backyard football
we used to run head first at each other
so thank God for helmets otherwise
I’m not sure we would have made it
past adolescence with our masculine fervor
to break each other’s necks. until third grade
we were old enough to fight then defend
ourselves against stereotypical boyhood aggression,
too young to incur any permanent damage,
trained to keep your head out of it, until the whistle blew
and everyone else, even the chosen, played by their own rules,
like human javelins with nuclear collisions. in unison,
the crowd lifts their thumb of approval.
what were we to do but mimic those head hunters
with a wild hair, a bountiful risk, especially
when given the choice to be the hammer or the nail,
where we first learned how it felt to get our bells rung,
shake off those fuzzy stars, get used to it, it’s a part of the game.
every consecutive jar loosened the perfect grip:
how insurance doesn’t prevent immediate danger,
instead, injects an adrenaline drip, blackened lens, pupils constrict,
which of you will be the hero? team player, noble sacrifice,
how plastic helmets were implemented for marketability,
or how, despite their grand effort, they can’t recover
the sacred spark of consciousness lost in the wreckage.
june
there’s no telling when it started
since he never had a concussion
in twenty years of paraded demolition.
born to fill a gladiator mold, exalted warrior,
prized fighter, his dominant strut of charisma
captured even enemy eyes, hands tied,
pockets cleansed by conditional offers,
blood for his soothing heat of passion.
so, was it after four kids, divorce mid-career?
failed business, extravagant spender, gambler?
or after he was called back to the field
while on vacation in Fiji, gifted the dynasty
another banner season? or was it after his third
publicized attempt to retire, for good this time?
or after he was arrested for domestic violence,
released at 2am, survived an unintended plummet
off a seaside cliff? or after he lost touch with his kids,
pre-dawn riser, mindless, unable to quiet the empty static?
after he brushed off peers who couldn’t help?
or did they realize only after his fatal prayer?
or was it after the lawsuit, despite the NFL’s best defense
against researchers who discovered the brain virus,
his infested? do they think post-humous Hall of Famer
rebalances the scales of fatherless children,
or a mother who buries her son?
there’s no telling when it will end,
will it be after they conform another
innocent child? the next crucifixion?
disciples
like anyone else we loved
our chosen leaders,
poised to sculpt our higher evolution,
extraterrestrial ascension,
incremental succession, champions
of a polished propaganda,
intra-national hysteria,
upward spiral
in the proven system.
we could be divine or
calibrated to supra-human.
incubated by their sun
like moons, silver mirrors,
chiseled skin
by their breath of fire,
backlash of inadequate effort,
curse of discipline,
don’t sit too close
you’ll catch the slobbered jargon,
foaming mouth,
of one loyalty,
blood red complexion.
hear the message, ignore delivery.
don’t take it personally.
our stubborn, futile ambition, or was it naivety?
blind faith?
in accordance with a victorious cadence,
pledge allegiance to the coat of arms,
sing the anthem,
join the rally,
aligned by position & rank,
no time to weep
for lost brothers
who step out of bounds,
never made the connection
to their civil disobedient sons,
privileges of a prince, even then
it’s never enough.
still, they praise their fatherhood,
distinguished career,
team first as family mindset,
glorify what affords their life,
even if their sons & wives disintegrate,
replaced by an inanimate lover,
medallions, badges, encore,
refuge assumed in the heat of a spotlight,
like the Athenian acropolis,
like sunbathing reptiles on desert rocks
of their terrarium,
even if their own bodies revolt,
forever starving,
licking dust.
they too wore a reduced leash,
insured by obscene buyouts,
we inherited the pressure,
accepted as development,
still constricts the ascending carotid.
win enough,
we’ll compliment their more-than-second chances
even after electrocuted, strangled dogs,
assaulted pregnant girlfriends,
half-buried youth summer camp abuse,
systemic domestic violence,
whatever it takes to win.
hold the blink a while longer
when retirement means funeral,
one eulogy required,
lived for enshrinement,
pinnacle of a frozen mountain.
wait in line. bow your head
to bronze, immovable statues,
in memoriam,
our founding fathers.
in hindsight, even the high school trophy case,
plastic, air & gold paint,
barren mansions,
garnished gravestones,
cannot veil the aftermath,
ripples they can manage in the moment
turn to tidal waves eventually:
adultery, stalking,
assault, molestation,
lewd images distributed to students.
if they couldn’t predict these dark futures,
what had I learned?
light of the world
nobody cares what you do in the dark
as long as you show up to play
with your game face drawn,
look good, play good,
eye black, furrowed brows, snarling mouth,
wrist tape, arm bands, nylon sleeves
trademarked, like barcodes
scanned for purchase,
bare neck on window display,
lined up for slaughter,
better yours than theirs,
when it counts, game & season at stake,
twelfth man gnaws fingertips,
leans over restricted boundary
between safety & danger, life or death,
both sides starving,
hold tight the ropes tied around your neck
to excuse them from their suffering,
rise with you in victory,
hang you when you fall.
easy decision to abide in limelight,
appease the crowd, eye of the storm
captivated by avant-garde theatrics,
swaddled in blankets, robes & chains
of applause & laughter,
you like yourself better, too,
welcomed to private masquerades
you tailored your smile to fit in,
respected public figure, unlike before
you first exposed your special skill,
all eyes on you, performer.
you learned well
the dark trade
of blood for gold:
YES SIR! YES SIR! YES SIR!
follow the rules, fall in line,
head low, make no sound,
push harder, more in the tank,
never settle for good enough,
find a way to win,
flip the switch, destroyer,
ATTACK!
