I've had an intuition that Sergio will be with the team for a long time--even though there are many sound arguments for trading him.
Since he's seen more minutes the past couple of nights, and so far as I know he wasn't traded today, I thought now might be a good time to post a fragment of a poem I've been writing on the subject.
Homage to Mister Rodriguez
The Sergeant your coach yelled so long
moved you not, restless, waiting for whom? Still,
you are a patient man.—
I seem to see you pass here still:
Fernandez, Batum, in moments odd you dished
before a firecat, bright eyes on the halftime
entertainment, all the children still.
‘Fernandez ...’ Fernandez will look while you read a t-shirt.
Outside the Northwest winters in grim dark
grey air lashing high thro’ the virgin condos
raccoons in windows crawl,
surely the Spanish heart repels, nonplussed.
I doubt if Fernandez than this cast, that sky,
spares from his discourse on you’re a/t ratio
more. We are on each other’s teams
who care. Both of our worlds drafted us. Stand lush,
thy eyes look to me harsh. Out of tamales & air
your game’s made, and moves. I summarize, see,
from the youtubes it.
I think you will stay. Why do we
linger, diminished, in our friends’ air,
implicitly visible, to whom, a season,
seasons, over off-seasons; or not;
to a big prospect; or not; shimmer & materialize.
Jaw-dropt, rise with its rationale, mending then;
then not. When the zone collapses, who misses it?
Your coach never quieted,
Fernandez ah two seasons past you—
svelte & eastward staring on a smooth deck
it seems I describe you, mature. I leave to check,
I leave to stay online,
and the Sergeant, & Monty, & Fernandez, & the huddled men.
By the week we embarked we were, most, warmed up.
Strange teams across us, after a fortnight’s practice
fortuitous, endeared us;
skin-prickly warm, dry, peckish; so were well
many as one month we could have all time-outs;
screens, quelled; a firstborn child kennelled; water
crowding & falling: unwaiting.
And the season itself he leapt acourt young Brandon Roy
(delivered from the clouds; because he lost
off their hotel rooms, round-eyed, a multivalent gunboat
across a mountain river,
that water clouded dark & briny
& broad, all of the other men could fly
and the factory’s tertiary investment up to him,
sloughed off on a bad day
soft on the ignoble feasting of thanksgiving) breathing…
They say thro’ the fading fall Prizbylla thrives,
your second, who than you bore more rebounds;
and I describe him unburied. I move on.