Poem- Confession of a Born Spector

Confessions of a Born Spectator

One infant grows up and becomes a jockey,
Another plays basket ball or hockey,
 This is one the prize ring hates to enter That one becomes a tackle or centre,
 I am just as glad as glad can be
 That I'm not them,  that they're not me.


With all my heart do I admire
Athletes who sweat for fun or hire,
 Who take the field in gaudy pomp.
 And maim each other as they romp.
My limp and bashful spirit feeds
On other people's heroic deeds.

Now A runs ninety yards to score,
B knocks the champion to the floor
C risking vertebrae and spine,
 Lashes his steed across the line.
 You'd think my ego it would please
 To swap positions with one of these.


 Well,  ego might be pleased enough,
 But zealous athletes play so rough,
They do not ever,  in their dealings Consider one another's feelings.
 I'm glad that when my struggle begins Twixt prudence and ego,  prudence wins.


When swollen eye meets gnarled fist
When snaps the knee,  and cracks the wrist,
When calm officialdom demands
Is there a doctor in the stands
My soul in true thanksgiving speaks
For this most modest physiques.

  Athletes,  I'll drink to you
Or eat with you.
Or anything except compete with you.  Buy tickets worth their weight in radium.  To watch you gambol in a stadium
 And reassure myself anew
That you're not me and I'm not you.