Just As Drained As If I’d Played

When does the jagged edge of
personal contest dissipate?
When can one expect a break,
adrenalin stop coursing in,
emphatically impairing wisdom?

I’ve been a combatant,
straining nerves and sinews
in the frantic dash, heated
in the clash of bodies
meeting head to head.

I regret I needed it back
then, a younger man, a
steely lance engaged in fray
for joy of it. But not today.
Surely I don’t need to pace

the floor, daring not to glance
as players are arrayed across
the field, taking on a strong
defence, running into open
space, passing, swiftly passing,

sprinting free to score a try. If
anything I love it more than in my
playing days – don’t have to train,
listen to complaints or sassy referees
who know they own the game.

Yet when the final whistle blows
to end suspense, players disengage
to leave the field, I’m just as
sweetly drained as if I’d played.
© 2007-03-02, I.D. Carswell