Gap Season
I stare at walls for hours. Weeping softly in my beer.
Needing honks at every stoplight
So that I’ll put my car in gear.
No halfcourt shot from Curry. Oh, Mahomes where have you gone?
On CBS…a comedy
Enough of you, Vince Vaughn.
Basketball is over. And, still, football isn’t close.
All crackheads need a daily fix
IT’S 2 MONTHS TIL MY NEXT DOSE!
You think I need more balance. Or perhaps a breath?
My oxygen is from the games
Please see: Walter White + meth.
Long. This sports hiatus. I float through space and time.
What is life outside the seasons?
A search for reason or some rhyme.
I phone my friend for guidance. To help me with the pain.
Call drops. A bad connection.
Must be weather, maybe rain?
He shows up at my doorstep. Looks weary and quite old.
While trembling hard, he hugs me tight
So frigid. Feels ice cold.
Dead-eyed, with just a whisper, he mumbles in a haze:
“Season kicks off with the Eagles…
…still another 60 days.”
My rugged friend, a bulldog. But now more like a pup.
I push him back, then ask with force:
“WHAT. THE. FUCK. IS. A. WORLD. CUP?”
We walk for miles in silence. Blank stares of fallen men.
Both are shattered and heartbroken…
Surely never whole again.
Only soccer and lame baseball. Those crumbs are not a meal.
Then a miracle, it lifts us…
I hear a crowd begin to squeal.
Stadium? Behind those trees! Could it really be?
The spunkiness inside me lives…
We sprint ahead to see.
I’ll be rowdy once again! A wild and crazy menace!
All my passion as a fan is back…
(Oh, wait, I caught a glimpse)
This shit is only tennis.
