My mother washes my football jersey every week,
even though I don’t get much chance to get it dirty.
“You look cute,” she says, making me blush.
“Some girl is going to get your number.”
I play third-string running back
for the freshman football team,
which is a step up because last year
my middle school didn’t have a team at all.
What I lack in talent I make up in grit:
I show up for every practice session.
I take notes at every film session.
I work out on my own,
climb stairs daily in my apartment building.
I’m hoping to get into a game one day
where I can measure my success by the yard.
Until then, I’ll sit on the bench,
and check out the girls in the stands.
Maybe one of them will look my way and say,
“Hey, number forty-seven, you look cute.”
That’ll make my mother happy.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME