To fail not to finish

As I sit on the dusty dugout bench,

I already know what it means. 

The varsity coach approaches me

trying his hardest to avoid eye contact

but I already know what hes going to say.

Trying to think of what went wrong, why I wasnt good enough,

what I didn't do, what I couldn't do.

A tear rolls down my cheek,

the coach struggles to keep still,

informing me that I didn't make it while hiding it with an excuse.

He says It wasnt his choice,

but I plug my ears, ignoring his every word,

knowing that whatever he says isn't going to help.

I wipe my tears, heading off the field,

knowing I'll be back.

 

Sacrificing leisure for the grind,

chosing repetitions over rest,

feeding my hunger with hard work.

I spent every moment, 

at the gym or on the field,

conscious that I'm not going to settle.

Spring came with continious eagerness,

edging for another chance

I showed up to every practice, mandatory or optional.

 

The week finally passed,

finding myself sitting on the same bench

watching the same man who crushed my dreams 

slowly walk towards me once more.

Goosebumps cover my arms,

my stomach turns into a tight knot,

my anxiety slowly takes over.

He lets out a great sigh, 

his lips begin to move but my ears tone his voice out.

Shaking my hand while congratulating me,

a slow grin fills my face.

JV sounded so good to me,

but Varsity sounded better to the coach. 

 

 

 

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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