Disclaimer: I don’t do poetry, but here’s for kicks.
I’ve known you since seventh grade,
Silently crying because I sucked when we played for youth group.
So I joined the school team,
because I thought I could learn your ways.
Little did I know that all middle school sports suck,
Like a duck,
Trying to drive a truck.
And so we crashed,
but it was all fun,
and nobody gave a dime.
Then came graduation,
along with Freshman year that would prove to be inciting.
and made J.V.
Had fun making friends,
but not trying to make my lead feet move.
Later, coach would have a baby and move,
our club team would collapse,
and still time would lapse.
The year of the S’mores,
try-outs a breeze,
with a new mystery coach,
and social hour with now old friends.
Lead feet had only gotten heavier,
but I could now ace seven serves.
(A marvel soon forgotten)
So I warmed the bench,
along with a few others,
Praying to get put in,
through my cheers and screams.
The chicas were much sweeter in 2012,
the coach much tougher,
and I not much better,
by the end of the ye-AR.
We were 8 and 1,
but I 0 and 8,
no thanks to my lead feet.
I am no quitter,
I am no quitter,
I am no quitter.
I just really like twitter,
and being SydneyJoTo.
It’s not you,
me and my lead feet.
The future is unwritten,
who’s to say if I will try again next year,
but if I do it will be for the people,
to study the human spirit in the medium you offer.
Which is teamwork,
and joy at a win,
and despair at a loss,
and silly faces during water break.
That, I will miss.
However YOU my bleached leather friend,
and techniques and ways you are flung about a court,
are silly by the way I choose to look at it.
You are the definition of awkward.
But I will always appreciate the spirit you give off.
Thanks for the memories,
Spike on frenemy.