hardly a fan

Wow, I am an epic failure at blogging lately. Domestic bliss is keeping me busy, I guess.

In the midst of MN's recent success in the sports department, I will post a poem that I have saved in Word under "football" even though I would hardly call myself a fan.

Standard Play
When I was in fourth grade, my neighbor
taught me to throw a perfect spiral.
He was a father to four girls and liked to drum
his fingers on the steering wheel when he drove us
to early morning orchestra.
I knew he had always wanted a son, so I figured my brief
tomboy streak was enough to earn his attention.
"All you have to do is line your fingers up with the laces, like this," he said,
demonstrating and handing me the football.
It felt rough and awkward in my nine-year old palm
as I placed my fingers along the braced, white grooves.
A row of oversized tennis shoes popped into my head.
"Now, bring your arm back and keep your eye on the prize."
He ran down the slight hill into our yard and turned to me,
his hands forming an imaginary target for me to aim at.
I drew my arm back, steadied my gaze, and released the ball.
I exhaled and watched the air between us bend,
aware that that perfect arch had realigned his perception
of what it means to throw like a girl.
-slgc

GO VIKINGS! GO TWINS!