Sports Poetry

Chalk dust floats.

Everyone else went home.

It’s quiet, just the hum of the fan

and my breathing.

The bar is loaded.

Same weight as last week.

The one I missed.

I stare at that crosshatch pattern.

My hands hurt.

My back is tight.

It’s not about muscles.

It’s about doubt.

That voice that says you can’t.

I grip the cold steel.

Just one.

One more than last time.

I pull.

Fence gates locked, shackled

for the nighttime. The

whole field, empty, quiet.

Settled.

Thousand Oaks High

where baseball rules

but still no lights

Settled

Dugouts dark and with

a thin layer of dirt on

the ground.

Settled.

Another game has passed,

another win and triumph,

another contest…

Settled.

Crows and seagulls roost,

fight for hot dog bun crumbs,

then retreat to the fence,

Settled.

The artificial turf, stoic.

The mound raked and

tarped, sheds shut,

Settled.

Far away, today’s fielders rest,

some tired from,

some tired of.

Settled.

Rain starts to fall,

turf becoming damp,

Bird shiver, and

the chance of

tomorrow’s game:

Settled.

I’m standing on the home sideline

just after sunset,

helmet loose in my hands,

breath slipping out in small clouds

that catch the stadium lights

like tiny signals to nobody.

This is the part of football

no one teaches you—

the waiting,

the quiet stretch before the snap

when the whole field

feels like it’s listening.

My palms are sweating inside my gloves,

the turf still warm from the day,

and somewhere behind me

Coach is talking about footwork,

but all I hear

is my heartbeat

thumping like it’s trying

to run the play before I do.

I used to think toughness

was the pop of pads

or the grunt after a big hit,

but the real test

might be the moment

you look across the line

and realize you’re the only one

who knows how scared you are.

The ball is snapped

a sharp sound,

almost metallic

and everything narrows—

the smell of cut grass,

the scrape of cleats,

the breath trapped in my throat

finally breaking free.

Later, I won’t remember the score.

I won’t even remember

who missed the block.

But I’ll remember this

the exact second

fear turns into movement,

and movement turns into belief,

and belief

is the only thing

keeping me upright

under the lights.

It’s almost midnight,

campus gone quiet,

and the gym door whistles shut

behind me with that hollow sound

I’ve started to depend on.

The court smells like dust and rubber,

the kind you only notice

when no one else is around.

My sneakers echo across the floor,

each step a reminder

that this is the place I come to think

when thinking anywhere else

feels too heavy.

I start shooting,

easy at first—

the ball hitting the rim

with that sharp, ringing clink

that bounces around the rafters

before settling somewhere behind me.

I tell myself I’m here to get better,

but tonight it feels more honest

to say I’m here

because the world is too loud,

and this court

lets me hear myself again.

There’s a kind of rhythm

that builds in the quiet:

dribble, breathe,

rise, release,

the soft kiss of the net

when the shot lands right.

It’s not about basketball here.

Not really.

It’s about the stillness

between shots,

the moment the ball arcs

higher than I thought it could,

and for a split second

I imagine my life doing the same.

I keep shooting

until the lights flicker once—

their way of telling me

it’s time to head out

and the last thing I hear

is the dull, familiar thud

of the ball rolling away,

as if it knows

I’ll be back

when I need the quiet again.