It’s been one year.
A new coach and some new players
but the game is the same,
pass the ball, slide tackle instinctively.
Focus on slight movements of hips,
the way a player’s weight shifts.
Not a single one will get past you.
Wear your jersey like the scars you carry.
No longer torn, all that glitters is gold.
The heart clenches in anticipation.
Take a deep breath. You are home.
At the whistle, begin again.
It’s been six months.
This foreign country is a temporary home.
Touches still tentative, but your mind is sharp.
Don’t let the ball get torn from your legs.
Your team is counting the strips of tape
holding you together. It’s frustrating seeing
them timidly pass ***** in practice,
waiting around to catch you.
It takes time to get back,
but you will be better because of it.
It’s been three weeks.
Every step is agony, fire worthy of Hell.
You must carry the burden on one leg,
cry behind closed doors and watch
your team grow without you.
Take one step
and another before crashing.
Feel the stitches torn from your knee.
Get back up. Fall again. Want to sit on that floor forever.
Get back up. Your team is waiting.
It’s been two minutes.
Struck in the knee you collapse
into the grass. Scream. Louder.
Time stops. Your captain signals the trainers.
It is cold in their shadows.
Put your hands over your eyes because seeing
is believing. Let them strap you to a stretcher,
strain your leg while hopes of gold
fade from your vision.
Why was it you? You were there.
Can you ever get back? Is this the end?