I was adept at guzzling quart bottles 
of Colt .45. Before the era of the 40 oz. 
Some called them G.I. Q's—I thought it
was military but meant Great Imperial Quart. 
Perhaps you knew that, or perhaps you never rode 
the bench. Rode implies skill, as in rode a horse. 
I sat far from the coach, close to the door. 

Somebody claimed a hole in the janitor's closet
exposed the girl's locker room. I never found it.
But with time on my hands, or in close proximity
to my hands, it was something to imagine.
Like who designed that jolting buzzer for substitutions 
or timeouts or one-and-one situations.
 I wanted a one-on-one situation. On the bench
I had a clear shot at the cheerleaders 
cross court. I wanted them on my side, sticking 
their cute little butts in my face. I deserved
to ride the bench with an attitude like that. 

They gave me number 51. Never accept 51. 
Quit first. Or try to trade down.  
The referee's hand signaled a foul on me: 
5 fingers, then 1. I fouled as often as possible 
during my 67 seconds, my 51 seconds. 
My mop-up role. I got saddle sores, and just plain 
sore, so I began guzzling Colt before games 
and burping in the face of Dick Randall
the 11th man. I was 12th. Dick was disgusted,
but why tell the coach? Then he'd be the last guy. 

I'd like to say I played better drunk, but I rarely played, 
at all. Dock Ellis claimed he pitched a no-hitter on acid. 
I trotted that out in my defense as I trotted onto the court. 
I got 85 cents an hour at Dairy Queen for mopping up, 
but it was closed for winter. I stayed on the team
to avoid taking gym class where I got my ass kicked 
by larger boys who did not play basketball. 

The gym ceiling lights were covered by cages
but no one ever threw the ball that high. 
I often tried before practice. Like that imaginary
hole in the janitor's closet. I was a good
mopper upper, wringing that mop to beat the band, 
the pep band. They were all stoned anyway. 
Tooting and honking at cheerleaders.
I was always fresh for after-game parties. 
Malt Liquor's stronger than beer. You might 
know that. If you've ever ridden a colt before. 
I never threw a no-hitter. I never even got to pitch. 

I was number 51 in every sport. I warmed the bench, 
not really  riding it,  though if riding were involved, 
I would've said Whoa, boy!  Or heel, boy!
I was 15, my number in reverse. I was aging 
that fast, not even working up a sweat. 
What was I doing down on that bench? 
From this distance, all I can tell is that the boy 
needed a haircut and decent sneakers. 
He needed to shout "Throw me the damn ball!" 
I should've at least been the 11th man. 

The cheerleaders bought my ice cream cones. 
I was master of the DQ Swirl. The coach, the boss,
the driver's ed. instructor, conspired against me.
 It was all in my head. And nothing was in my head. 
I slept through algebra—15/51. 45—and spent earth science 
looking at Connie Melkus's ass in the seat 
in front of me. She wore hip-huggers. I wore 51.
I was neither great nor imperial. I never saddled up
the palomino. I was riding the jackass express
into the quicksand of bad grades and miscellaneous
misdemeanors. Put me in, Coach, I should've said.
I scored one point the whole season. 
That point is this:

Rocks We've Named  ||  Next: Swinging for the Fences