PUNISH!
OBLITERATE!
full name etched in sidewalk records
through sincere devotion to the team,
normalized state of out-of-balance,
survival of the hyper-extended
via endogenous stimulant medication.
don’t fight the urge for more
reeling, reeling, reeling.
excess strain worked well for you,
not so much for others.
fans still relish in your layers of muscle,
you saved them more than once.
they notice you in the local restaurant,
thank you for your service,
you were such a great player,
can I take a picture?
they like the picture more.
it’s hard to tell what’s real—
lights, cameras, twisting blur,
kaleidoscope charade spectacles,
midnight incense,
forgotten smell of fruit
from moistened soil & sun,
motion pictures filmed
in manufactured habitats,
stocked hunting farms,
catch & release ponds,
when attention, like golden beams
from soul to soul
between the eyes,
hoists you above the mob,
vanishes, like you were only ever holographic,
don’t you deserve a humbling?
what have you ever had to work for?
like friends you ask for help
who reverse as if you don’t notice
with starstruck eyes into hedges,
when it’s inconvenient.
now you know ulterior motives,
they only come out to play in the summer.
what’s left of you then?
elicit the elemental phase shift,
120 teammates at all times
to just a singular, faint pulse,
tranquility on earth.
that doesn’t sit well
for the hungry & restless.
here, in the dark,
you’re on your own for the first time.
you wonder what you’re here for,
you’re just a football player.
you don’t know how to ask for help,
you don’t need it.
you’ve never had to,
you walk this runway alone,
stone-cold swagger & sashay.
look at you now—
battle scars, your shield, sword & flag,
flaunted pride, your distinguished honor.
remember how they used to admire you?
it means nothing now.
they only remember the good times,
you only remember the bad,
when they forgot you are human, too.
I want to know
who you are
in the dark.
what’s underneath your outer layer?
mind if I hang that coat of fine fur?
are those scales? limp, cold hands?
do you change colors? glow or blend?
are you translucent? still bleeding?
swept away by a gentle breeze?
is your life a performance?
what covers you now?
when they turn up the heat,
melted glaciers elevate sea level,
perform under pressure,
let us pray your core is diamond.
could you step outside the norm
with the righteous?
will you stand against the current,
beacon of light
for the blind & oppressed
by the full moon’s riptide,
the nation’s bronze bull?
will you hand-deliver
the perfect son
to the cross, too?
what if you don’t know
what it’s like,
who you are,
in the dark?
how can you,
when the only world you know,
like a wave’s peak,
barrels for cameras,
crashes into shore soon after?
what’s left of you then?
who’s left to put the pieces back together?
will the clever & conniving
invent new religion for that, too?
I want to know
if you can be alone
in the dark.
who are you
with your eyes closed?
who are you
at the end of any timeline?
who are you
in the phase to follow?
flip the light switch,
let’s see your true color.
there is no hiding
your heart’s companions.
I see right through
your bloodless, burning skin.
stake your claim in light
and lights turn off,
how can you know
how or when or if
it could get better?
when all you knew,
your lifeline, framework,
up-to-date software download
from the ether, outer space
orchard for reptiles,
dissipates like mist.
how can you see without it?
idols invade the land like ticks,
we humans adapt & survive,
skin color & vision leeched in process,
summit soon becomes basecamp,
glory lasts a second,
sprint to catch the next,
mirage of tempests continues.
when it’s over, you wonder
if you fought for a good cause.
after all —
why sacrifice if no lasting benefit?
medals like jewelry only weighed you down,
carved inner emptiness,
hunger persists.
inverted reality,
you lived in the shadow of rock.
what if instead you lived & died
to illuminate the night?
God forbid people convince you otherwise,
you may forget—
you are the light of the world.
* * *
David Brooks Ellis is a poet, speaker, and former NFL football player. His work can be found in Skyfreight, The Sport Scribe, Half and One, Soup Can Magazine. He holds an MS from Georgetown University in Integrative Medicine and Health Sciences, and BA from the University of Arkansas. Ellis was born in Dallas, TX, grew up in Fayetteville, Arkansas. You can follow him on Instagram @brooksellis51, X (Twitter) @ellis_davidb or on his Substack at davidbrooksellis.substack.com.