the loneliness of the downfield goalie

the loneliness of the downfield goalie,

ever alert though, staring into the middle distance

like a bird dog below a long gun’s barrel;

two dozen voices shouting in syncopated fragments

like a chapbook of jack kerouac poems about urban street life;

the occasional “OH MAMA!” or “I’m sorry!” rising up

like the moths seeking existential validation

from the cereal box-sized lights clustered high above the field;

it’s a city league night game in september,

but the mild temperature and clear black sky

pins this match to the front of the free bank calendar,

where a photo contest winner’s bucolic scene

speaks to our idealized feelings about the complete sweep of time;

I’m on a little grassy hill, leaning against

a smooth, rusty railing post above concrete steps,

and what comes to mind, as I watch this human foosball game,

are the lines “now I feel like I’ve won the cup every time that we make love/

forty-five minutes each way, at halftime I hear a brass band play”

from the billy bragg b-side “the boy done good”;

but what’s missing from that footie-conceited

ode to satisfied, long-term monogamy

is the universal truth that what works easily and with longevity

does so not despite, but because of its messiness,

just like the contained entropy of the game playing out before me;

the ball just as often arcing over the goal as into the net,

sometimes onto an empty, adjacent field,

sometimes rolling past the park trail down the slope

into the bushes in front of nearby condos

like gregor samsa skittering behind the family couch;

the quick diplomacy of who goes to get it just as essential to the game

as who stands where in response to a corner kick;

or who, also, runs to tend to the woman suddenly down,

moaning and holding her leg, while all the other players

remain in place like board game pieces chaotically arrayed

during a household snack/bathroom break;

then the clapping and cheers as she gets up and is helped,

limping, over to the sideline, and the return to group motion with no fanfare;

because so much is taken in stride — pun intended —

whether it’s the fact that one corner of the field

is actually not grass, but rather the red dirt of a baseball diamond

with the soccer template’s lines painted across it;

or the fact that traffic trundles past in the middle distance,

the hissing of brakes and roaring of engines on city buses

not unlike the commotion of an away team’s fan section;

or the fact that some players here are on these teams for the first time,

having arrived to fill holes in the roster at a moment’s notice

and companionably lend their skills and skulls

to jump up and header the ball to a teammate

whose name they may not know, but the color of the shirt and shorts

in the eddy of players is enough to decide to transcend the solo impulse

and instead risk bodily harm in the name of contributing to group effort;

whether one team scores more than another doesn’t matter,

not when each capture of the ball and feint and pass

are all satisfying accomplishments unto themselves;

and that’s the big lesson here tonight writ large:

it could be anyone out there tearing upfield like a harvest combine —

your friend or neighbor, an irritating coworker,

a perfect stranger, someone you love, or even yourself

subbing in — these are all people becoming their best selves

in a context where the focus isn’t on their individual growth,

but rather on how that adds to what’s possible all together.