We search from above for angles
That capture every ankle
Switching through so every play fits in frame
Stationed observers and mobile trackers
Are third, fourth, fifth eyes for leading coachers
Passing cards with memories of the field
And cutting tapes of snapshots into reels
How close we are to earth, not at all
But somehow close to the team at this tall
Walkie speech, muffled cries, passionate yells
Are rhythms of this dance
Lecture none, book notes gone, bare two hands
But they just understand
As he bounced back and forth we all do
Silence of the noise is telepathic
Same silence sits in non-negotiated
Choreography of different agents
Five position groups,
five-minute drills,
countdown LEDs flashing.
A loud buzzer, the end of the period.
Running late
is not an option.
Voices through walkies,
angles called,
communication rapid and clipped.
Every detail captured.
No room to slack off.
The final buzzer.
Silence.
Knelt on one knee, eyes fixed
A rough voice, urgent,
language of motivation.
A huddle,
arms over shoulders.
A short prayer.
Dismissed.
The game thunders, as the air rings.
Like home, you’re just like hanging out here
Small blotches fall incomplete,
as a clack of pads stains a green field,
black, brown, red, blue.
with colors in the background,
Casual, low-stakes bounce awkwardly with noise.
No, the hours are long, dammit, they erupt as
Balancing priorities can be difficult
Their heads hang in disappointment
9:15 am, dealing with class schedules, scheduling issues
It's the price.
Bodies around him, draped in Duke blue,
To do what he does, you have to love the game.
The time that I don’t get to have,
It's the price.
Overhead, he wishes to see his mother,
go on vacations, spend time with his wife.
Such luxuries derail what needs to get done
It's the price. It's the price. It’s the price. It’s the price.
The job demands the price.
Zero clue on the work the job entails,
Communicating is only heard by the team.
It’s the price.
the price, the price, the price, the price.
I sit on top, with nowhere else to turn.
Contributions not valued
As they dance below, to the beat
of clacking pads and shrieking whistles.
the biggest, the largest, just shows up,
And bounces around the room.
All the work that goes in,
Not embodied but heard in the plastic protectors,
that swoon and dive at the path of the ball.
To make things happen
There’s too much to capture here.
But as I sit, perched on the top of an ever-growing pole
Invisible
I see them, the labor and effort required, and watch it all.
All the work that goes on in the back end.
Friend to some, but traitor to others,
But all must know the weight of my gaze.