The Game

I never got the hang of sport.

Clumsy, left-handed, preoccupied with cares at home,

and, as a youth, far too small to play anything well.

I didn’t watch, didn’t know the rules,

never seemed to have the skills or gear that others had.

Never wore a uniform.

I did spend hours alone trying to throw a ball straight,

sink a basket, or perfect a tennis swing.

Couldn’t do it. Not with either hand.

Worse, last one picked for a team, wearing my cousin’s old right-hander glove,

I knew from the start I’d be yelled at, mocked, and left on the field

when a pickup game was over, and the others ran off somewhere together.

It was so much better to find solitary adventures

in a book or on a bike.

Yet there were brief moments when I enjoyed

the green playing fields around us, the blue arch of sky overhead,

the sounds of traffic fading to insignificance;

a glance from one teammate to another,

a shout of pleasure for another’s triumph,

a suspension of all else for the duration of the Game . . .

Moments.

But even then I knew the Game was not for me.

Is it like this for those who yearn for love

and do not find it?