Touch downs. Extra points and kick returns.
Spiked shoes that dig
in deep.
Four inch high, thick bladed grass, one hundred yards of pain
with every step.
Determined silver-back gorillas waiting on scrimmage line
snap the ball.
Six seconds seem like six years.
Twenty-two pairs of shoulder pads instantly collide-
Explosion!
Twist, pop, pop, grunt
Cheers echo from distant stands.
Short-skirted girls with glistening mops of red and white in hand.
Bellowing shouts muted by
The drowning sounds of the fans.

When Big T’s dad went away, he played like a lion-
resilient and sturdy; unstoppable with a cause-
A young cub with pigskin in clutch
dodging through a maze of nomadic barbarians.
Stiff arm, jukes, hurdles and spins
aerobatic feat morph unhuman.
Fourth down heroics make him legend.

Weekdays end under the illuminated battleground.
Scoreboards flash 21-20 and go dim.
Emotion pervaded herds pile outside of equipment filled rooms-
Pats on backs and high fives
turning boys into men.