| by Nick Thran
for Craig Battle
In the green Petri dish of Experiment Football
everything looks either cute or ridiculous:
depends on whether or not you’re a parent,
have some stake in the game; or like us,
are just suckers for chaos
and helmets like snowballs, or skulls from a species
of fat-headed humans
wanting no more from their children
than to kick some ass, bust some heads,
get out and do ‘em proud.
Here, shoulder pads can’t find any shoulders.
Equipment blurs the line between
protection and burden—
which a few of us up in the bleachers
in our own way, understand.
In the green Petri dish of Experiment Football
one little monster realizes he runs
faster than anyone, and when it happens
he’s weightless, rule-less, and the distance he gains—
infinite yardage— this specimen breaking
the seam, the tie, our hearts
Breaking that once—
that’s all it takes to tip us
from green out to grey streets,
our own spirits scrambling
through these bodies we’re given—
pushing the bones aside
and every inadequate name.
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