Assumed Identity
Unexpected gifts
![](https://res.cloudinary.com/jerrick/image/upload/d_642250b563292b35f27461a7.png,f_jpg,fl_progressive,q_auto,w_1024/659494737366bd001dad9b68.jpg)
It lay on the hotel bed -
a hoodie gifted at Christmas.
With one sleeve white, one sleeve black,
its brown letters
- outlined in orange on the grey front -
exclaimed its team:
Cleveland Browns.
Must I? I wondered, must I
assume an identity not true to me?
A Browns fan?
An NFL supporter?
A possible Trump voter -
given the many signs I saw
planted in wintering fields on our way?
I cringed, but for him -
I glanced at the curly haired boy
a few feet away -
For him - anything!
Hours later,
seated under the steel beams of an upper tier,
indistinguishable from 67,900 other people -
all adorned in combos of orange, and brown, and white too -
I rose for the national anthem.
And then remained as such
for the kickoff of the game.
A game, you know, of little importance,
to anyone but a Cleveland fan.
A year from now, maybe just a month,
I knew, - especially if they lost -
any significance would be forgotten by all
but those who wear such shirts.
And yet,
as the music pounded a steady beat,
and the QB powered them up the field,
and fans responded in return,
Shouting out,
"Here we go, Brownies, here we go!"
“Woof, woof!” I joined in,
swaying with the crowd.
And then, not even after four minutes had passed by -
when Joe Flacco threw the ball to running back Jerome Ford
who dove past would-be tacklers
and reached across the pylon for a touchdown -
It happened.
All arms shot up - mine too -
and gloved and padded hands began
aiming for each other.
I hit my husband’s, my son’s, my grandson’s,
and then the man in front of me
aimed for mine, and so I hit his,
and then, so, too, his friend’s,
and when I turned ever so slightly,
the young teen girl behind me,
grabbed my mittened paw and shook it,
passionately,
claiming me for one of her own.
And I was.
For three hours more,
even as we - a single wave of brown, of orange and
a little white - flowed from the field and onto the streets,
communal joy abounded.
And then,
near midnight,
as I removed the shirt,
I would rather have not worn,
I couldn’t help but grieve
my loss.
No longer would others
see only themselves in me.
Defined by taste, by style
by preference,
once again,
others would see me as
I think
I want to be seen.
About the Creator
Denise Davis
A Manhattan-toasted, Kentucky marinated, Southern Californian, this 60+ year old woman has studied writing, taught writing and admired writing. It's time to actually begin writing. We shall see how this goes.
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Comments (7)
Stellar effort! Keep up the extraordinary work—congratulations!
Well done, congratulations on top story. 
Great story
Beautifully written!!! Congratulations on Top Story!!!❤️❤️
Congrats on making top story!
There's a beautiful community in sport I think, and you've nailed it here so well 😁
So much of excitement here! Loved your poem!