Men of boys or some reference; Ishmael, or Salinger’s rebel if you prefer (at what age did you read it ‘cause it matters). We are these things. I’m some kind of ignorant infant in a swarm of older boys holding to me to rules of a game I didn’t know I was playing. There’s time on the clock and I have no choice but to run the ball down the field. So sad. I would like to speak to people as they deserve it, but that’s a foul. I would like to live, or imagine myself to live, without contradicting myself but it’s an obvious prerequisite to get on the field. I can see men on the tv! Men in holes bringing out black gold - sensitive stoicism. I think I can score some points here. We must succumb to the rules of our game. One rule: complete and impenetrable devotion to the ironic duplicity of the game – replacing religious tyranny with democratic ultra violence. Benefit the youth by sacrificing their bodies, and the elders will reflect (and audience is entertained). The teams’ been on the field a long time and I can hear some string music; just one musician, very small and far away in the distance – this tune is for all the whiners. You never grow up and if you think you did you failed. Read this – players quit everyday, but not mine. I’m sorry for apologizing for your loss, because I don’t get it, it’s not my loss. I’m sorry for mine when it comes, and you won’t get it. We never will. I’m just getting into the second quarter, and coach hasn’t made his speech yet and I got nothing to go on, so I think the best thing to do is hustle. We play through, and our game gets better or it doesn’t. The field gets bigger and the players faster, but I’m getting help - I’m playing in the ref’s blind spot.
