The diving board’s

not new to me.

 

Tension muffled by

experience, wonder

trampled by knowledge.

 

I salute the flag of certitude.

Four and a half steps,

and jump.

 

Body and mind align as

I step forward to spring.

Soar like and eagle

 

to Safeco Field, where

I put a monster swing on the ball that's

traveling in a majestic trajectory towards

the left field bleachers with the bases loaded

in the bottom of the ninth of the deciding game

of the World Series and we’re down by three.

 

The ball a ballerina

The left fielder’s one too.

 

They’ve practiced this move

and know their parts well.

 

The fans leap to their feet

in perfect choreography.

 

Will he catch it?

Will it be just out of reach

and into the stands?

 

Will Little Joey Arnacin who’s

in the front row with a baseball glove

that he got for his eighth birthday

reach out and really mess things up?

 

We will never know because we’re going

to the deciding kick of the World Cup

and it’s a penalty kick at that.

So there’s time to think.

 

Your leg is the definition

of what soccer wants,

an exquisite balance

between quadriceps and hamstrings.

 

Both are so strong

that if you were a  weightlifter,

you’d be in the Olympic finals.

 

Your mind is experienced.

Thoughts gust in like a hurricane.

 

Watch the eyes of the goalie.

Know his strengths and weaknesses

Know what he’s done in the past

and against whom and what their strengths and weaknesses were.

 

Know that he will cover weakness and dare you with strength.

Know that he knows that you know all of this.

 

You have to let go. Let go of thought.

Become a cheetah that is bearing down

on a leopard as if your life depends on it.

 

Become one with the millions

watching on TV.

They want the same thing as you.

Ignore the others.

It’s easy.

Space doesn’t exist.

only ball and net.

 

Your leg’s arc is graceful

like a trumpeter swan in flight.

Your will and experience

fly toward the goal

like the beating of wings.

 

But the goalie has read your eyes,

knows your strengths and weakness

as if he’d studied them for a PhD.

 

The ball rotates like a planet

flies like an F-16

towards the upper left

corner of the net.

 

But it’s as if the goalie’s tribe

caught salmon at Celilo Falls

when catching was as easy

as grabbing a black and white ball

as it drifts through air.

 

Ball, hands, and net freeze

because we are going

to the final shot of the third overtime

of the deciding game of the NBA finals.

The score is tied and no time is left.

Except for this last foul shot.

Come on!

You’ve done this thousands of times.

Don’t think!

Take a deep breath.

Dribble the ball seven times.

Lift it level to your chest.

Your psyche has a groove for this.

 

Ignore the sound of the crowd.

Ignore the waving arms in the stands

trying to distract you.

Float.

Alone.

Focused.

You.

The net.

 

Space is irrelevant.

Take another deep breath.

Your muscle memory knows what to do.

Ignore David Reeves, in seat C-211

who somehow delivers the words Miss it!

with a banshee like scream into your psyche.

 

Let the ball go.

It’s on its way….