In his office, Coach De Mann said
I had it made & could win
City if only I put my mind
where my body was, applied
myself. That season I lifted,
ran stairs, wore three layers
of sweats to slim sleep. All winter
in trash bags I jogged to Russia & back,
dreamt steak, no fat. The drinking
fountain we ran laps past
ringed in launched loogies
stayed unsipped.
On the meet-bound bus
I watched boys spit out pounds
in Kwik cups—heard tell
of magic saunas & miracle,
ten-pound
dumps. One Coach made my friend
drop a whole class, cutting
from 112 to 105 overnight;
Tim bought PMS pills to lose
water, the cashier staring back
at him blank as his Biology
test the next day
when he passed out cold. Watched
another kid shave—rusty razor,
no cream, no mirror—
when some ref deemed
his teenage stubble
a weapon—
in the warped
metal of the paper towel dispenser
his chin bloomed stigmata.
After I told Mom I knew I’d win
she only half-
believed me, said hope
was good to have. Later I waved
to her from the podium
after winning City, my smile as long
as the shot she’d thought I had.
How I loved
Coach & his belief,
the medal mine. Earning
my letter jacket’s giant T,
I was called to his office, I thought
to shake hands. Instead he asked,
You can dance, right?
Why don’t I moonwalk
for him & the boys?
A ring of fellow coaches grinned.
Stunned, I did not laugh
or dance or do that backwards
glide he wanted—I still haven’t a clue
which race he thought
he’d have me run—my medal
long lost—that sunny morning
right before Life
Science, long after History.