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sport-coated attendants.

  He had that kind of familiar celebrity face

  that you could recognize from younger photos you’d seen,

  with tanned golf-course skin crinkled into fragile crepe.

  I don’t remember the brief comments he made

  --after getting another nice plaque for still being alive.

  It was strange to be so close to this Rockne protégé.

  This far distant cousin to us callow rookies.

  Later I saw him sitting in the coffee shop

  still with his attendants, not speaking,

  and I wanted to go and shake his hand,

  to physically connect to an ancient coaching past.

  But I hadn’t the confidence to presume to interrupt

  his cup of tea that way, and so the moment passed.

  When next I looked up they’d left through a side door,

  the nonstop traffic sounding through white closing wedge.

  Boosting

  The Booster belched deep, and said with a laugh,

  “Pardon my French”, then continued.

  “Coach, a good team has got to have that discipline.”

  The coach nodded.

  This guy had big bucks and two sons on the team.

  “Sometimes, Coach, you got to be an SOB to win.

  Those boys you got want their butts worked off in practice,

  they want that discipline, they crave it in fact,

  because way down deep they know—they know—

  it’s how you win championships.

  He set the red plastic cup down on the table between them,

  “The more you goddam work ‘em,

  and I firmly believe this,

  the more you'll goddam get!”

  “Yes,” said the coach. “Buy you another?”

  Coach on Gameday

  He nicks himself shaving in the morning,

  teaches English with blood on his collar all day

  before seeing it there after he’s done,

  when he’s already entered that suspended limbo

  between team meal and game.

  Too late for any changes now.

  The players arrive in threes and fours

  not talking much, a good sign,

  nervous, ready, alive.

  He dresses in the office

  careful when double-knotting his laces just so

  not superstitious—precise.

  The staff now all in place

  and, having covered it all,

  joining to wait out the countdown.

  In the locker room, quiet.

  Then the machinery sets into motion

  the settling rhythm of traditional rites

  specialties read to remind personnel,

  time for offensive notes on the blackboard,

  time for the defense and the call to be hitters,

  and the locker room prayer in a group on one knee.

  Out to the lights and the home crowd’s ovation

  Calisthenics and warmups, the stadium still filling

  the clock ticking down, officials arriving—

  He stands at the anthem

  adrenalin running as from a tap left untightened

  and at the end of the field the flag fluttering up

  ---as it does at ten thousand same places

  on American Friday nights in the fall.

  Pregame

  In the stillness of the school hallway

  with stadium light creasing past darkened school buildings

  into and through opaque wire-meshed glass,

  the player sits

  late now to the team room below,

  head down, eyes clenched, alone in all ways,

  elbows on knees, fingers loosely laced,

  his mind far from nearby pending game;

  instead replaying afternoon sounds from home

  where once more bitter anger

  banged through open floor vents into his upstairs room;

  hissed murmurs rising to merciless exchange

  and doors slammed with such gunshot finality

  that his fearful prayer stops short

  --a floating half whisper above shadowed lockers—

  as distant, amplified voice bids good evening.

  Away Game Arrival

  The yellow school bus clatters and whines;

  the driver downshifts from clank to grind;

  everything rattles from windows to spines;

  the shocks give zero on bumps.

  My head is wedged against the next seat,

  eyes shut tight in a dreary half-sleep,

  as right-leg sciatica throbs molten heat;

  outside the dusk is gathering.

  Behind, the team’s voice is steady and low;

  too-loud headsets add tin hum to the drone

  while beyond silhouettes grows the gradual glow;

  it's the stadium lights in the distance.

  Two hours from home, rubbery from travel

  —will we gather ourselves or decide to unravel?

  as bus tires crunch on parking lot gravel;

  the answer only now awaking.

  Anthem

  He held his glossy gold helmet under his arm,

  breathed in deep the sweet green of fresh-mowed grass,

  smelled charcoal smoke from concession-stand barbecue,

  saw a bright ocean of color washed up into bleachers,

  heard the band battering its intro tattoo--

  as he stood with his brothers, facing Old Glory,

  heart and mind pounding in twilight’s first gleaming.

