I’ve posted this poem of mine in this space before, but seems apropos for the day. This time, however, I encourage you to spice it up — maybe drop some beats in your mind for "optimal flow." (I’m over 30… but trying desperately to stay hip with the lingo and such.) Oh, and GO BUTLER!
A Night at Hinkle
The ball is tipped into the air;
Hot dogs, popcorn, standard fare.
Tho not so standard are the seats;
The years, the tears, and few defeats.
Bulldogs running stride for stride;
King Bulldog barking from the side.
Yet even he must leave behind
The pensive thoughts that grace his mind
Of so much history in one place –
The challengers, the goods, the greats.
One feels so pleasured by the presence
Of ghosts who haunt these hardwood heavens.
All these years since Mr. Hoover,
In our hearts, we’ll never lose her.
Plump’s last shot a great surprise;
College kids and college tries.
Unprivileged are those who must
Play their games in fancy-fussed
Arenas, gyms that feel so plastic;
Too much shine seems so bombastic.
I’ll take this place any day –
This sculpture almost made of clay,
So perfect every last detail,
In black & white, her walls regale.
For one thousand stars that twinkle,
I wouldn’t trade one night at Hinkle.