The duller players dribble in and under
the net, but not number 10, the thin wisp
of glory who stands outside the key
and shoots three-pointers as easy as kids
spitting seeds from their watermelon.
There’s that joy they share: heads tilted back
to follow the long-arced trajectory,
the satisfied grin on the hit.

At his last basket the crowd stands and shouts
“Swish,” both his trademark and nickname,
not so much for the net, still shivering
from the touch of the ball, but for a shyness
he doesn’t explain in the showers
and locker room, his avoidance
of post-basket butt-slapping
and courtside pats on the back.

After the win, after the last stinging
towel has unraveled in the changing room,
number 10 breaks away from the team
to celebrate. In a rented room, his boyfriend
watches him lift on his toes, left arm
extended to mimic the clincher. The replay
complete, he stands there all naked and smiles.
His lover makes a hoop with his arms,
an empty embrace his star player
deftly steps forward to fill.

Hugh Coyle