The stands are full of roars from fans as I
watch number forty-two run down the ramp.
Every player in fast strides - but him,
the only one who catches my eye in uniforms
of orange and black - the one wearing smiles.
I absorb the young lad running onto the field,
sporting a pair of hands, itching to catch the pass,
the pass that will win the game and mark him
an instant-made hero in his hometown
of football fanatics.
The clock is ticking. Time is running out.
The score board reads: the home team has the same
points as the visiting team. Roars
invade the night---his talent arouses
team mates, class mates, parents
and friends to a frenzy. He grabs the ball
from thin air and captures the winning touchdown.
He disappears into college life where he nurtures
and practices his real passion - rodeos. Rodeos
help buy books and pay his yearly tuition. His talent
hangs on walls as memories.
Years prance past, and my husband turns ill.
I forget the ladís first game smiles, but one day,
I see his picture in the daily news. Heís returned
to teach and coach.
Later, a new neighbor mows and grooms
our lawn. He wears the same smile Iíve seen, years
ago and wonít accept any pay for these chores.
I remember that former football star and relish
him as our new neighbor, friend, and hero.
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