Why I Hate Football

I’ve stood here watching for 20 minutes, Marshall,

and you’ve only been in on special teams.

Each time, I’ve gone crazy

yelling Oh, yeah, Number 24!

Who’s that hot man on the field?

That’s my brother!

Mom rolls her eyes and my spouse

tries to cover my mouth

but I’m not here to cheer for your team—I could care

less how they do if you’re not out there.

Finally, Coach lets you go on offense

and you leave the Lone Peak huddle

like you’ve got a job to do.

The quarterback hands off to you

and you fly

into a 240-pound wall

and fumble the ball.

As you hang your head and trot off the field,

destined not to play another minute for your error

I remember Troy’s senior year,

how he got in the papers every week

and we took for granted

the holes he’d find,

his wheels,

the touchdowns.

But those fragile bones of his…

It took one guy to break my oldest brother and then

Johnny Harlein was the star of the team.

I remember where all this heartache comes from—

There was no fumbling with my father, the quarterback,

as he gave BYU its first winning season,

it’s first Bowl game,

and he made it to the NFL

where he got tendonitis in his throwing arm.

I know, if given the chance,

you’d play it all over again.

And you do. Rewind, slow-mo

again and again and again.

- by Tara Bowen