One infant grows up and becomes a jockey,

Another plays basketball or hockey,

This one the prize ring hates to enter

That one becomes a tackle or center,

I am just glad as glad can be

That I am not them, that they are not me.

With all my heart I do admire

Athletes who sweat for fun or hire,

Who take the field in gaudy pomp,

And maim each other as they romp,

My limp and bashful spirit feeds

On other people’s heroic deeds.

Now A runs ninety yards to score,

B knocks the champion to the floor,

Cracking vertebrae and spines,

Lashes his steed across the line,

You’d think my ego it would please

To swap positions with one of these.

Well, ego it might be pleased enough,

But zealous athletes play so rough

They do not ever in their dealings

Consider one another’s feelings.

I’m glad that when my struggle begins

‘Twist prudence and ego, prudence wins.

When swollen eye meets gnarled fist

When snaps the knee, and cracks the wrist,

When officialdom demands,

Is there a doctor in the stands?

My soul in true thanksgiving speaks

For this modest of physiques.

‘Athletes, I’ll drink to you

Or eat with you,

Or anything except compete with you,

Buy tickets worth their radium,

To watch you gambol in the stadium,

And reassure myself anew

That you are not me and I’m not you’.