I stand at the edge
of a field that knows my name better than I do,
where grass is bruised with footsteps of men like me—
the ones you love, the ones you cheer for,
the ones you gather around to see fall.
My skin is heavy with the weight of your eyes,
with the hope of my family's hungry mouths,
with the breath of a neighbourhood
that clings to my back like sweat.
This body,
this muscle,
was never mine to keep.
Each step,
I bend the laws of flesh,
but the odds—they bend me back,
and somewhere in the collision,
I lose track of who is winning.
You stand there too,
with your chants and claps,
adorned in colours that speak louder than pain.
You love the game,
but do you love us?
Do you see what it costs
to lift the weight of a world
that never lifts us back?
The hits come like echoes,
each one ringing in my bones,
each one louder than the last.
You watch.
You admire.
You cheer me into the ground,
and I—
I run.
My past, my present,
all blurred in the motion of a tackle.
My future,
a shadow I chase,
but can never touch.
I want to stop,
but the game—
it does not let me.
There is no pause
when the roar is this loud,
when the world's breath depends on my steps.
I am more than a man now.
I am something else,
something beyond the body,
beyond the flesh,
beyond the mind that begs for mercy.
But you,
you cheer for more.
You chant for harder, faster,
as if the cost is invisible.
So I keep running.
The whistle blows,
and the world fades away,
except for the sound
of the snap,
and the play
begins
again.
YOU ARE READING
GridIron
Não FicçãoFootball 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...
