Every individual moment lasted forever,
yet clustered together
hours came and went.
Taking a knee,
or a "v-sit"
or having to stand to prove you weren't tired--
above jello legs
and collapsing lungs--
was a stronger sign
that practice was over
than the sleeping sun
or the black that rolled over sky.
The walk back to the locker room
was slower than the walk out
because part of me never wanted to take the pads off.
There was no life outside of football:
I ate because football made me hungry
showered because football made me dirty
started homework after 8 because football stole my time
and fell to sleep soon after
because football usually exhausted.
I woke up an did it again
despite how many different ways
I told myself and my teammates that I didn't want to.
Deep down, I always wanted to.
There was only one year where I was a star,
12 lousy games out of too many to sit and count,
when football felt like a calling.
Would I do it again?
Sign my life away
in order to give up constant pressures about sex
and drinking
and graduating
and being an adult,
I couldn't answer.
My time spent was spent
it would have passed regardless
so letting it pass behind bars
was just as good as any other way.
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