Soccer

I could tell the day would come
when the grass was thinly trimmed
and divided by white lines
and crowded by the masses
of fathers and mothers,

two teams of opposing colors
all working in spontaneity
the simple goal of scoring that
is helped by the collision
of shins and cleats

And I, the Defender,
knew that at this very moment,
I was indefinitely focused
on that ball, and those lines
and that grass meant nothing to me.

The screams of fans
whether localized or not
drowned out the focus
endeavored on the ball
and the footwork of the enemy

I was shielding my allies
from the advances they'd make
no matter the sacrifices
a bruised leg or a busted nose
I was willing to give it my all

And whether or not
the plays were good or bad
I still cried the whole way home
because somehow I knew
I didn't give in enough

But truly the competition
I found in this game
was that as loud as my effort
came from the mountaintops,
would anyone hear the sound?