Footballs Are Made for Running, Tossing and Fumbling

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Footballs always dazzled me,

composed boxes on the shelf,

like pigskin half moons and suns

needing tees from toppling down,

a kick or a toss to send them

hurling to human planets.

 

The long run, perfect spiral

is inherent in its form,

as is carnage, grace, error.

Its life is moving forward

in the give-take of the game

and the frenzied need to score.

 

In the flash of flight my dreams

ran thoughts of the gridiron:

the quick release, the jute fake,

the deer stride to the end zone,

the soft jump over the safety

for the champion touchdown—

 

existed in perfection

on the lined green schoolyard turf

until the surest pass ever thrown

slipped like butter through my hands,

the handoff fumbled down, down…

I was born… to be a fan.