The local beer distributor's
handing out awards. I feel sorry
for the kids, most of them
could do without it: stepping up
on the Pepsi box, having to remember
which hand to shake with, which
to take the trophy with.
One of them, though, is different.
He doesn't squint, or get uneasy
stepping up. Instead,
he looks at everyone slowly, even
the beer distributor. He tells them
how happy he is. He tells them
when he's playing, something
inside him moves him so quickly
that everything stops.
Even the ball.
Forty years later,
he’ll still feel that way:
that nothing else matters.
He'll tell you playing is the only thing
that feels right to him, that his business,
his drinking, even the marriages
belong to somebody else: the one
who’s afraid, hates his wife,
gets high too much. That one.