December 16, 2008
By Anonymous

The crowd is chanting, GO! FIGHT! WIN!
The crowd bellows in unison,
my dad shouts proudly to his son.
“We’ll be fine; we’ve got the muscle.
It’s one big ride, it must be cool,
all of the girls go after you.
You’re my hero, don’t mess up,
we count on you to beat some butt,
but if you don’t, well that’s okay,
you sprained your ankle yesterday . . .

We lose.

I swiftly change back into my disguise,
the letterman that I do wear outside.
My dad beside my mustang standing straight.
It is these moments that I do most hate.

Hey thanks for the embarrassment.
You passed out in the game today,
did you not even want to play?
You should have joined the freshman team,
you looked as if you were fourteen.
You will not lose, you won’t give up,
we Russells equal tougher stuff.
If you don’t win, what will I say?
How will I make it through the day?
I talk of you; I show no doubt.
You won’t believe how much I tout.
And now you dare to let me down!
You know how hatred goes around.
You don’t want it to swing your way.
You don’t want to erase away.
You want my love, don’t let it fade.
Winning’s how my love is made.
I love those who win.

I spin around and walk the other way.
Just when the wall of pressure starts to sway,
I meet a mob of classmates at the gate.
My dad paces the streets; he calmly waits.

Where do you go after the games?
Do you not come to celebrate?
Then you must be home with your date . . .
That’s why you work to look this way,
you slave away to reap your pay,
walking around every day,
with girls flashing their looks your way.
“Hey Mark, don’t kill me,” guys all play.
They think that’s what I want to hear,
it just keeps blaring in my ear,
that they just don’t understand . . .

So much pressure, I can’t take anymore.
This weight will send me crashing to the floor.
Expectations that cannot be fulfilled
are pushing me so hard I’ll soon be killed.


Maybe I don’t want to be cool . . .
It’s not my goal to “rule the school.”
I’m not on ‘roids, I don’t smoke crack,
I will not drink behind Mom’s back.
You call me prude cause I don’t screw,
you call me weird cause I’m not you.
I’m not a jock, I hate the name,
I don’t want glory or the fame.

Why can’t you just learn to like me?

Similar Articles


This article has 0 comments.

Parkland Book