  Trap

  When the guard pulled to the trap he stayed tight to center

  as the center himself lit up the nose.

  The guard cleared that standoff, eyes on his own target,

  a slow-moving d end one step too deep.

  The guard struck at full force

  extended through with his hips and legs

  arced his back while locking his arms out

  never stopping his feet.

  The tackle, twenty pounds heavier,

  gave way with a grunt.

  A back skittered through.

  The crowd rose to its feet.

  “That guy’s damn good,” said a fan.

  “That’s why he’s a back,” said another.

  The Flanker

  I’m a fleet-footed flanker

  with nothing to fear,

  except the sound of fast footsteps

  too close to my ear

  when I leave the ground aiming

  to come down with the ball

  but knowing down deep

  that it’ll end in a fall

  and those eye-gouging db’s

  glommed onto my bod,

  as my facemask gets buried

  in two inches of sod.

  I sound like I’m whining

  but it still seems to me

  when you got hands like I do

  they should just let you be.

  A Run

  When the handoff came he covered it smoothly

  took three steps to the left then planting

  just as the swarm overran to that side

  just as his blocker rode the backer out wider

  right then

  the back sees the flash of green in the seam

  and before it can close,

  before the reacting defenders

  can fill that open v of space

  he makes the cut, accelerates completely

  heart blasting full throttle

  high-stepping now through and then clear,

  feeling the safety clutch at his arm but fall off,

  outrunning his own downfield teammates

  jagging to the outside a slim yard from the sideline

  the crowd roaring as finally most spot him

  racing a corner the last thirty-five yards

  (past the struggling fat ref fast fading behind)
r />   --past his own erupting bench

  --past his team shouting his name

  --his coaches now jumping, windmilling him on

  --past the last stripe and into the endzone.

  He turns, ball overhead, looking for flags.

  One Mother

  From in the stands where the mother sat,

  her hands clenched on the program on her lap

  her face looking calm but chaos within,

  matching the chaos and mayhem near him,

  none of it made much sense she thought,

  she never really saw the passes he caught,

  but only the dangers , felt only the pain,

  and the fact that he was a key part of a gain

  meant little.

  Upon Trailing at Halftime

  It’s fine to go out there full of confidence,

  full of aggression and the resolution to win,

  but all that is pregame and every team feels it

  and I tell you what, with lesser teams

  it usually burns off by the end of six plays.

  Is that what we are—a lesser team?

  Is that what you are—lesser men?

  Because, you know what?

  We’ve HAD our six plays

  --hell, I doubt it was even six—

  and since then we’ve played soft

  and full of personal doubt.

  There’s only two ways to react

  when somebody’s up in your face like these guys.

  You can decide to be intimidated

  and back the hell off.

  But make no mistake, as you take every step back

  your opponent will always

  —always—take a step forward

  until you’ve backed up so much you’ve surrendered the field.

  Or you can answer with a cold controlled anger

  that comes from the place inside of yourself

  that will not be bullied, will not admit defeat,

  that does not allow your self-respect to be publicly trashed.

  Make your decision and make it damn quick

  because that’s exactly the kind of game we’re in tonight.

  I’ve told you before, adversity is a given.

  You will in competition be sometimes outplayed.

  But whether you stay outplayed,

  Or whether you accept being outplayed,

  is strictly and entirely and totally up to you.

  Grab each other’s hand right now--Do it!.

  Make the promise, as men and as a team,

  that you will not back down from this fight,

  that you will dig deep, out of personal pride

  and because your teammates here around you

  are counting on you, trusting you,

  to not hold any part of yourself back tonight.

  Can they trust you? Are we together? Will we do this?

  First Stand

  The coach turned to the too-skinny sophomore

  with size thirteen feet and sprung white socks

  that drooped to his shoe