For Coach Gregg Popovich, J.S., & R.S., M.E., & J.C.

because he now has the highest
winning percentage in season-openers, 
which feels ironic when I imagine
a young Pop in a military post somewhere
ending any bar fight—not starting them.

This is also true of two roommates I studied
alongside in an Airforce town in Missouri. 
Both needed degrees for new life to shed
their pasts. They paid their rent on time. 
They kept their word. When Pop said, 
“I am you,” I know he meant these two 
mechanics with knowing hands. 

One worked on the Apache Helicopter and
learned Rilke’s poetry in German. The other, 
who would later outrank her ex, serviced
the B-2 Bomber and is about to give birth. 

An older man I loved loved to rib me 
for loving an even older man who pushed, 
to a boring tedium (in his eyes) —“old man
basketball” with “dry fundamentals” while
I watched The Big Three wipe the floor
with their rivals in overtime, again and again.

I imagine Pop might wince at all the blood and gore
terminology used in sport, not so unlike the way
a veteran-professor I had used to grimace
when talking about war, fiction, and his service. 
The discomfort coming from a single fact:
that many veterans’ hands didn’t just wield tools, 
guns, and metal parts, but held body parts together
in the stomachs of their friends before aid could arrive. 

Now that we’ve left Iraq—the way that we did—
all I can think is why and how we did all that 
in the first place? But I know the answer
because Pop answered a journalist 
in a no-nonsense fashion
to a stupid post-game question: 
“Next question.” 

MICAH RUELLE is a queer poet, essayist, editor, and educator residing in the Twin Cities.