Of Pride and Passion
There are games we play
and there is passion
It is perhaps America’s pastime
that merely passes the time
until the tumble of Autumn leaves
ushers in the rumble of the band
the roar of the crowd
and that first whistle blast
It is more than mere game
It is the beating
of our collective hearts
the blood pouring through veins
and spilling on sacred soil
and the breath of life
that enjoins and divides
families friends and foes
into one shimmering cathedral
The stadium lights and Friday night
sights sounds and smells
A confluence of pure harmony
sweetly singing the melodies of our time
Drifting past cities and towns
factories and farms
flowing downstream in a single chord
of harmonious rhythm
It is pure
It is passion
It is football
Hidden deep within the confines
of locker rooms and huddles
and the sweat pouring
from pounding iron and colliding pads
there lies an intricately woven bond
that bands boys into men
and brothers forever
Traditions passed down
from one generation to the next
not merely handed out
but emblems and stripes
earned in the gruesome trenches
of a controlled and contrived violence
that is not for all
It was neither manufactured nor planned
this passion lain meticulously across our land
As with art
it was bought and paid
with sweat and with tears
and evolved from the raw essence
and purity of pride
A game no less
of cowhide and lace
and fearless warriors
facing off in a grueling grind
to claim their own
that sacred space
Not of hoisting shiny trophies
nor medals nor any grand accolades
These battles are fought and won
and lost
in the trenches of time
that neither time
nor dimming lights may erase
It is rather the mettle to move on
and to rise
to rise above the dust
and mud smeared
across the face
of one’s fiercest foe
And when at last
the echo of that final whistle
has blown
to offer a hand of embrace
and to know this was no race
It was pure
It was passion
It is football
Comments
1 Comment
Nicely done Joe…shared out on Twitter. Hope you are well my friend!
Leave a Comment