If I could slide tackle with my head I’d be a hell of a soccer player.
It could be a real asset.
I’d spot a chance, a breakaway by the opponent,
I’d chase and dive and use my neck and spine
As my tongue and teeth scrape dirt from the earth and
Tear melted dog turds from hot turf as I
Make invisible microadjustments,
Little lumps of movement
Toward the ball.
Directed by my brain,
Utter focus takes over—
Untrapped by the latency of the body
I become an instant,
The smallest unit of being,
A frizz on the thread of experience,
Focused on a singular goal,
To stop a ball, and
Minutes become seconds
And seconds become hours,
Everything moves in unison, one concerted effort,
Perfect coordination synthesized into every sect of bone and highway
of muscles and tendons, all forced into one job, to successfully remove the
ball from
the opponent’s control,
and that is what happened because there was no other way, and all of that
teamwork
would be celebrated and rejoiced by all of my pores and amoeba
and atoms in the nanoseconds after contact with the ball, all that grand work
paid off.
Clouded by celebration, I would be unsuccessful in identifying and dodging the cleated
foot accelerating towards my head, which is now where the ball was.
I take the brunt of the force into my nose and eye sockets.
The game is prematurely ended due to gruesome injury on the field,
although we still technically win because we were already up 1-0.
If I could slide tackle with my head I’d be a hell of a soccer player.
Too bad I can’t.
