jordan pushes off at the top of the key
guilty
and buries it.

we watched the ‘98 NBA Finals on bunny ears.
i hid them behind the tv,
bent them towards the sweet spot—
not just for the signal,
for the shame.

less embarrassing that way,
in that middle-class neighborhood where we rented an apartment,
with friends over,
and no cable.

my parents said they cut it
to save money.
truth is, i think the company did.
same week the priest came by
with the bread and peanut butter.
charity—just not the staticky kind.

if i could go back
maybe i’d say something like
“fuck big cable,”
talk about corporate tyranny.
but that unusually warm night in ‘98—
everyone was watching channel 5
public access,
so it didn’t matter much.
the signal came in pretty clear.
and that felt rich to me.

-

i didn’t know much,
but i knew we were poor.
poor feels like something spilled on the only shirt that fits right.
it hurts.

and even though some had it worse,
you notice things,
like how adults whisper
about you
right in front of you,
like you’re too young to notice.

kids do too—
and they know better.

—

but now my son
stays up late
watching the NBA Finals like i did once,
Thunder, Pacers, 2025
on a flatscreen the size of a compact car.

every app.
every game.
still no cable.

“fuck big cable,” i said.

Halliburton was on a tear this year,
until he tore his achilles.
but that game one last-second shot?

—good.

first one in the Finals since Jordan.

don’t sleep on the underdog.

—

a few years later
mom and dad moved us to the city.
and poor kids there
had every channel—
including premium,
and porn too.

“they call it a black box,”
the kid said.
“we steal the cable.
pretty sick, right?”

-

don’t sleep on ants marching either.