Before a crowd of 10,000
we watched the fifth game at Pier 17.
The guy next to me was from Astoria.
He told me golf was his favorite
sport, because he loved the lawns.
A black kid said he wanted the upstate
residential college experience,
and his knees hurt from bball.
June 13th, we spent the day
looking for Swedish candy.
Everyone was wearing a Knicks jersey,
even in tiny parks such as Seward.
That night, Brunson took out Wemby
by using his size advantage.
He could get a quicker start
with Hezis; he could start and stop.
Wemby jerked around on baby giraffe legs.
Growing frustrated, he mushed Brunson.
The crowd began to hate the French giant.
FU, Wemby, was heard, as the giant got the whistle again.
Frustration grew, and the kid next to me said that
a Spurs teen had been put in a coma at the MSG location.
I tried to find that on my phone, but I couldn’t.
We hated the Goliath, but remembered he was 22,
So we loved the mature Brunson as he wove in and out,
and stopped the questionable flopping
of the previous year.
This year, he drove like a barracuda,
his head was sheathed like a woodpecker.
He had the strength of ten gorillas.
He went in like a kingfisher,
but more than all that he was human.
He married young and loved his child.
His wife was there for him.
We loved that he was an American
and had seemingly no hatred for the Spurs.
He said in many ways he preferred Texas
because the taxes in NY were so terrible.
His friendship with Kat and Anunobe,
his laughter with Bridges and Hart,
his wearing of the helmet to avoid
eye sting from champagne;
We loved it all, as orange and blue prevailed!
Kirby Olson is a poet who lives in the Catskills and who occasionally visits the city. He plays adult basketball and isn't very good. His most recent book of poetry is called Night Shift at the Utopian Turtletop Factory (Half-Inch, 2026).
