We love it—this brutal game.
Our Sundays, huddled and shouting,
Adorning heroes in jerseys,
Chasing fleeting glory on fields of strife.
Men—sons, brothers, cousins,
Communities encapsulated in single bodies,
Carrying familial hopes like helmets too heavy
—running on turf steeped in tradition.
We watch them,
Defying unimaginable odds,
Tackling adversity,
Muscling past hardships
And the roar of the crowd drowns their pain,
Each cheer a weight that pushes them forward—
Because we need them to rise,
To stand where we cannot.
Battered hands reach for the sky,
Grasping at something untouchable,
Bodies breaking, but never bending
To the will of the game,
To the beast that feeds on sacrifice.
We worship the bruises,
The scars they wear like badges—
As though these wounds are victories,
As though pain is the price of greatness.
They stumble, but they rise.
We cheer, though they fall.
Again and again,
Until they can no longer remember
Why they run or where they are headed.
But still, they run—
Because to stop is to surrender,
To give up is to be forgotten,
And the world forgets so quickly.
So they keep climbing—
Up mountains of broken promises,
Through valleys of silent suffering.
Each step heavier,
Each breath shorter.
And still, they run.
They line up again—
Unseen giants,
Running towards a fate
They cannot escape.
We Need It.
YOU ARE READING
GridIron
No FicciónFootball is a brutal sport. Beyond stating the obvious, I must ask myself what is more brutal/destructive. The universal knowledge of how brutal the sport is or the fact that we actually like it. Rush for it, live for it, adorn it, love it, gather o...
