The Southeast Review Online

Two Things You Need Balls to Do: A Miscellany from a Former Professional Basketball Player Turned Poet

by Natalie Diaz

The basketball court = the page

Buzzer-beaters and miracle shots are non-existent in poetry—every poem I’ve desperately heaved into the mail with more prayer than craft or confidence has been off the mark.

Uniforms:

You need one to play pro ball.

Vs.

You can write in only your undies, or in just an Allman Brothers Concert t-shirt, or better yet, nothing more than your housecoat and dark socks, sans sports bra…no one cares.

Once you’re issued a uniform on a professional basketball team, you’re an official professional.

Vs.

Until you publish a book, you’re in a developing league, i.e. playing for love of the game.

You can exaggerate, embellish, imagine or lie about what happens in a poem.

Vs.

In basketball, a man or woman in stripes will blow a whistle that means, ‘Yeah, right. You know you slapped her arm. I saw you.’
Basketball, like poetry, is a universal language, but not yet like fiction and fútbol, but we’re working on it.

Traveling: (a) in poetry is encouraged, (b) in basketball will land you on the bench.

Sitting: (a) again, highly encouraged in poetry, (b) not so great in basketball, regardless of whether it’s a bench or a chair.

Solitariness: (a) a must for writing poetry, (b) technically speaking, it’s not possible to play basketball alone (however, some people are much better when they have no opponent).

Suicides: (a) not good for poets, ever, (b) never good for basketball players either.

Fouls = Rejection Letters

BUT in poetry, you don’t have to keep track of the # you accumulate, which is a good thing for some of us. (In the event there is a rejection letter limit, please, I’d rather not know.)

The Matter of Rejection Letters: Sure they hurt. They bruise the ego a little. This is where basketball comes in handy—remember ‘No Blood, No Foul,’ and, ‘You’re either hurt, or you’re injured.’ If your fingers aren’t broken, if your nose isn’t bleeding, get out there. Plus, getting your 3-pt shot blocked (a.k.a. rejected, stuffed, packed, denied, shut down, faced, etc.) into the 3rd row by Chamique Holdsclaw in the NCAA Finals, in front of over 30,000 people, and on national TV, is so-much-worse than having the New Yorker reject you quietly, politely, and over the privacy of your email. Another thing, in basketball, no one will give you cryptic pointers about your shot, like ‘Memorable, but needs culling.’

Injuries:

I tore my ACL, meniscus, and MCL (the unhappy triad), fractured my leg and wrist, severed a blood vessel under my eye socket, had numerous concussions, many jambed fingers, dislocated a shoulder, gritted through IT-Band Syndrome and cortisone shots, pulled muscles, sprained ankles that I still have nightmares about—all playing basketball.

Vs.

Once, I was rushing to the post office to make a post-mark deadline and I stubbed my toe on the curb out front. Similarity:

The cost of basketball shoes, which need to be replaced every 3 months, is equal to the amount you’ll spend on contests.

Which brings me to contests:

For those of us ‘retirees,’ the absence of the thrill of competition has left us hungry and desperate. I am, to my detriment, a contest junkee, often foregoing open submissions because I’m determined to win something, ANYTHING, one last time. It’s not the prize money I’m after, it’s the word: Winner.

I’ve stooped so low as to only apply for fellowships at universities that my college basketball team beat during my playing days. If I’m rejected, at least I have the satisfaction of knowing that, one time, not long ago, I was the winner.

Another similarity: I used to be a champ at playing H-O-R-S-E and recently I wrote a poem about a horse.

Nostalgia:

I know I can’t fill the void that basketball has left, but some days when I rise from my desk chair and feel shooting pain in my knees (which are not yet thirty in poetry years, but in basketball years are ancient) and creaking in other joints, I recognize these aches as close to what I once had. And every now and then, I let go of a line or an image and know instantly, as soon as it rolls from the curve of my mind or my gut, that it’s going in, that it won’t rattle around the rim, it won’t brick-up and fall short or bounce too hard from the backboard, that it won’t fall flat on the page…and it’s smooth and sure and turns the net to flames, and as much as I want to stand and watch it, and pat myself on the ass for how beautiful it is, I know I have to keep moving on down the page.

Natalie Diaz was born and raised in the Fort Mojave Indian Village in Needles, California. She played professional basketball in Europe and Asia before returning to Old Dominion University to pursue an MFA in poetry and fiction. Her work can be found in North American Review, Pearl Magazine, and Touchstone.

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