If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or begin hated don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream--and not make dreams your master;
If you can think--and not make thought your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same:
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you have your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breath a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!

With two 60’s stuck on the scoreboard
And two seconds hanging on the clock,
The solemn boy in the center of eyes,
Squeezed by silence,
Seeks out the line with his feet,
Soothes his hands along his uniform,
Gently drums the ball against the floor,
Then measures the waiting net,
Raises the ball on his right hand,
Balances it with his left,
Calms it with fingertips,
Breathes,
Crouches,
Waits,
And then through a stretching of stillness,
Nudges it upward.
The ball slides up and out. 
Lands,
Leans, 
Wobbles,
Wavers,
Hesitates,
Exasperates,
Plays it coy
Until every face begs with unsounding
screams-
And then,  
And then, 
Right before ROAR-UP, 
Dives down and through.  

When I get big
I want to be the best
basketball player in the world.
I’ll make  jumpshots, hookballs
and layups
and talk about dribble-
mine¹ll be outta sight!

when spanky goes
to the playground all the big boys say
"hey big time-what¹s happenin"
because his big brother plays basketball for their
high school
and he gives them the power sign and says
you got it
but when i go and say
what¹s the word
they just say
your nose is running junior
one day i¹ll be seven feet tall
even if i never get a big brother
and i¹ll stuff that sweaty ball down
their laughing throats

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

Tony said:  "Boys are better!
They can...
whack a ball,
ride a bike with one hand
leap off a wall."

I just listened
and when he was through,
I laughed and said:
"Oh yeah!  Well, girls can, too!"

Then I leaped off the wall,
and rode away
I won that day.

When we¹re playing tag
and the girls want to play,
we yell and we scream
and we chase them away.

When we¹re playing stickball
or racing our toys
and the girls ask to join,
we say, "Only for boys."

We play hide-and-go-seek
and the girls wander near.
They say, "Please let us hide."
We pretend not to hear.

We don¹t care for girls
so we don¹t let them in,
we think that they¹re dumb-
and besides, they might win.

Fernando has a basketball.
He tap, tap, taps it down the hall,
Then leaps up high and shoots with care.
The fact a basket isn’t there,
he totally dismisses.
He says he never misses.
My crazy friend Fernando.

Poised between going on and back, pulled
Both ways taut like a tightrope-walker,
Fingertips pointing the opposites,
Now bouncing tiptoe like a dropped ball
Or a kid skipping rope, come on, come on,
Running a scattering of steps sidewise,
How he teeters, skitters, tingles, teases,
Taunts them, hovers like an ecstatic bird,
He’s only flirting, crowd him, crowd him,
Delicate, delicate, delicate, delicate – now!

It’s the might, it’s the fight
Of two teams who won’t give in –
It’s the roar of the crowd
And the “Go, fight, win!”

It’s the bands, it’s the stands,
It’s the color everywhere.
It’s the whiff, it’s the sniff
Of the popcorn on the air.

It’s a thrill, it’s a chill,
It’s a cheer and then a sigh;
It’s that deep, breathless hush
When the ball soars high.

Yes, it’s more than a score,
Or a desoearte grasp at fame;
Fun is King, win or lose – That’s a football game!