You Don't Have to Say You Love Me

This is called a tantrum and I’m supposed

To throw the fucking ball through the fucking Floor. Of course, nobody is strong enough To actually break the floor. But we must want To break the floor. We must attempt to break The floor. We must need to break the floor.



So a few days after my mother’s death, I tantrum that fucking ball fifteen times.

I need to throw it through the floor. I need To throw it through the wall. I need to break Down my muscles and rebuild them again.





Second Set


And then I rest and marvel at how hard This simple exercise works my shoulders And back and arms and legs. I’m out of breath As I think of my mother’s funeral

And how fucking childish I felt



As I looked at all of the mourners—

My fellow Spokane Indians—and realized How desperately I’d always wanted

To be beloved by them. And how unloved I’d always felt. Yeah, my mom was dead

But I was more worried about my life.

Angry at my narcissism, I grab

That exercise ball and tantrum the thing Fifteen more times. I want to throw

That ball through the walls I’d created...





Third Set


Between me and my tribe. I didn’t belong Because maybe I never wanted

To belong. When everybody else danced and sang, I silently sat in my room with books, Books, and books. I used books for self-defense

And as stealth bombers: I am better than you Because I have read more books than you; I am Beloved by these books; I am beloved by words.

Ah, bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. I tantrum That ball fifteen more times. Can I break

The earth itself and throw this fucking ball Through the crust, mantle, and core? No, no, No, no. I grow weaker with each throw. I stop.

I stagger. I surrender to the invincible floor, This Indian boy can’t tantrum anymore.





145.





The End of a Half-Assed Basketball Career




As a teenager, I was a basketball star, I suppose, But only on a dozen or so Indian reservations And in twenty or thirty white farm towns.

I was good enough to be the ninth man



On an average community college team, if I’d chosen That route, but I took the academic scholarships To a Jesuit college instead, played intramural hoops, And dominated fellow students who could’ve been

The tenth and eleventh men on a CC squad,

If they’d chosen that route instead of the books.

Then I drank myself away from the Catholics

To the public land grant university,



Where I learned how to write free verse poems.

I sobered up but never stopped playing ball.

And was probably better at age twenty-eight

Than I’d ever been. I helped my teams win



City league championships in Spokane

And Seattle. And once scored 55 in an all-Indian game Where my team lost by 100 points. I played street ball Against pro and college players and was humiliated

By my superiors only four or five hundred times.

I once blocked John Stockton’s fast break lay-in, An impetuous play that enraged and energized him.

He guarded me so closely and scored on me so easily

For the next ten minutes that I had to surrender and walk Off the court. I was always slow and unorthodox And only scored because I learned how to take and make Shots from ridiculous angles. I played an old man’s game

When I was twelve so I thought I would play forever.

But I hurt my back in 2002 and hurt it again and again and Again for the next fourteen years. And then I broke my mouth Playing hoops. And then I broke my hand. And then,

In December 2015, I had brain surgery to remove a benign tumor.

And then, in August 2016, I again collapsed to the floor With a back spasm and wept with pain. When that spasm ended, I stood and knew I would never play hoops again.



Chronic bad backs have ended the basketball careers Of infinitely greater athletes than me (Tracy McGrady, for one), So I didn’t feel bad about my body’s decline. Instead, I shrugged and wondered what smaller sport I would learn

How to play. How strange to be fifty years old and still be In search of a new game. A few months after my quiet Retirement, I don’t miss playing much, if at all. Instead, I realize that my basketball obsession had limited me

In certain ways. I see that certain friends were only My friends because of basketball. So I’ve ended Those friendships because they aren’t nurturing Off the court. I want to say that I’ll have more

Free time for other friends and family but, in truth, It means I will spend more time in solitude.

I played basketball like others practiced religion.

I was a single-minded monk. And now, I am



A basketball agnostic. I still love to watch LeBron And Curry and Durant, but I don’t daydream

About when I will play next. I don’t need to pray That I won’t get hurt. I don’t need to pray



That I will hit a few pretty shots, make a few prettier Assists, grab a few rebounds, and maybe make one Great defensive play. Better yet, I don’t have to lie Awake in the night and rewind the three hours

Of shitty basketball I just played. I don’t carry around The shame about my hoops decrepitude. I no longer Have to uselessly flail against the younger friends who are So much better than me. I no longer have to sit and sit

And sit and sit because the losers always sit.

I still shoot hoops by myself. I know, one day, I’ll be the old man who surprises

His grandkids by hitting ten long set shots in a row.



And, hey, this is a poem less about basketball And more about mortality. I will soon have to give up Other things, like walking steep stairs, like driving A car, like sex. And, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes,

I will eventually look at a blank piece of paper Or blank computer screen and realize that I’ve run out Of words. I will smile, shed a tear, walk outside, Sit on my porch, and misidentify the local birds.





146.





When I Die




Bury me in my city. Bury me

Near the hospitals where my sons were born.

Bury me near the parks, pools, and playgrounds Where they learned to crawl, walk, run, swim, and climb.



Bury me near the rooms

Where my sons admired

And doubted me. Entomb



My body near the libraries and bookstores Where folks listened to my stories and poems— Where my words were mostly celebrated And sometimes ignored. Bury me upright

Near a taxi stand, train stop, and bus line.

Bury me near one thousand restaurants, Good and bad. Bury me close to my friends, Alive, dying, and dead. Bury me where

I’ll get visited at least once a week— Okay, once a month or bimonthly,

At least. Bury me facing north, east,

South, or west, I don’t have a preference, Religious or otherwise. Bury me

Next to my wife. Oh, damn, it hurts and hurts

To say this, but if I’m the first to go Then bury me within walking distance Of my home, so that my wife, my widow, Can stroll over and keep me company.



Maybe she’ll marry again. Maybe she won’t.

But whatever happens, bury me near her.

Please, please, let me be her favorite ghost.





147.





Filtered Ways


Sherman Alexie's books