Our bodies spun
On swivels of bone & faith,
Through a lyric slipknot
Of joy, & we knew we were
Beautiful & dangerous...
Last night I realized that Komunyakaa would have written a very different poem if he had instead attended a donkey basketball game.
Dangerous? Maybe, but you wouldn't describe donkey basketball as beautiful, lyrical, elegant, or graceful--or even fluid. Okay, some fluids hit the floor, but the crack team of waste removers cleaned 'em up quickly. Mostly what hit the floor were people's butts. Donkeys may be small, but if they want to get you off their backs, they'll find a way.I don't know how I've made it this far without ever have seen a donkey basketball game, but as I watched I kept wondering who can be credited with inventing the sport, if we can call it a sport. Who first looked at a high school gym with its slick wooden floor flanked by hoops and said, "What this place really needs is a bunch of donkeys! And I know--we'll make the teachers and administrators and even the stray substitute teacher compete against a bunch of students to see who can score the most goals! And we'll charge admission to raise money for some worthy cause! People will pay to see that!"
And they will. Seven dollars apiece! Last night the students won, which shouldn't be any great shock, but I am pleased to report that my adorable husband put aside his pastors' garb and substitute-teaching suit and tie to clamber aboard a donkey and score one-third of the points for his team. (Which sounds pretty impressive until you learn that his team scored only 6 points.)
"Mr. Hogue drives toward the basket!" proclaimed the announcer as my highly dignified spouse nudged his reluctant donkey forward at a glacial pace, through a scrum of students and faculty falling (or being dumped) off their donkeys. He shoots! He scores! The crowd goes wild!
But the donkey plods on, its dignity intact.
No comments:
Post a Comment