Mar 30
Attention to Detail
i remember the days
the sweaty days,
the ‘5 more laps’ days.
i remember running until i tossed my
cookies all over my cleats from exertion and
lack of water. I remember skipping the bus stop
and running to school as fast as my legs
could carry me. I took The Path,
which dragged me across two sets of railroad
tracks that’d already killed 2 students, behind a
junk yard and along a dirty old pond that
was rumored to have a giant gator lurking beneath its surface.
i ran, not walked, down the hallway to that
pock-marked bulletin board
between two stinky lockerrooms marked Boys
and Girls. There i would read and reread the list
of applicants who’d made the last cut.
i missed my name twice and began to panic.
The sheer hell i’d endured, was wasted. Did i not
prove myself to Coach? I swear, i’d done enough.
I turned away, tears in my eyes. The Sure Team,
comprised of the assistant coach’s son and his buddies,
brushed by me - not bothering to even excuse themselves.
i stood there shaking in rage, ready to jump on the Big Guy’s
back and show him the proper respect. The coach could ignore me,
declare me a loser for everyone to see and laugh. He can advertise that I’m
not good enough - but his bastard son doesnt get that chance.
I stood there shaking in rage, allowing the self-righteousness and
indignity to build. Just as my anger boiled over, as me and The Big Guy
stood face to face about to do battle over an imagined slight
someone congratulates me on making the final cut:
I’d made the team.
In my enthusiasm, i’d missed the obvious difference between
this list and prior one: this was a list of final cuts,
Not the team roster.
