A W in the Book

Tonight is not for a title or trophy,

Just the last game of the season.

Tape the ankle, wear the colors,

Roll the neck, and pound the pads.

It’s time. Time for a W in the book.

Look at the faces next to you

And make an oath right now,

That you will step it up and play

Right up to the final whistle

And share a W in the book.

We have had our heartache

Plus, bruises, crutches and flags.

Yet, tonight if we play with heart

Deep from the fiber of our soul,

Forever will be a W in the book.

C’mon boys, rally round the ball.

Yell and cheer like champions.

Let the field echo with our cry

Let our spirit, unbroken, fly!

And put another W in the book.

Tough Chick

My muscles are pool noodles.

    My ankle is swollen.

I have bruises and a floor burn.

    But I will play on;

        I am a tough chick.

The ball was alien.

    My hands were dead fish.

My head unclear with trash talk.

    But I will play on;

        I am a tough chick.

Like in movies and in history,

    Like in this game and the others,

There are women who stood tall and said,

    I will play on;

        I am a tough chick.

So I will shake it off,

    And I will face all doubts.

My ankle is taped.

    Time to suck it up and go.

Pass me the ball and be ready!

    I will play on;

        I am a tough chick.


For Grace

Helmet to the Stone

Late October, on a cool Friday night,
the battle done for the season.
A young man in gridiron gear
stopped at a rock at the base of a flag
placed in memory of a dedicated coach
and put his helmet to the stone.

The polymer plastic gritted against
the great rock, and its chiseled words.
He held it there, his head down in
a private moment of silence.
Not far away, fans marched by seeing
him with his helmet to the stone.

The player, sweat soaked and muddy,
bloodied knuckles, hair plastered to his head,
stoically poised, a picture of youth,
of hard work and of love for the game,
reflected heart, pride and sadness
with his helmet to the stone.

Letters cut with steel deep into the rock
say a name and date of a man
who passed on a legacy of character
to all the players who took the field with him.
Late October, a player, a boy at heart, 
proudly, reverently, put his helmet to the stone.

(a verse for Duane)
Years later, early July, some hot days.
The battle fought, another hero gone.
He played for the love. He played hard
As an Oriole, Chippewa, Crusader, and Patriot.
His heart held community and family close.
“Five more minutes,” helmet to the stone.

We Play the Game

Our silk we wear has a sash
               of grass stains and dirt

from battles royal.

Bruises blossom dark and purple,
               mixing with last week’s yellow
               and green to make our bouquet.
We wear a crown, but it is nothing
               more  than headband or prewrap

jeweled with sweat.

Soft slippers? No.
               Bright laces don our cleats,
               Double knotted, tough.
Our regal presence on the field
               is a bruised jaw set firm,
               tasting grass and grit.
Heart and Determination
               burns in our eyes,
               a sigil to our oath.
We are pledged to teamwork,
               a sisterhood of Go!
               Crusading for victory.
Yes, we are girls,
               Beautiful and Bold,
               And we play the game.