Pistol Pete

In your youth you drew

from your hip to

add momentum to your

undersized frame

and they called you Pistol.

As a Tiger they chased your tail

while you developed the pass

and shot of a carnival act

the ball an extension of your limbs

setting marks that will never be broken.

On the Hawks you soared down the court

your long socks hanging off your ankles

your long hair flopping with your gait

the anguish of losing forever

frozen on your face.

With the Jazz you conducted

beautiful music with your hands

the seats were your orchestra

always full and singing as you

turned sport into entertainment.

You brought the Celtics your

last bit of luck with knees

that wouldn’t bend, a perm

that wouldn’t straighten and

teasing the three point line.

There will always be immortal stories

of you spinning a ball for hours

dribbling out the window of a moving car

playing a church game with a bad heart

until the buzzer sounded forever dead at 40.