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Bal

This poem appeared in the August 1995 issue of M.E.N. Magazine


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It was the way you defended the end-around, faking fat Mike at the line, lunging through, and just when Billy got the pitchout from Art, dropping to your knees and praying like a saint for those churning legs to come your way. You'd go for both of them, right at the shins, but would settle for an ankle if that would bring him down-and nine out of ten it would. You got your bell rung more than once; why you never lost any teeth is beyond me.

So years later, when your dad put a .45 to the side of his head and never looked back, it came as no surprise to see the grave, angelic grace that attended every step when you finally returned to school. It was as if you'd been born to take that hit, to take it and not have it break you. Because it never did; you never broke. At least, it never showed.

Frederic Sibley


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