Always, at whoever’s house, teeth marks:
a chunk chewed from the stitches
or the side, the smooth N or F
we would worry with our fingers
before testing our strength against
fall’s yawning acreage, a Hail Mary
every down. Sometimes waterlogged
from a rain barrel or above-ground pool,
often scrawled with permanent marker
across the seam (nickname, lightning).
Consider the synonyms of loser, that two-syllable acidic stain on the tongue that we’re told is a label to avoid: also-ran, underdog, deadbeat, defeated, dud, failure, flop, has-been, disadvantaged, down-and-outer, flunked, underprivileged.
Read More█ a post-game press ███████████████████████████ gesture ███ █████ ██ a message to fans ███████████████████████ poor performance ████ ████████████████████████████████████████████████ will not be tolerated.
Read MoreWe stand in the gloom of April:
pearls of ice, strands of snow,
entire necklaces dipped in heaven’s
July 31, 2005, was the first day I believed I could become an Olympic swimmer. I was competing for the Meadowbrook Tomatoes in the 11-12 age group at the Central Maryland Swim League (CMSL) Championships, the big season finale for summer swim teams. And for the 100 I.M., I had to race against my former teammate, the evil Amy Halligan, a bulldog of a girl whose mouth was fixed in a permanent grimace. She was a professional at spinning her words to make me feel awful in my already awkward skin. But today, enough was enough. I had never wanted to beat someone this badly.
Read MoreWhy is the crude swell
of nostalgia like
cresting sun and falling darkness
kissing?
It’s the last game of our season, of my whole athletic career, although I don’t know it yet.
My tongue is thick and dry, chafing against my worn black mouth guard. I suck it against the hard roof of my palate until I feel the urge to gag. But I don’t retch. I’m too tired. The air here in southern Maryland hangs still and heavy over the Bermuda grass field.
Ask Slater to drive you to the meet at Stone Steps. Your mom has the truck today. Big surprise, Slater never shows. Walk past the Dairy Queen and the LiquorMart as you hike west to the beach. Rafe’s already there when you arrive. His lips turn up in a smile that eats up his face. He’s got his skateboard with him. Do you wanna see a new trick? You do.
Read MoreWhat do you get when Dazed and Confused meets Stranger Things? How about when The Crucible and Macbeth challenge the Bad News Bears and The Craft to a game of field hockey? Put all of those things together, plop them down on the middle of a pitch in the same town that hosted the infamous witchcraft trials in 1692, hand the referee’s whistle to Emilio Estevez and you get We Ride Upon Sticks by Quan Barry.
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