Round of 8

Turning in a slip and getting back

--Rather than another assignation--

A half sheet and a pencil

An invitation to reflect

• Where I’m from
• How long the journey to this point
• Who coaxed me along

And then the kicker:

“Best results so far”

(A query guaranteed to

Throw me off my game)

First of all, what’s “best?”

First in a cozy local competition, with little to contest?

Dead last in Div IA—a newly minted C, abashed, astounded that

I even dared to try?

The “Friend of Fencing” medal awarded by my college coach (himself a living legend in the sport)?

My growing list of thirds from facing these same friends and foes?

I want to say “Today. Today exceeds the rest.”

Maybe by the time you read this slip

I’ve triumphed three more times

Maybe even now I’m

Clutching gold, or

At least, have trod the finals strip

In any case, why ask?

What’s past is past

The last thing I need now

Is to be snagged by expectations

Amped up by ambition to excel

I need to pee

I need to check my blades

I need to

Breathe and take a moment to reflect

So sure, whatever, scribble in some dates and places

Maybe get it right

And if it’s slightly off, remember that my thoughts are not on

Autobiographic stats

My focus is on

Scripting future fictions

Hoping they come true

Varieties of Coaches

Those who give minute instructions

Orchestrating every move

Those who hurl abuse

Taking every failure as a

Personal affront

Those who shrug, and turn away

As soon as things go south

Those who live and breathe to

Argue with the ref

Or mutter, bark and shout

In Babelicious tongues

The ones, over-committed, who

Are doomed to dash between a dozen strips

And mine, parked in my line of sight

Talking on his phone

To someone else’s mom

Sometimes giving signals that I swear

I’ve never seen before

Gesturing as if he’s

Trying to land a plane

Distracting me from what is going on

Upon the strip, which sometimes

Often

Is exactly what I need

Lost…& Found

My breath

Which fled the moment that I went on guard

My equanimity

Which seems to need some oxygen to thrive

Several touches

Due to the above

Plan B

Premised on a tempo fully half my normal speed

Delight

In finding youth can be beguiled by deliberate pace

My knickers

Which, turns out, were in the bottom of my bag