In a school gym where the ball bounces loud,
There’s a pick-up game, players standing proud.
The air is thick with sweat and the great roar
Of sneakers skidding on the hardwood floor.
“Watch him close,” a veteran tenders his view
As each team decides who will cover who.
“That guy over there, he seems out of place;
But don’t be fooled by his deceptive face.
He doesn’t look fast and is somewhat short,
But when he gets started, man, he holds court.
It’s not in his height and not in his might,
But the way he strikes in a heated fight.”
“He may not look like much,” said with a grin.
“He’s slow to the eye, but resolved to win.
But that teammate just shrugs, slacks off his man.
Though that one looks harmless, he’s has a plan.
A dribble, a move, opponent’s in plight,
A feint to the left, then dash to the right.
That unassuming guy moves smooth as silk,
Knows how to play and surely drinks his milk.
A shot comes from nowhere, the ball sails high,
And just like that, the lead starts to die.
In the game of life, sometimes it’s clear,
It’s not the first glance that may cause fear.
For skill may not always overtly show
In those who deliver the final blow.
© 1998, Kenneth Koziol. All rights reserved.
