casting crawling shadows across the football stadium.
No fans.
No players.
No cheerleaders.
We run. We start as a group, but soon Jameson
is leading, then Sliga, then me, then Berkowitz.
We snake up, across, down the steps, newly freshened
by the grounds crew.
It is almost fall, almost preseason, almost winter,
almost season, almost Big Ten Championships, almost
NCAA tournament.
But now we are alone, aren't we?
Or, singular entity, devoid of cheers, coaches, others.
We follow Jameson like the head of a snake.
Up, across, down. Up, across, down.
My calves tighten like the fastening of cement.
Shirtless humidity, sweat, smell of fresh cut field.
We are free, alive, a tempest in the
quiet heat.
Pounding feet, grunts, a curse, as I
nail my knee into the corner of a rail.
Jameson finishes.
Hands on knees. Beard beaded of sweat.
I chase Sliga down the last set of steps.
Berkowitz comes in a minute later.
The snake returns to coil.
And we have no cheers, but the
pulse of my heart, the way each of our
bodies heave in violent rhythm
together, in that quiet time in between.
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