The Jive
can you feel it, the man asked
does it
tap your foot
and
penetrate
your soul
does the jive
pattern your heart
and run through your blood
can it
make you feel
make you love
make you
dance
can you feel it, the
man asked
does it
vibrate your inner voice
and sing to you
soundless
does every appendage
feel the
beat
and move to the rhythm
does your stomach
mimic the sound
and head pound to the memory
can you feel it,
the man asked
Cheryl
Concannon
I pull the spandex
over and
stretch
it
around
my
thighs,
squeeze
through and
suction
on this
second
skin
to my
chest.
I draw my
arms
in tight
and
thrust
them
through the
dime
sized holes.
Victory!
the clock
reads
4:35.
I slam the
door,
honk my horn,
and race to
morning practice.
Soon I stand,
huddle
with my team,
on the
arctic
deck,
wearing
skimpy suits
with cheesy
cellulite
spilling
out the
sides,
thinking
of this
tedious
habit,
reminding
myself:
we play to
win.
I look
at the
steamy
water
(like a
doctor's
office)
while
procrastinating
the
inevitable
plunge.
At the first
tingle
of water
creeping through
my toes,
I know
the worse
has
been
endured,
and for
the next hour
and a half the
whistle
will be
God.
80 minutes,
50 minutes,
20 minutes more,
-count down
to daydreams
of
showers
as steamy and
warm
as saunas,
and bowls
with cereal
mounding
to the brim,
soaking in
chilled
milk
slowly
consume my
thoughts
as if
my
lovers.
At five minutes
left,
I feel an
urge,
a supernatural
force
tells me to
jump out,
drive home,
and never
look
back, but I
resist,
I suffer
through the last
grueling, prolonged
five minutes.
Within the
next
ten minutes
it's all a
memory,
another
practice down,
one to be
slashed
off
the calendar,
another step
toward
post-season.
Cheryl Concannon
Will we win?
How much do I care?
Why does the whistle have power?
Does coach cry?
Cheryl Concannon