When I was three years-old,

my brother dressed me in pads and a helmet,

stuck a brown ball under my arm,

and took pictures.

I few years later,

he taught me about the game,

of the brown ball

why I needed the pads and a helmet.

It was simple yet nuanced,

controlled but fun.

Football, the American bastard son of football.

A few years yet and I beheld my first college game,

in a stadium built for chickens,

amid tiny liquor bottles at our feet,

and chants of “bullshit” to the referees.

I was hooked and dreaming,

of glory and trophies,

and my name in lights,

just like a million other boys more talented than I.

By high school I saw my lights turned out,

after the last snap on that grass.

No fame for me.

I tried to love the game,

but it did not love me back,

a present I did not comprehend until now.

The spectacle of modern football,

of sponsored tweets,

woke virtue signaling,

poor college players,

and millionaire coaches,

isn’t my destiny.

The players are mere kids,

used and abused to the glory of their college masters,

at least the League pays them…for a while.

Then they are tossed out, body broken,

forced to find a new lover.

I would’ve married football if she would have me,

but now I’m glad she let me be.

There’s more to life than that silly game.