"I'll know I'm getting old,"
the father said,
"when you beat me."
The son dribbled the ball
atop the key.
They stood there in the street,
hoop at the curb
in front of the small house,
just enough light catching
the rim and net.
Barely double the son's age,
They played often,
after dinner nights,
after chores on weekends.
The games were all.
K, old man, the son thought,
juking left, then,
hard step and drive right.
The father's hand shot out,
to steal the ball.
Seven straight Js later,
and game once more.
Beating the dad, turns out
Required much more work.
The dude had game.
He had earned a free ride
in the sixties
to college, but in one
final high school quarter,
that dream ended.
Scholarships vanished when
cartilage tore then.
Recovery as unclear
As a cancer fight'd be
in his fifties.
The son graduated high
school and college,
married, and the street games
became some casual,
easy shoot-arounds.
Father died and his son,
in the casket
put a ball for next time.
"Never beat you, Dad, and
you never got old."
