The Kure Beach North Carolina Chamber of Commerce annual amateur poetry competition happened, true to its name, but once a year. Anyone failing to win glory in a given year would have to wait twelve long months before they could try again. You know this. Because you have lost. A lot. Year after year, you have lost. And there have now been budget cuts. This will be the last year. Never to return. But this year, this final year… you are a finalist. Finally a finalist. A Final finalist. There are twelve of you who have been selected to perform in an epic showdown. Tonight. In the town square. The finalists have been selected and ordered. And you? You will be reading eleventh. Almost the closing act. You are almost the god damn closer. True, you have failed to win five years in a row. And you will never have another chance. But you’ve never been this close to being the closer. And they may not have appreciated your past poems, but this year will be different. This year your poem is tight. It’s measured. It’s lyrical. It’s balanced. You’ve even run it through a new app to make sure it doesn’t rhyme. And most important of all, it is completely indecipherable. Even you don’t know what it means. It’s going to blow their minds.

            The first poet of the night delivers a haiku about gas prices and your confidence grows. Following that is a Petrarchan sonnet about Global Warming and a series of ekphrastic poems describing paintings of the various authors’ pets. And again your confidence grows but you pause as you know that a great poem could present itself at any time. You have tasted bitter defeat before and so you caution yourself not to celebrate too early. But it is a toothless caution. And you have no poker face. You only hope that the smile forming on your face is interpreted as loving support for your competitors, but you know it reflects the schadenfreude reserved for the cold-blooded future victorious. As each subsequent poem is read, exercises in clumsiness all, you realize that your dream is about to come true. Ten miserable attempts at poetry have left the stage and you arrive to deliver your work with passion and panache. You are loud. Real. Loud. You finish. The crowd is silent. Stunned. The immensity of the moment almost knocks you over, but you catch yourself, take a modest bow, and return to your seat. And as you approach your seat you hear over the loudspeaker, “Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome our final poet of the night, Michael Jeffrey Jordan.”

            The crowd leaps to its feet. The cheers can be heard all the way to Fort Fisher. And Michael Jordan appears and walks, no, not walks. Marches to the microphone. And you can only think one thing, one question repeating in your seething brain:  

            “Why the fuck is Michael Jordan here?”

            He leans in and begins his poem, titled, “Be Like Mike!” A momentary flash of relief comes over you as you notice it rhymes. But as he speaks, a hollowness in your stomach begins to grow. His words are beautiful, powerful, and each word soars through the air dominating the other poets spread throughout the square. Dominating you. Your poem is Patrick Ewing in the 1991 NBA Eastern conference Finals and he is dunking on your figurative face. You see yourself on a poster as Michael Jordan and his lyrical dominance fly over your head.

            It is a devastating performance.

            Air leaves your body as you hang your head. It’s over. Your vision blurs and sounds blend together as you vaguely become aware that you are now watching the awards ceremony. You’ve placed second. It is the highest you have ever finished but “Be Like Mike!” has won the gold. You limp to the stage to accept the title of silver medalist, though you know that your true title is First Loser. Michael Jordan has won. Not you. And you are left in the stark wake that Michael Jordan, The G.O.A T., the greatest of all time, has forever robbed you of your glory. And this, most of all, is why you will forever cheer for the New York Knicks.