Shane & Skyler & Jayson hear the crack
of Bakelite on Bakelite & Bakelite,
& don’t watch as the balls run the course
that God determined in a quiet hour
before, even, we had made our first
rough stab at His invention.
They look at Skyler’s phone & lift
their heads only to survey the leave,
briefly, & deem it good or bad, & don’t
reveal their judgment to the camera.
Shane & Skyler & Jayson have no desire
to be a plot device, an obstacle, seemingly,
at first, impossible to overcome,
but overcome eventually, with grit, with luck,
with some contrivance in the second act:
a dead mentor’s words remembered
at the moment of their greatest relevance
& understood at last, an undiscovered
reservoir of skill, a last-ditch push
to lift these years’ weight of mediocrity.
But they know the game they play; they know
a hill is easier to tumble down than climb;
they know how breaks & run-outs run together
like some underachiever’s syllables
in the post-match interview. & they know,
for now, they’re safe in their folding chairs
in the audience in this small side room
in the stadium in Gibraltar, where you can hear
the planes take off from the nearby airport,
heading anywhere but Gibraltar.