him he seemed content, naturally immersed in the world, without a home but welcomed in all homes. But Carmelo Anthony also felt deeply depressed. He sensed an inherent entropy in things. He was haunted by the world’s fatigue, and felt a futility in the kind of lifelong maintenance required to be alive. He was once overheard at his locker saying, “Ah!, to be neither still nor in motion, neither lying down nor standing up, neither asleep nor awake, neither here nor anywhere else.” The preserving image we have of Carmelo Anthony is of a man standing before a drinking fountain in a city park, watching the water arc out of the spigot but not drinking from it. Lebron James: Lebron James was born near the end of 1984 and has withheld most of his biographical information from the media. What few details have been gathered about him offer a portrait of an absent-minded daydreamer who buried himself in fantasy worlds. One acute visual memory we share of Lebron James is of him standing in the doorway of a modest farmhouse in some vast part of the country, looking at a thunderstorm in the farthest distance. Kobe Bryant once tweeted about Lebron James: You reflect an enormous sky That shimmers in the breeze. How do you not think about everything, 8

Or does everything occur to you all at once? Adept at plying unique personas, Lebron James, throughout his life, continued to subdivide himself into more nuanced identities until he had “passed beyond even the vision of God.” Some say he gave himself the task of propagating within a void in order to relate to and control the pieces in his world. At times he became overwhelmed by the results, when the intersection of selves became too great for him to keep distinct from one another, and he would go shivering into the utility closet under his stairs and stay there until his nerves had settled down. Lebron James knew very little about his childhood, having replaced it with more recent versions of himself, yet he still felt nostalgia for it from time to time. “I don’t know how many of me there are,” he once emailed his agent at 6 AM, “because I’m never the same me.” There’s no one quite like Lebron James, that much I’m sure of, and yet the paradox remains that he is everyone, albeit a more perfect version. He would say that he wrote this text, just as he shovelled the driveway and installed locks on the doors while this text was being written. Lebron James was the greatest singer of his time. This could be attributed to his mother, perhaps, for her devotion to cassette tapes and the radio when he was a child. The last thing we can say about Lebron James is that when he stepped in front of a crowd, it was as if he had an ulterior motive. If you looked closely enough, you may have been able to perceive a tiny flicker of anxiety as he scanned the crowd for someone who shared his true desire. 9

fugitives of speech viii: battle of endor ben pease King Ward coach buses for the away game at Mohawk Regional coach pops in a VHS of The Matrix as Sheer loads his helmet pulled between his shoulder pads into the storage space below Sheer mentally floating about the superlunary in his own Corellian freighter without so much a crew numbers crunching in every star-flecked panel of the sky Sheer’s mind today finding Bate’s analysis of Keats digestible only in terms of massive multiplayer online role playing games (mmorpgs): In attempting to approach the urn in its own terms the imagination has been led at the same time to separate itself still further from the autonomous siege craft approaching Sheer’s position further yet from the forest moon or the sculpted figures with massive potential energy 10

held in check by forces entirely without shut up about Mohawk’s variations on the quarterback option a man is trying to hack himself out of the everyday world The mind is able to develop if not complete the suggestions offered by the urn but most virtual simulations hope only to offer an immersion too compelling and too thorough by the time Neo and Agent Smith spin around each other sidearms blazing landing on the ground with empty gun barrels pointed at one another’s heads there is no doubt the team loves what one can do within a coded infrastructure Sheer finishes his bag of gummy worms and rereads the last parts of his photocopy he underlined whereas no possible fulfillment exists for the figures of the urn apart from what the responsive mind can give them then maybe no possible satisfaction exists for the player’s imagination apart from an increasingly-advanced mastery 11

of the video game world and in this way The Matrix encourages a group of high school football stars from a town known for soccer to revel in a manufactured environment where kicking ass and picking one’s self up again hold all sway Sheer’s wookie jedi sits in a turret cockpit awaiting the oncoming tie fighters and if dies he too will rise again if he flies too hot toward the sun he will rise again if he disconnects and lets the visuals recede to a starry dimness of locked-away numbers just to know that this quiet galaxy waits all around us on this bus even in Sheer’s living room with two lamps some books and unframed pictures of his father

