Playing, the back and forth playing with everything.
Play fighting, play loving, imitating, experimenting with gravity and all of life.
Somewhere along the way we forget how to play, how to give and take and maybe we even forget how to just be, how to just sit around. And that gives birth to a hollow and from that hollow, confusion and from that confusion harm and that harm brings death.
We forgot how to play, now we kill.
It's second down and five yards to go.
Or we try to.
We slowly kill ourselves.
It's that simple. Kill ourselves, kill others, just for a chance to recapture that shiny thing from childhood. Kill for joy.
I killed myself last night.
First and ten.
When the ball is snapped I slap the defensive tackle on the side of the helmet, hard, I'm sure his ears are ringing, the ref doesn't see, that's one for me.
The pulse, the flow, perpetually horny, perpetually on, like knowing the whole world is counting on me. I can feel it.
This youngin' can throw, first down again. Trot forward.
I know that I can’t lose.
I know that I can only live while I’m playing. I don’t know if you know what I’m talking about, but it has this taste, and it lingers. Like dirt and metal, like blood.
You have no control, you are a part of a great oneness that people call different names now. You can’t stop and you don’t know that there is a stopping, what you do know is that you would give anything to feel this way forever. To play for ever, to hear the crowd.
No past. No regrets. No fear.
Touchdown.
Just playing, like kids from a sandlot.
You don't owe anyone anything, you are the author, you own everything and every-when.
Being on the sidelines, looking into the crowd, I hear voices.
"Allen, you owe us," the voice inside my head tells me.
I hear that voice now and it's as if I have never known silence.
Back on the field.
The ball is snapped again.
I crush the nose guard as he comes my way.
I spit at his back as he gets up.
The crowd roars.
On the field their hate and love are the same.
The crowd voice.
That voice will want more from me, but I will say, “no.”
That voice will want justice, but I will say, “no.”
Second down and long.
If you can just say no to your conscience, you can really live.
If I can just ignore the pain for just a little while longer, I can play.
I can live forever. I play hard enough so they know I am playing, but slow enough so that I enjoy it, that is the key.
In a moment that stretches I turn and find myself on the field.
For a moment I'm back my the first field, as a clumsy ten year-old.
Third down and three yards to go.
My first year playing I was just too scared to let it all in and my second year was only marginally better, but now, this is my game, this is my house and when my body does fail, you can have it.
In the end you can have it all, the crowd, the noise, and my body, just take it all away.
I know the end is coming, since I studied some.
I know man is mortal, so I made a deal.
I'll walk away with 10K if I can just play a little slower, if I can make myself move a little slower. Just let them through.
Play a little slower.
Just left them have one more sack.
Ignore the voice and its noise, that make me want to win.
I'm tired and in love with the game, the crowd works it's way into me.
Their noise puts me in the game, the game makes me no less than God.
Last play.
In the pocket, feet pumping.
The voice is a whisper now, the voice saying, "let em through, let em through. Take the money."
The crowd roars and I taste blood in my mouth.
I open a hole in the line big enough for a team of half-backs.
We win the game and I lose, more than I thought I could, I lose.
