Snowpocalypse report

So maybe they’re like snow and I’m like ice.
Snow bears the imprints of all kind of feet;
Light, heavy, scared, brave, rushing, ambling, nice,
Hard-checking, winners, those who know defeat.

And ice is trodden down upon, it knows
Each taken step; unmoving, knows each crack
Could spell the end. The wind-buffeted snows
Clump together at the end, heading back.

The snow will drift away, move on, forget
Losses and forfeit wins (no one can say
If they would remember real ones), and yet
The ice endures, waiting to melt away

In the warmer season, after the games.
I still do not know all my teammates’ names.

I still do not know all my teammates’ names.
How can I see the game this far away?
Glasses intact (this time), but still the frames
Don’t let me get a good view of the play

Until I hear “Neither goal counted!” and
Resume my post (but near? far? which?) with pride.
Deflects, reflex, kick saves, crouch, slap, or stand;
I haven’t messed up yet and we’re still tied.

I sit out the second half. There’s no more
Scoring; we lose a penalty shootout.
The next week our team manages to score—
The game is unofficial, and a rout

The wrong way. Officially, though, we won;
Forfeits are easy points, but they’re no fun.

Forfeits are easy points, but they’re no fun.
“There aren’t enough of us to play,” they told
Me. Glowering, the season almost done,
I thought of the ref out there in the cold

Waiting in vain for our team just to show.
I went to tell her, not even a hassle.
Grass poked its way up through the melting snow
Then—no mirage, reflection, or ice castle—

I see my teammates. There they’ve come! It’s real!
But all too soon they say it’s not enough,
We’ll have to forfeit. It’s not that I feel
Usual frustration; each loss is tough

But after such joy, descent without fight?
Legends were made for this kind of a night.

Legends were made for this kind of a night
Or maybe it’s the other way around.
The wind blows snow up against each streetlight
As usual, but they say we’re snowbound.

It’s been two years. Don’t think we’ve scored a goal.
Maybe others don’t mind snowouts—I mind.
And now the Wrigley roof is less than whole—
For this I left the Metrodome behind?

There’s more to life than games, my teammates know;
(Some of whom don’t respect the game at all)
But I am not as rootless as the snow.
I want to stand my ground, to play broomball.

Risking cold isn’t that great of a price.
So maybe they’re like snow and I’m like ice.

I Feel The Ice Move

In over three and a half years, I have not blogged solely about my athletic…exploits they’re not…until now. There is probably a good reason for that.

I feel the ice move under my feet.
I see players tumbling down.
I feel myself start teetering
And then I hit the ground.

The other team is a disgrace.
They should mellow out and play.
We will not stay shorthanded
If the game goes on this way.

I wish we all had goalie
Pads to help us get through the game.
I know my sliding motions
Are something I just can’t tame.
But I stand right back up.

I gotta keep control
Down to the distant goal
It’s cold but I sweat all over.