Poem: [Explicit] Something About a Middle-Age Man, a Kid, and Basketball Tryouts

Something About a Middle-Age Man, a Kid, and
Basketball Tryouts

Fuck this shit. 
Fuck it all. 
Fuck it dead, 
go and fetch
the paddles,
zap it back
to life, and
fuck it dead
one more time.

There’s no way
he was one
of the worst
eight kids there.
He took third
place in your
shooting drill.
The coach took
second place. 

He had more
rebounds than
any kid
in the gym.
He was the
only one
to dive for
a loose ball
on the court.

And somehow
you have the
gall to say
he wasn’t
in the top
two-thirds of
the kids there?
What the fuck’s
happening?

You mean to
tell me with
a straight face
that the top
two-third kids
are the four
coach’s sons
and all their
closest friends?

Fuck that shit.
Once again,
I cannot
state just how
serious
I am when
I say to
go and fuck
yourselves raw. 

You say that
I can’t get
upset ‘cause
these dads are
volunteers.
Like that is
proof that we’re
not getting
screwed over?

Well, no one
paid us to
show up for
your tryout,
while the kids
of coaches
seem to be
benefiting
quite nicely.

Don’t tell me
these are some
unselfish,
martyr dads.
That’s bullshit.
They got what
they wanted
from this sham
audition.

When I think
of them all
standing there
in stupid
athleisure
joggers and
shiny shirts
with Nike
golf hats on…

When I think
of their bro
chats about
high finance,
and how their
son, Liam,
gets private
coaching to
up his game…

I start to
walk around
with balled fists
looking to
fight someone.
I want to
make them choke
on their own
goddamn teeth.

Who are they
to judge us?
Who are they
to say that
we don’t get
a seat at
their table
because of
our last name?

Who are they
to tell me
that though I
have many
impressive
qualities,
I am not
the right man
for the job?

Why is it
so hard to
find a place
where people
will let you
work for them?
Why can’t I
find someone
who wants me?

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