He sits by the court, headphones in place, A young man with no sight, but full of grace. The crowd roars loud, the sneakers squeak, The rhythm of basketball is the language he speaks.
His world isn’t painted in colors or light, For his eyes hold darkness, the absence of sight. But vision? Oh, vision runs wild and free, He sees the game as clearly as you or me.
He hears the dribble, the pass, the shot, Every movement, he knows the plot. Through sound and feel, he builds the frame, And with his words, he brings life to the game.
“The pass is swift, a no-look play! A step-back three—he’s on fire today!” He calls the action, each move, each run, The beauty of basketball, the art, the fun.
For sight may be lost, but vision’s a spark, It lights up the mind when the world feels dark. He doesn’t need eyes to see what’s real, His heart and his mind give him the feel.
Vision is knowing the story you tell, It’s hearing the rhythm and knowing it well. Sight is a gift, but it’s not the only way, To see the game and bring it to play.
So he paints the court with his vibrant words, A commentator whose voice is heard. For though he lacks sight, his vision is clear, And with every call, the crowd draws near.
