bobcat1
11-17-2006, 07:57 AM
End of the Season
A Poem by Monica Byars, Wimberley, Texas
They walk off the field, helmets in hand, eyes fixed straight ahead.
The clatter of their cleats beats a familiar cadence as, one by one,
they disappear behind the locker room door. . .
. . . for some, the last time in these uniforms.
These boys, these men, these athletes, our sons.
They walk off the field, their faces grim and sweat streaked,
smeared with mud and blood and tears.
They walk -- these boys, these men, these athletes, our sons --
steeled by adversity, buoyed by victory, tempered by defeat,
schooled by good sportsmanship, bound by friendship,
and driven, ever driven, by their passion for the game.
It is a long, last walk for the seniors.
A walk that began for many in childhood is ending now. . . just months from their graduation.
Boys to men.
Tested and proven on countless football fields. Count the seasons. Count the games.
Blistering heat and soaking rains and finger-numbing cold.
They’ve played with broken bones and twisted limbs, ignoring pain and common sense.
Fought through frustration, exceeded expectations,
took on each challenge with testosterone and talent.
Boys to men.
Now, with full hearts and battered bodies,
with steps made heavy by the finality of this inevitable moment,
they pause to recall each triumph, each glory, and every gutsy play.
They walk off the field in silence.
Their disappointment palpable. Their dignity far greater.
The crowd surges forward -- parents, friends and fans -- but then falls back,
restrained and solemn, lining both sides of the walkway as the athletes file past.
A ripple of applause accompanies each player as he adds his measured step to this bittersweet procession.
And the crowd’s wordless tribute rings more eloquent than any spoken word.
They walk --these boys, these men, these athletes, our sons –
valiant, courageous, resilient. So sure of themselves, convinced of their invincibility.
They walk from the field on their own two feet --
and for this small miracle, their mothers and their fathers quietly weep for joy.
I wonder sometimes, what makes a hero.
Does it have anything to do with mental discipline and physical endurance?
with a heart that won’t give up and a drive that will not quit?
Is a hero, I wonder, defined by his spirit? by his loyalty and grit, and his uncommon courage?
Is it his compassion and kindness that sets him apart?
Is it his sense of honor, his moral fiber?
Or a willingness, always, to do more than what he’s been asked?
Perhaps these characteristics are too ordinary to be considered heroic.
But I wonder if a hero isn’t just an ordinary someone who inspires us to be extraordinary.
A Poem by Monica Byars, Wimberley, Texas
They walk off the field, helmets in hand, eyes fixed straight ahead.
The clatter of their cleats beats a familiar cadence as, one by one,
they disappear behind the locker room door. . .
. . . for some, the last time in these uniforms.
These boys, these men, these athletes, our sons.
They walk off the field, their faces grim and sweat streaked,
smeared with mud and blood and tears.
They walk -- these boys, these men, these athletes, our sons --
steeled by adversity, buoyed by victory, tempered by defeat,
schooled by good sportsmanship, bound by friendship,
and driven, ever driven, by their passion for the game.
It is a long, last walk for the seniors.
A walk that began for many in childhood is ending now. . . just months from their graduation.
Boys to men.
Tested and proven on countless football fields. Count the seasons. Count the games.
Blistering heat and soaking rains and finger-numbing cold.
They’ve played with broken bones and twisted limbs, ignoring pain and common sense.
Fought through frustration, exceeded expectations,
took on each challenge with testosterone and talent.
Boys to men.
Now, with full hearts and battered bodies,
with steps made heavy by the finality of this inevitable moment,
they pause to recall each triumph, each glory, and every gutsy play.
They walk off the field in silence.
Their disappointment palpable. Their dignity far greater.
The crowd surges forward -- parents, friends and fans -- but then falls back,
restrained and solemn, lining both sides of the walkway as the athletes file past.
A ripple of applause accompanies each player as he adds his measured step to this bittersweet procession.
And the crowd’s wordless tribute rings more eloquent than any spoken word.
They walk --these boys, these men, these athletes, our sons –
valiant, courageous, resilient. So sure of themselves, convinced of their invincibility.
They walk from the field on their own two feet --
and for this small miracle, their mothers and their fathers quietly weep for joy.
I wonder sometimes, what makes a hero.
Does it have anything to do with mental discipline and physical endurance?
with a heart that won’t give up and a drive that will not quit?
Is a hero, I wonder, defined by his spirit? by his loyalty and grit, and his uncommon courage?
Is it his compassion and kindness that sets him apart?
Is it his sense of honor, his moral fiber?
Or a willingness, always, to do more than what he’s been asked?
Perhaps these characteristics are too ordinary to be considered heroic.
But I wonder if a hero isn’t just an ordinary someone who inspires us to be extraordinary.