Face down on the turf
and dizzy from impact
with hands on backs and
words of encouragement
and reassurance that you
probably just got the wind
knocked out of you, that
you'll probably be just fine.

Step up slowly and clutch
stomach and wave off
trainers and push through
dull roars of boos and
applause to find a metal
bench and a warm towel
in appropriate colors for
wiping sweat from above
eyebrows, in order to avoid
obscuring precious vision.

It is hard to see sometimes
where lines live on the field,
which can make it near
impossible to display
adequate decision-making.
Constantly presented with new
situations. Time is of the essence.

It is hard to know when
to let go of the ball and
when to hang on and
shove your way through
the line like it's your job,
like someone is depending
on you. It is easy for some
to move onto the next play
like the last never happened,
and to stay focused on the
goal without dwelling on
the day's past events.

But when you're catching
your breath and laying
on the artificial surface,
pushed over by a force that
seemed much greater
than yourself, you run the
events of the day over and
over again in your head
and wonder how you got
here, and why you are
grinning so wide.

You learn so much about
yourself in the moments
when you're helpless and
mangled on the ground.