The yard of my home,
the location of football games.
Eric was a wuss.
If he had the ball, stand in front of him
he’d drop it.
One time running for a pass.
I couldn’t see him
he was near, I could smell the Old Spice he wore.
I heard a sound
I turned around.
I swallowed the spearmint I was sucking.
Eric was on the ground with the ball.
His arm had a lump
he sat out a few plays.
We told him “go home”
let his mom know he was hurt
If he went home, his mom would make him stay.
Eventually, he rejoined the game.
The next day, Eric came over with a cast on his arm.
He had broken it in three places.
Eric the wuss had played football with a broken arm.
He was a man.
No one called Eric a wuss again.