We stuffed our crotches into hometown pants. <br />Clacked on concrete out to mud and grass. <br /> <br />Hit each other. Bled. Got dizzy. <br />Sweat, got knocked down, got up, <br />got down, puked, hit each other, bled. <br />We were having fun. <br /> <br />I swear reasons existed then <br />for playing. Honest I swear <br />there was a girl on the goal line <br />promising a slow dance. A referee <br />waited to whistle me into manhood. <br /> <br />We were not good. <br />Often we had to buy the ball back <br />from the other team. Once were down <br />forty points before the game began. <br />Our coach sold real estate at half-time. <br />Our cheerleaders hung us in effigy. <br /> <br />We pounded each other <br />until no one was left on either team. <br />The pads and helmets and shoes <br />went on grunting and blocking and tackling. <br />Fans stayed to see which set <br />of equipment would win. <br /> <br />We could hear that Homecoming crowd <br />roaring in the stadium <br />as we loaded the cars. We drove <br />to the bus station, took <br />the midnight express out of there.<br /><br />Hans Ostrom<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/high-school-football/
