Face

Face


Let me sing an honor song for James Bailey.
A pro hoopster who is mostly forgotten,
but he was still playing pro ball in '83
when he, six-ten and clad in white cotton

And new hightops, rose and blocked my shot
off the court and down the pavement
walkway, bouncing, bouncing, bouncing, and
rolling on a hot August day until it
splashed into Green Lake,

Maybe seventy-five yards away from the
court. That spectacular play shut down the
game. After that humiliation, who can keep
score? One guy asked me,
"What's your name? What's your name?"

Because he wanted to get all the details
"Correct." Two other brothers just ran
away and never returned. I suppose I
failed in some basketball sense, by
thinking of my lame

Spin move running jumper could ever
succeed against a player like Bailey.
But I had game in those days. Skinny
and mean. I could compete on any
court. Or so I thought. How strange

To know, now that I'm old and broken,
how young and foolish I used to be.
James Bailey was only a decent pro,
but I was a runt in his presence.
I'm still a serf, puny

And contrite: "Mr. Bailey, I'm so sorry
I tried to sneak that bullshit into
your house. But, damn, that block of
yours was so pretty. Epic, canonized by
the adoring crowd,

That my embarressment felt like a blessing,
Like a parable teaching me this lesson:
When we hoopsters look into our interior,
we learn we can be gorgeous
and yet inferior."


Sherman Alexie

from his book FACE.