These three poems by Matthew Johnson delve into the realm of athletics to explore the humanity behind the spectacle of sports, reminding his readers that beneath the thrill of competition and the bravado of champions, lies a space of vulnerability, tragedy, struggle, and potential redemption…
by: Matthew Johnson
Michael Jordan Continues to Talk Trash
That famous, scathing tongue,
Singed in the forehead of teammates he caught dogging it at practice,
And romanticized on breakaway slams in bedroom posters across the world,
Remained as incensed and impatient after five, victorious NBA Finals
As if he was still that young, angry dog barking at Xavier McDaniel
In the ‘92 Eastern Conference Semis.
Everything was gravy for Michael Jordan entering the 1997-98 season:
Outlasting Bird and Magic.
Overwhelming Clyde, Charles, and Patrick.
Burying Isaiah and the Bad Boy Pistons.
He had done it all: every conceivable accomplishment,
And of course, the championships,
And not to mention, attaining icon status
For an entire globe and generation.
There was no more to prove that he had mastered the sport of basketball,
But there was always to be competition found on the parquet,
So even at this point, on the brink of retirement,
He does it because he could always invent a dragon to slay.
Here Comes Night
Light had not faded from the airspace
When the first pitch was thrown,
But after ten innings of World Series baseball,
It’s well past midnight at Shea Stadium,
And at this ungodly hour,
The baseball gods are at their cruelest,
Or most lenient,
Depending on what side of the dugout you’re on.
By the end of the greatest game
Every person in this stadium was a part of and witnessed,
Bill Buckner is Prometheus bound,
Reliving replays of slow rollers that go between his legs, forever,
And the Red Sox go on to chase after uncatchable suns,
As night comes in for the Mets.
The Manassas Mauler on the Canvas - a Painting
The painting, and the fight it captures in oil,
Marks the Wild West days of a Wild West game.
It’s the 1920s in the Polo Grounds,
And there are rumors that Al Capone might be in attendance,
As he is one, never too far from violence.
The audience, and soon, the artist, George Bellows,
Catch Jack Dempsey being flung from the ring by Luis Firpo,
Despite it looking more like a shove than a punch
If you were to watch the grainy footage.
The painting does not tell the entire arc of these two men,
As the standing Firpo would lose the match,
And the falling Dempsey becomes the icon,
At times, the most famous athlete in Babe Ruth’s America.
Fighters falling through the ropes is always an uneasy sight,
The equivalent of a pitcher tripping on the rubber,
But there is humanity in seeing the best of boxers out of rhythm,
As if he was one of us up there, and there is also a moment
To contemplate, as the writers lift him back into the ring;
We’re just too close to so much destruction.
Matthew Johnson is the author of the poetry collections, Shadow Folks and Soul Songs (Kelsay Books), Far from New York State (NYQ Press), and the chapbook, Too Short to Box with God (Finishing Line Press). His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The African American Review, Front Porch Review, London Magazine, and elsewhere. He has been recognized with Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize nominations, a scholarship from the Hudson Valley Writers Center, a residency from Sundress Publications, and as a finalist in Grand View University’s Diverse Voices Book Award. He’s the managing editor of The Portrait of New England and poetry editor of The Twin Bill. Read more at matthewjohnsonpoetry.com.