miles britt milewski

He’d wash his hair with motor oil in order to justify any prearrangements. He’d peer endlessly into the sun— his revolution against phone usage. Sin peppered the room like bed bugs. Nobody spoke of his high school rushing records, his perfect three-point shot. Nobody gave a shit. He was a dead young man. He’d had a crisp white shirt and a reputation for being spiritually unsympathetic, for carrying a loaded gun. He’d always wait for people to look the other way. The woods would call to him when he’d run out of eggs. Tonight, it rains. For a moment, he misses the incomplete bars with their gnarly stools, the quiet mounds underneath the bridge where he huffed a peachy air freshener, lit fires with stolen newspaper and drum barrels. But then he thought of the pains of death and how they were minutes away, maybe seconds. When someone asked him any last words, he nodded and continued to nod. “Anything,” asked the executioner. “All I ever did was follow my own advice.” 13

postgame matt l. rohrer

You looked like the 80s that Sunday All bright colors and angular shapes Truong’s voice is always there Telling me not to be lazy The Popovich of poetry The crusty uncle who taught me to play D Isaiah hugged me so hard he bruised my ribs A bear sized boy A boy sized bear In a Post-Sandy world It’s important to be reliable We dug out the basement His clothes covered in sewage Will you please sit in your seat? Will you please just sit in your fucking seat? I’m a big person My poems are big My voice is big I can dunk on the bent rim at Marcy St. This dusty pine floor is a map

The gym was swelling Occupational hazards Isaiahâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s brother set a fire In the fire a little girl died The whistle sings in my heart I hear it always The children make buckets when they move the ball Isaiah reaches into the heavens and pulls down a miss

love poem for jeremy lin anhvu buchanan

I’m ready to feel the love of MSG to dance with you and Landry, comb through the books, put away our glasses, protect our pockets, use our ivy league degrees and ball like no one is watching. You did it, Jeremy. Proved that Asians can drive dribble and dunk winding, contorting, and spinning through the lane there’s ice water in your veins and you’ve thrown the world for an alley oop. Jeremy, there’s a swagger in my step as if I were you leading the fast break as if I were shooting daggers and breaking hearts because of you there’s a spin move with my name on it because of you this time I won’t be the last one picked for pick up. Don’t say Linsanity, Say champion. Say shake and bake. Say threading the needle. Say behind the back, off the backboard, and never the same. And when the ball stops bouncing and the puns are dead and gone just know Jeremy that the couch in my heart will always be for you.

from self help poems sampson starkweather Did I ever tell you about where I lived in grad school? It was the “business” of this bald, mustached scam-artist Bronx guy who was 6-5, 310 pounds, in this apartment complex in Yonkers, overflowing with the accumulated junk of a life, several marriages and about two dozen failed business ventures. His scam du jour when I was there was a “grocery delivery service” and get this, the name of his company was Bag Boys. They had t-shirts and supposedly even a TV commercial on local cable access to the tune of the show Cops: Bag Boys, Bag Boys, watcha gonna do, watcha gonna do when they come for you, Bag Boys... He had a gang of delinquents working for him including my “homeless” roommate, Dirty Steve, who disappeared one day after stealing a jar of $2 bills and rare coins to do his laundry. When Four-Fingered Eddie from Florida, an alcoholic gambling addict with a silver handle-bar mustache moved in with his motorcycle and sometimes-old lady Dee, things really got insane. They came to one of my SLC basketball games, drunk and on glue or something worse, and heckled the other team and hooted obscenities at all the SLC goth kids in the stands. I changed my phone number as soon as I left grad school so none of those crazy fucks could ever call me or track me down. I felt like I’d stumbled into a never-ending episode of the Sopranos and couldn’t get out. It was about a month ago when I finally heard it: I was reading The Savage Detectives with the TV on in the background when I looked up to see some commercial which looked like an 80s video game where a pixilated bald man with a shopping cart bounced around the screen like one of those icons when you leave the DVD player on too long, and coming from what sounded like a blown-speaker, Bag Boys, Bag Boys, whatcha gonna do, whatcha gonna do when we come for you. 17

from city of moths sampson starkweather

Things fit together. Two inconsequential things can combine together to become a consequence. The poem doesn’t exist by itself. Likewise, our fears and desires, our angers and dreams are not unique, they relate, become one and like us, will die if left alone. Did I tell you I was watching Game 2 of the Playoffs between the Detroit Pistons and the Orlando Magic when suddenly there appeared on the screen this skinny little white boy with glasses, a Pistons fan, maybe ten years old, shirtless, standing in the aisle, flexing imaginary muscles, and painted on the entirety of his chest in glittery pink and blue spraypaint was the message, “There’s No Such Thing As Magic” and POOF— you were beside me, naked and in my arms?

