Joe Benevento
AFTER THE BOYS GOADED ME AND RICKY IRIZARRY INTO A FIST FIGHT
it all starting when Ricky hit my hatted head with a lit match,
one of many he was flinging just for fun as we exited
the Parish Hall after Thursday night basketball practice
for St. Teresa’s eight grade team. He meant no harm, but everyone’s
reaction, all the “Wow, man, you gonna take that?” questions they delivered
pressured me at least to comment, “You gotta be more careful, man,”
which I punctuated with the slightest push on his chest. Silly Ricky
waited until I turned away before pushing back, just as gently, so
I had to push our problem further by facing
him as I again made contact.
After the third time he waited to push me in the back,
the boys phony indignation reaching each time further
for crescendo, Ricky made it impossible for us not to fight.
All our teammates, black, white and Puerto Rican, united
as they rarely were, in love with the way this game was unfolding
with more drama than any overtime, framed us into hitting
each other’s faces, our winter gloves the only cover for
our bare fists, our lack of skill or style no stop to the joy
our pals procured, seeing their two back up centers contend
way harder than we ever managed on the court. I fought furious,
my rage making me immune to the hard shots I received,
caught up in all the things I hated, none of them named
Ricky Irizarry, so when they took us under the Parish Hall lights,
to judge who had delivered the better beating, I was declared
the winner, though, always a little smarter than poor Ricky,
I understood by how much I had lost.
Joe Benevento has fourteen books to his credit, including, Expecting Songbirds: Selected Poems, 1983-2015. He teaches creative writing and American literature at Truman State and is the poetry editor for the Green Hills Literary Lantern.