I very nearly cried today.
I fought it back, but they knew.
You know how
That masculine code is, it came into play,
That place where emotion is okay
As long as it’s the ass-kicking
Domination kind, right?

Today was different,
We won our last game and
As we realized that this was it,
I got emotional,
Thinking of how much this TEAM
Carried me,
Just an awesome bunch of kids
Who understood what friendships are,
Who showed what hard work is,
Who were simply fun to be around,
Wins or loses,
Because each day, we played as a team and got better,
Just as we set out to do back in November.

I’m so thankful to have been a part of their growth,
Their spirit something that carried me forward, as well,
And I’m not ashamed to say
That they made me cry
For this is what I’ve always hoped for as a coach
To be part of team
Players, coaches, managers, and parents
Who got it,
That wins and losses are icing, playing time is but a number,
But relationships and improvement are the greatest tasting cake,

And I’ll take that slice every single time.

I wipe my eyes to you guys,
Team on three…

1, 2, 3…

“You either have it,
Or you,

That’s what the guys said,
A comedian and successful writer,
Both Hollywood sort of royalty,
Both getting paid,
Well, I’m assuming.

Eff both of you,
Your Hollywood is a recycling bin,
Mr. Cable TV, your show is Dynasty without the eyeliner
And pushed up breasts.
I can’t get through your last season
Because it has gone on for too long,
Hedge fund guys do shitty things,
Hey joke man,
Do another impression,
Stop riding Carson’s coattails,
We’ve heard how you are all indebted,
But the more I hear about him,
The more I think he wasn’t an icon
Of anything more than control and power,
Which could be the billionth story line
On that other guy’s show.

The judging of writing is not either or,
It is, the effing moment, if I may.
Sometimes things work, sometimes they don’t,
But the two of you make it seem like Hollywood,
The big and little screens,
Are the Holy Grails of writing.
Maybe, if that is your measure of success.
Is making a living writing the only way to be a writer?
Is it sales?
I don’t know,
But what about simple expression,
An outlet that might have some value somewhere.
Can you be a writer doing that? If not, I don’t care,
Because I know,
Sometimes I have it,
Sometimes I don’t.
Maybe someday I’ll write a popular television show
Or be funny on stage,
But if not,
I’m still a writer.

Each morning I step from the dark
Of a deep sleep
With thrill seeking on my mind,
Setting out to rid the world
Of one more lazy mofo, and
Seeking the kind of pleasure
That my particular kind of violence
Brings to my able bodied soul.

Once it was not so,
Then a voice spoke to me,
Imploring me to join in,
To lose remorse, and
To go on a hunt
For exorcising demons
Is the way of those seeking sensation.

That first time,
Not drawing attention,
A cold, calloused, long-rehearsed
Pattern of silence,
Just close enough to be known,
Far enough away to know
Who could be dropped,
Who ran real fast,
Where I fit in.

Each day brought me closer,
Drawing them in,
Sizing them up,
Then it happened with the first disappearance.
Resistance to the early hour was gone.
Soon followed by shallow endurance.
Finally, the serial killing was complete,
When I got a nickname from the fire setting,
Morally flexible, and generally inappropriate sect
I knew I could hang socially.

Now, I find out that the herd was worried that first morning,
My stealthy shadow casting fear and doubt
In the normally well-adjusted and confident
Band of runners.
Little do they know that they are the murderers complicit in
Helping me take control of a twenty-eight year funk.
The deeds have been done,
The sentence is for lightness,
The running is for fun.