We venture into this hall of gods.
The smell of wax and leather permeate the air.
Swish!
Every shot drops.
It’s like all of the immortals of the game blessed you for once.
Finally, I can be like Mike or Olajuwon.
Anybody can be like their idol.
I move like Pistol Pete Maravich.
I control the ball like a magician.
Never lose control, never drop it.
The ball is a bullet that never misses its target.
The rim shines like a brand new car.
Every basketball legend watching from above in their ring of immortality.
All the best memories surrounding you like a heavenly arena.
The court is an escape, providing excitement to the young,
and nostalgia to the old.
As my time draws to a close, my son looks up to me and says,
“Can we stay longer?”
And I tell him,
“We can’t stay now, but when you grow older,
we will be standing here congratulating you because you will be sharing the spotlight with all the gods.”