It's Not Just A Game by Amy Cotter

Red confetti dances across the screen.

The sudden rush of free falling takes over,

as I find myself soaring through the room;

my dad the pilot of my sport fandom.

Like a snake I slither from his tight grasp

To kneel before the television set

searching with the camera through the crowd

in hopes of just one glimpse of him: Michael.

Number twenty-three, Air Jordan, High Airness

all nicknames that I know quite well, since then.

For there was one thing on my mind at the time

“She wants to be like Mike” my dad had said.

The bumps push up against my fingertips

with each flick of the wrist as it launches

through the spring air. I hold my breath, waiting.

Ears anticipating the sudden snap

of the net breaking free from its prison

that the moss had formed the winter before.

“Nothing but net” instead was what I heard.

The Jersey accent still noticeable

from the older man that stood before me,

as it echoed out of his six foot frame.

The deck in the backyard where I practiced,

was the new place where he enjoyed his game.

Wondering if Michael Jordan was still

The goal I would seek, after all these years.

The Trail Blazer fad never had fazed me.

The Bulls hold a higher place in my heart.

For my dad taught me all there is to know,

of being a true fan to basketball.