Done part 1

got my chapbook all printed up...im excited

Hats Off

Practice always left so suddenly.

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.

Hats On

When I used to go to my locker--

after school

or after a long rest after morning practice

or before the birds told us it was morning--

there was always a countdown.

It was either "a few more days of camp"

or "one more day til Saturday (Friday in high school)"

or "three hours til I get to go back to bed".

Putting on pants over a spandex girdle,

shoving my feet into pre-tied cleats,

strapping on shoulder pads,

mindless tasks before heading out to the grass.

I liked to be alone--

call me weird

or observant--

because it felt right. 

I always felt just a little uncomfortable

and so I knew everything was ok.

We would congregate before practice--

freshman with freshman

running backs and running backs

offense and offense

defense and defense--

and bullshit.

Waiting for the coaches to come out,

to tell us to circle up

or take a knee

or line up on the "gold line",

this was what playing football was about.

Currier

He moved me
from San Diego
to Kirksville
in two months flat
via telephone.

His deliveries were consistent,
if anything,
2 and 9
2 and 9.
What a way to end your career.

He brought a team of bulldogs
to a jungle,
unprepared,
and it showed.
77 to 7 proves
Gorillas have no mercy.

He hand delivered

my disdain for football

with a grin.

He married a Currier
and she delivered their third child
while he was delivering a special package
to that cute receptionist.

He brought in dozens of coaches

who fled

because they weren't bound

by scholarships.

Hickory stick--lost in transport.

Winning seasons--who put that "s" there?

If only they had seen the big

return to sender

sign that was written on the faces

of dozens of players and coaches who left

and the "we don't want him" scream

that our mostly empty stadium chanted.

Title

I'm thinking of naming my Chapbook 

Concussed: and the poetry of Football

tell me what you think, I'll be expecting as many comments as the rest of my work has garnered

Towel Push

Holding a towel against the hardwood floor--

At 5'9'' real height

(5'10'' roster height)--

I found out that,

at the diagonal,

a basketball court is about 25 strides.

Lengthwise,

the court is about 22 strides.

I found this out (5 times in 30 minutes)

since Lorenzo was a running back

and every running back got punished

if one of us missed two meetings.

Even after he quit.

No Excuse

Some stereotypes are true.

No exaggeration needed,

my coach really said this 

in the middle of a 530 am 

running session,

"Pick it up...you guys wanna be

2 and 9 again

or worse

1 and 10

or worse

0 and 11

or worse

fuckin

6 and 5?

Cuz I don't!"