On the Couch

Stuck – softness of oversized pillows –
stained with six years of children taking over the house
Saturday, and the only thing
I am enjoying about the sun outside,
is the heat eeeking through the window.
I must move.
Move,
pace to be found in the way I used to run
Run, track under my feet
dirt under my cleats
sweat just beginning on my brow.

Eighteen years later, and the only vestige left of
My runner self is the shin splints I get when
I spend too much time shopping-
There is nothing easy about inspiration for movement-
I am no Nike commercial,
There is no Just Do It in me.

Instead there is a quiet want of a better me
of a need to be strong
and not just in some, you’re so tough
you always make it through,
type way,
but instead, in a,
you can leap tall buildings,
you can lift cars
you can be something that looks like some conception
of a super hero, front cover
of triathlon magazine.

And it’s not even that I want to win,
just finish,
get off the couch,
find myself  stronger
catch up to that earlier vestige of myself.

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Really (really), Bad Basketball Poetry

Not sure which is worse, the poetry or the bball play last night — but I’m going to revel in the horrendous  of both- and repost my Facebook feed  poem in progress from last night.

Tucked the kids, dressed in their UConn tees into bed –
with visions of Shabzz and the big dance in their heads.

Something to Run to.

When I ran my first race, I was fifteen years old.  It was at HK High School on their indoor track, a track that measured just 100 meters. I ran around it ten times for a total of 1000 meters.  I don’t remember where I placed. Fifth maybe- my lungs burned, my legs were all weak when I was done. I had used all I had to get through that race.  When I was done, my coach grabbed my shoulders and said, “you did good Tara B. You did good”.

Basketball is my allegory for everything.

The hardest part Papa – is that you and I haven’t always had the greatest relationship.  In retrospect this is most likely due to the fact that we are more alike than I’ve ever been willing to admit.  Pig headed, loud, and self involved– easy to anger, easily frustrated, easily distracted. But then, we have good things in common too. We know you need to work hard, and play hard. We like our music turned up in the car, we like to dance in kitchens, we both like a shot of tequilla now and again.  We read the paper from cover to cover. We like snacks.  We have passion, and conviction, we stand strong, if not rigid in our beliefs. We know that there is nothing in front of family – and that friends that have been kicking around since we were ten, or twenty something, are just like family too.  And, and, we love our sports teams.

Love me, love my bracket –

Gorgeous. Weather that belongs to May, not March. Temperature at 9:30pm,  52°

When I was 13, I cried.  Okay I cried all the time when I was 13. But one night, I cried during a basketball game, because I thought my beloved UConn Huskies were going to loose to Clemson in the sweet 16 round.  I was so upset I had to call my dad at my uncle’s house and cry to him.  And my poor dad had to watch the game while  on the phone with his sobbing teen.  Now of  course – that was the night, of it’s late, it’s great, it’s TATE – and I remember the sound of my uncles yelling in the background, and the site of my brother jumping up and down on his bed.   A couple of days later I would cry again as Duke would crush my dream of UConn being a national champion. I would also begin a life long hatred of Duke.