Game Seven
No time on the clock
Down by one

He steps to the line
His muscles ache
His heart pounds

Fifteen thousand fans
Sweat with him
Exhausted lungs
Urge him on

He steps back
Rubs his hands
Along the bottom
Of his sneakers

Wipes his forehead
With one finger
Breathes in
Deeply

The camera focuses
Millions in living rooms
Across the globe
Zoom in

The ref tosses him the ball
He stands
Alone
Fifteen feet from the hoop

The crowd grows silent
Anxious
Hoping

He takes the ball
Pounds it to the parquet floor
Once
Twice
Once again

Stares
At the back of the rim

"He dips ... he shoots ...
Swish!"

The crowd shrieks
And
Catches its breath
Tie game

He steps back again
Rubs his hands
Along the bottom
Of his sneakers

Wipes his forehead
With one finger
Breathes in
Deeply

Takes the ball
Pounds it to the parquet floor
Once
Twice
Once again

Stares
At the back of the rim

"He dips ... he shoots ...
Around the rim ...
it hangs there ...
it ...
drops in!"

Pandemomium

A mob rushes
To hug him
The old building shakes

Ecstasy
He runs to nowhere
Jumping
Screaming

World Champions
World Champions

Through the din and roar
He hears a voice
Calling for him
Calling out into the darkness of Indiana

"Come on in, Larry, it's getting late."

Little Larry steps back
Rubs his hands
Along the bottom
Of his sneakers

Wipes his forehead
With one finger
Breathes in
Deeply

"I'm coming."


- Bob Miller