Only Seat in the House
Christopher Dean Heine
When the Ball Quits Bouncing
the extreme tenets of competition reeling around the globe
in high-speed spy chases for the sake of our very own
American lives, sports talk reeks of greed. Big bosses
are whispering everywhere and Paul Simon’s DiMaggio is
little to be found. Springsteen is supposed to seal the
deal by telling us we shall overcome, but the commercialism
of it all, simply, knocks reality-fearing children upside
their temples. Can we listen to Greetings From Asbury
Park in the same way? None of us really have much
time anymore to care; but, yes, I believe, we can.
Yet, I think of dead people
and what their contribution to the current game might
be. What would Babe Ruth, Lucille Ball, Martin Luther
King and Jesus Jones have to say about right here, right
now? Would their words entertain? (Not Jones.) But you
know they would all sell ads, for Christ’s sake. Ask the
Red Cross. All culture -- tragedy and sport included --
is entertainment and as green as $100 bills.
David had his lions.
Queen Victoria looked into
a mirror long enough until no man was big enough.
Napoleon and Hitler had
eyes bigger than their stomachs.
God knows that it’s not
out-of-the-question to guess that the late Wilt Chamberlain
done fucked himself into an early death. Twenty thousand
women, after all, is an average that exceeds a new one
every so hour for some long length of time. His multi-faceted
life of happiness, pleasure, desperation and sadness just
might be the bile of America. And, what other kind of
man would need to score 100 freaking points in one game
to … a-hem … measure himself against history.
all sells. You might be right here with me right now because
we are bombing the bejeezus out of Afghanistan. As a resident
of New York City, I say, good and well. Harbor this, fine
gents. I have seen Ground Zero and the Pentagon first
hand. You want to dance…someone’s got to pay the fiddler.
But rage and revenge
these days are neither fishes nor vowels. We don’t know
what those hijackers got us into, do we? Anybody got one
of those eight balls? Shake it and tell me something,
please; for the night skies and day clouds are all mud-yellow
out my way. Three months after Tragedy Day, my paranoia
seems ongoing. Christmas is on the horizon, and so is
fear for all who travel or think. Any Judeo-Christians
reading out there, right here, right now? Meanwhile, Kennedy’s
moon glow, the idea of better highways, the obligation
of beating Japan at our own game and cheaper canned food
have all been delayed and replaced by the usurping of
uncertainty via no-terror with entertainment and blind
faith in footballs, baseballs and incoming basketballs.
When the business of infrastructure is hushed in this
country, it is bad news or 1863. Sport, no doubt, makes
us forget about the industries that might or may not help
or haunt us.
Though, the ball
does bounce. Every single one does, unless it is dead
and out of air. This ball seems to have a little life
in it yet. That’s why we still watch CNN when we can,
With all that said,
and American optimism yet at least momentarily ushered
to the fringe, please forget the Roman Empire…think about
Wilt the Stilt. If he unfortunately happens to be our
metaphor, it’s been quite a ride, but the fast pace that
built our giganticness would also have an end unthinkably
near in sight.
Hopefully, the old
goal speaks and this sudden mean horizon is but a mirage.
Fuck ‘em, baby. Fuck
‘em until they lay still and done.