You are soaring in my mind, Vince Carter, for I ride in a cab past Air Canada Centre with severe spins staring at the neon maple leaf.
In my booze starvation, and grasping for potatoes, I went into the D-rate Mexican food chain, envisioning your 360-windmills!
What tortillas and yellow cheese! Lonely men stuffing their mouths! Booths full of college kids! Wives with the crunchwrap supremes, babies with the soft tacos!—and you, Morris Peterson, what were you doing down by the verde sauces?
I saw you, Vince Carter, airless, busted and old knees, filling your cup up at the Baja Blast dispenser and eyeing a Bosh jersey.
I heard your questions about the meat: Is that really steak? What price sub chicken? Are you my cashier?
I navigated through the several wet floor signs following you, and followed in my imagination by a burly biker.
We euro-stepped together past an acned teens sopping mop side by side snagging plastic knives and sporks, asking for a frozen Mountain Dew Kickstart, and never nearing the bathroom.
Where are we headed, Vince Carter? Breakfast isn’t ‘til much later. Where does your purple headband lead?
(I grab your Nikes and dream of us in a tie at the Slam Dunk Contest and feel ashamed.)
Will we dribble all night through the empty streets? The hoops will shade us more, no lights in the driveways, lonely together.
Will we backpeddle dreaming of the lost Raptors of purple past weathered basketballs in driveways, home to your silent fanbase?
Vinsanity, baldhead, and Half-Man Half-Amazing, what Canada did you have when Bowen twice went after your knee and you stood watching hope disappear and the disease of jumper’s knee?