One for the Gipper

My seventeen-year-old son also deserves a poem . . . though only God knows why. He NEVER reads this blog, has never read it, nor will he ever read it, given that he reads nothing and never asks to read anything I have written.  And it's a fair bet that he doesn't even know I write.  Still, I've created a fair number of pieces about the kid, including this one on high school football.

Perhaps, some day after I am worm food, he will discover my words and find some good use for them.  Perhaps by then he will have reduced his dietary intake to five meals a day instead of his usual nine.  Okay . . . but I'm proud of the kid nonetheless.  I love you, Logan.

High School Football

Bobby hands the ball to Joe, and Joe hands off to Timmy,
While rabid fans yell from the stands to give the ball to Jimmy.
The coaches scream at referees, the referees at players,
While play-by-play the game unfolds in slowly-fumbled layers.

And every time the punter punts or when the kicker kicks
A few kids stagger off the field with bruised and bloodied nicks.
The cheers are led by leaders, and the players smile at girls
Who smile back through their poodle skirts and soft, alluring curls.

And at the gun, when victory sounds, and spirits running high,
The team assembles in a heap and the fathers stand and cry
To think that on this Friday night their sons, announced by name,
May have learned lessons through their pain, or how to play the game.