The Most Beautiful YMCA in the World

A poem

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in Memory of Arthur Reuben, 1942-2020

Dear Arthur, I played basketball
With your son, Junior, a few times
Before I knew who any of you were.
We ran at the gym in the old YMCA

Overlooking Spokane Falls, where
Our ancestors long ago speared wild salmon.
Has there ever been a YMCA like that?
A gym where Indians played hoops

Only feet away from sacred water?
I don’t know. But, Arthur, I saw you
Walk into the Y for the first time in 1992
Alongside Junior. He was a good player.

A semi-regular. A teenager who was faster
Than everybody. He was slender
And brash. Loved to talk trash and pass
The ball. He was Mr. Assist.

Dear Arthur, you were in your early 50s.
Wearing old shoes. Your arms and legs
Were strong but your belly was soft.
You had that thick black hair

That looked long no matter how short
It was cut. I could see the white players
Size you up and dismiss you because
You were an old Indian man (I’m older now

Than you were then). But I knew better.
I’d witnessed the wise ways of the older
And slower Indians, all headfakes,
Pivots, drop-steps, long-distance gunning,

Bank shots, no-look passes,
And those wrong-footed runners
With the off-hand. Arthur, I sat out
The first game because I wanted

To see you surprise the white boys
Who were half your age. After
The game started, you were content 
To lazily jog up and down the court,

Not doing much, until you somehow
Grabbed an offensive rebound
In a crowd of much taller players.
You probably went trickster

And nudged all of them in the back
As they jumped. You dribbled
The ball out of the key then dribbled
Right back in, faked and faked

The ball once, twice to your right, faked
A shot and fooled one defender
Into flying out of the play.
Then you leaned far left,

Faked a bounce pass,
And sent two other defenders
Scrambling to the floor,
And then you faked a shot

Again by pumping the ball high
Over your head. The last two 
Defenders fell for that and leaped.
Then you leaned under them

And scooped an easy bank shot
Up and in. I roared with laughter.
You’d given those white boys some hell.
They probably still suffer

From basketball PTSD. You smiled
And ambled back on defense.
And I recognized that smile!
I recognized that amble!

You were Seymour Reuben’s father!
Yeah, the ambling Seymour who once
Scored 55 points against helpless,
Helpless me. I wrote a poem for Seymour

32 years ago. It’s in my first book.
And, in 2001 or 2002, I saw
Seymour at a Sonics game.
“Junior,” he called out.

(Yeah, Arthur, like your other
Son, I’m an Indian Junior, too).
Seymour and I shook hands
And hugged. After the Sonics game,

He and I walked
To his truck and he gave me
A shopping bag filled
With elk and deer jerky.

“Junior,” Seymour said to me.
“That’s for putting me
In your poem.” Good trade.
It was a good trade.

And now, Arthur, after
Reading your obituary
And seeing that you loved
To hunt the Blue Mountains,

I wonder if Seymour got
That deer and elk on a hunt with you
And your Junior. I close my eyes
And imagine the three of you

Walking the hills, hunting 
Where our ancestors have hunted
For at least ten thousand years.
I imagine you three Reuben men

In the deep forest. You’ve cut the bottom
From a coffee can and nailed it
To a tree. I imagine you using
That can as a hoop and using

Pine cones as basketballs.  I imagine
Three Indian men leaping into the sky.
I imagine an Indian father and his sons.
And I sing them this honor song.