pacers at heat,middle of december Seth Landman Here in the head I’ve made a decision the light won’t go on for lack of motion everyone I love get back on defense while I spin the big wheel of good coaching to find hibernating the lumbering imagination my childhood friend it’s been a while since I’ve seen a season unbelievable imagination to extrapolate out from what we’ve seen from a lazybones kind of negative interpretation here in the head since where else do you go in disappointment the future stretching in the living room sprinting the length of the floor to save us

eulogy for the knees of derrick rose MG Martin his mother wailed an entire jungle into burning o sweet ligament rubber cloth of the devil he once stole sweat off of mayonnaise he moved over the wood like the most brash of deli ants he’d twist speed itself & make life into clouds crowds gathered to watch him zig & zag beyond the reach of his own echo he intimidated lightning o sweet ligament rubber cloth of the devil his mother wailed an entire jungle into burning he ran slick as the quickest silver over ice he was the leader of bulls until he exploded the devil’s rubber in one jerky juke cross & jump stop the action kept on as he lay writhing his mother wailed an entire jungle into burning o sweet ligament rubber cloth of the devil & how the bulls mourned at the edge of the ocean & walked out & over the ocean as though the ocean wasn’t ocean as though all dishonor is earned by burning the grief of the ocean a hero can’t fall if his legs have become a colony of gulls o sweet ligament rubber cloth of the devil his mother wailed 20

winners & losers steven karl

Are people exceptionally angry. Either way, leave my shoelaces alone. Full-court pressure. Serious D. The crowd & their cowbells. Stupid music. Live & die by the 3. Taste my ass. Life at both ends of the equation. Other times a hand is so big you need To special order the gloves. Forget the gloves. Just catch the damn ball. Cheerleaders on the bench. One removed from the ra-ra-ras. Adrift in the emptiness. Sometimes the basket is so big itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s like throwing rocks in an ocean. Tell me all about your practice. In my days of skin & bones. My spiral was suspect. My pretzel stale. Swaggerless on the blacktop. My idiot dribble. A palm tree drops its skirt. A hand blocks a ball from a basket. 21

There are helicopters in the sky. Shouting off in the distance. Are those championship horns. Will there be a parade with orchids. You text, the heart is filled with heat. Ok, but will I be late to work. You say, All heart. All ball. I think, All harm. All foul. All on the line. Then itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s all over. Winner. Losers. Whatever. Letâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s grab a couple of beers & waste away into the morning. Friends on opposite ends meet in the middle. Mosquitoes. Be damned.

my chuck evan gill smith

My strain is truce— a nice little pile of light to drop the ball into. This is the nest from which a ringer is born, a cry from inside my pantry with door-knocker earrings. I’m busy at the kitchen table pouring Gatorade over my wounds, using the fructose-steam to make a warm paste from the faded pages of almanacs. My dad is the least silent silent observer. I smear my mix on his visage, a picture on the wall under the decorative wooden cutlery, but there’s still the shot to be made— my chuck, my mop-handle too. The jar collecting vapors breaks. For a moment I glean a ghost— spectral on the rim, rolling, boiling, sinking through. A chalky shadow of a parallel universe 23

where my chutzpah is compacted into a magnet, not a cobra so lonely it curls up in a spittoon.

roster Anhvu Buchanan #7 San Francisco, CA San Francisco State University Sixth Man 5’6” 143 lbs Ben Pease #32 Ludlow, MA University of Massachusetts-Amherst Uber Forward 6’2” 200 something lbs Britt Melewski #9 Hinsdale, IL Rutgers University-Newark Silly Forward 6’0” 190 lbs Christopher Cheney #6 Ware, MA University of Massachusetts-Amherst Shooting Guard 5’10” 160 lbs

Evan Smith #666 Buffalo, NY Brooklyn College Small Forward 6’0” 173 lbs Luke Bloomfield #24 MA University of Massachusetts-Amherst Guard 5’ 11” 75lbs Matt L. Rohrer #1 Concord, CA San Francisco State University Power Forward 6’1.75” 210 lbs MG Martin #11 Waimea, HI San Francisco State University Point Guard 5’9” 155 lbs soaking wet Sampson Starkweather #23 NC Sarah Lawrence College Point Forward 6’1” Weightless

Steven Karl #6 Philadelphia, PA The New School Point Guard 6’1” 180 lbs Seth Landman #33 Sharon, MA University of Massachusetts-Amherst Micro Forward 5’7” 185 lbs