Weaving Down the Court
March 2003:
A
night to remember, not cliché but numinous, wild and unpredictable . . . neither quite game nor “reality”:
David
by her side, cell phone carrying voices over flies down court to fulfill his mission. On
split screen, streaming like tears on the sandy horizon.
A
three-pointer, a two; pains getting closer together as
March
madness invades the Garden, while in the desert, men drop from the sky, not gently from the silk folds of the wombs of women, but torn by helicopter blades,
shouting, “God is on our side,
God
is on our side.”
No
surprise then that romance begged from background music, becomes so charming it is discordant,
slides into a spirit band salute,
a
tin drum cavalcade beating out the rhythm of nine months labor:
Amani,
Ella, Ibrahim, Yusef, Davis, Parker . . .
A
convergence of cries, born of a miracle of precision, luminous like a clock, numbers mounting in crazed dedication
to causes invented in bushes, or dark caverns of ego, yet each cry a call, each call a reminder:
This
is not a staging.
This
is the real thing.
This
will be death or birth. The
night of the |