Old Basketball Hoop by Paul Hostovsky
the circle of an empty embrace for those same children who are done being children
Old Basketball Hoop
This abandoned post on the edge of the driveway, holding up the backboard and the rim for more than twenty years now in the same rusted pose, like a monument to my children’s childhoods, which I pass beneath every day on my way to work, this memorial to H-O-R-S-E, and Around the World, and nothing-but-net, a metal net that went KA-CHING, a sound so rich and gratifying, whenever we scored a basket, and it still tinkles softly when the wind blows through it, though no one has taken a shot in years. The whole contraption with its frozen posture reminds me a little of myself– still holding out, still holding up the circle of an empty embrace for those same children who are done being children, who have moved away and won’t be moving back. It’s a little sad and a little ridiculous, frankly, that a whole sandbox of sand that once upon a time I poured into that hollow base– so the whole thing wouldn’t tip over– is still sitting quietly inside just waiting for those children to come out and play.
Of course I read this the day I drop my only at school for the first day of his last year of elementary school. It goes so fast. I love the tone of this poem and the image is so clear and singular.
That "circle of an empty embrace" makes me think of being the basket, holding my arms out for them in the shape of the basket, even moving so that their ball goes in, what a body does for love.