rick green
28th Jul 2005, 21:33
In youth, I idolized Hakeem the Dream
Olajuwon, Nigeria’s favorite son
(Or so I guessed). He grew up a handball
Player in steamy Lagos. The city park
Resounded with his puissant smashes, banked
Off walls. He ruled as if a king at court
(Or so the legend runs). A scout, to court
This gentle giant, speaks about undreamed-
Of wealth. To a youth without his own bank
Account it seems a joke. He’s a good son
Though, and signs the papers, then bids the park,
Family & friends, and also handball
(It had no future) farewell. Basketball
Will be his world: a cosmos & a court
Of unfamiliar laws. But Houston’s parks
Are like the one he visits in his dreams:
Concrete cracked, run-down & shabby. The sun
Still rises in the East. And the brown banks
Of Buffalo Bayou—the only banks
In the Bayou City untouched by (wrecking ball,
Strike them down!) engineers—remind the son
Of Niger’s flood that home, Houston of court
And hoop or steamy Lagos, is a dream.
Our real home’s across the river, a park
Of light & love eternal. Oh! mystic park
My home, how I long to return where bank-
Shots never miss and all can dunk—what dreams
I’ve had of celestial basketball!
But I digress. Let’s leave that golden court
And its saintly players for now. The sun
Has light enough for Hakeem & me—sons
Of the same God. Once, at a water-park,
I saw him, so much bigger off the court
Than on—he scarcely fit the slides; their banked
Turns must have offered little thrill. My ball
Was in the car. I imagined the Dream
Signing it for my son. Then to the bank—
Not the park—we’d go deposit that ball.
Better not court disaster with that dream.
Olajuwon, Nigeria’s favorite son
(Or so I guessed). He grew up a handball
Player in steamy Lagos. The city park
Resounded with his puissant smashes, banked
Off walls. He ruled as if a king at court
(Or so the legend runs). A scout, to court
This gentle giant, speaks about undreamed-
Of wealth. To a youth without his own bank
Account it seems a joke. He’s a good son
Though, and signs the papers, then bids the park,
Family & friends, and also handball
(It had no future) farewell. Basketball
Will be his world: a cosmos & a court
Of unfamiliar laws. But Houston’s parks
Are like the one he visits in his dreams:
Concrete cracked, run-down & shabby. The sun
Still rises in the East. And the brown banks
Of Buffalo Bayou—the only banks
In the Bayou City untouched by (wrecking ball,
Strike them down!) engineers—remind the son
Of Niger’s flood that home, Houston of court
And hoop or steamy Lagos, is a dream.
Our real home’s across the river, a park
Of light & love eternal. Oh! mystic park
My home, how I long to return where bank-
Shots never miss and all can dunk—what dreams
I’ve had of celestial basketball!
But I digress. Let’s leave that golden court
And its saintly players for now. The sun
Has light enough for Hakeem & me—sons
Of the same God. Once, at a water-park,
I saw him, so much bigger off the court
Than on—he scarcely fit the slides; their banked
Turns must have offered little thrill. My ball
Was in the car. I imagined the Dream
Signing it for my son. Then to the bank—
Not the park—we’d go deposit that ball.
Better not court disaster with that dream.