One infant grows up and becomes a jockey,
another plays basketball or hockey,
one puts gloves in ring to enter,
that one becomes atackle or center,
I am just as glad as can be,
that I am not them they are not me.

With all my heart do I admire,
atheletes who sweat for fun or hire,
who enter the field in fancy dress,
and wrestle each other & get undress,
my limp and shy spirit feeds,
on other peoples heroic deeds.

A runs 90 yards to score,
B knocks the champion to the floor,
C risks vertebrate & spine,
still speeds across the line,
you think my ego would be please,
to swap positions among these.

Well ego might be pleased enough ,
but these atheletes play so rough,
they do not ever in their dealings ,
consider each other's feelings,
I am glad that when my struggle begins,
thought planning and ego wins.

When swollen eye meets gnarled fists,
then snaps the knee & cracks the wrists,
then calm officialdom demands,
is there a doctor in the stands,
my soul in true thanksgiving speaks,
for this most modest of physiques.

Atheletes I'll drink to you or eat with you,
or anything except copmpete with you,
buy tickets worth their weight in radium,
to watch you perform in a stadium,
and reassure myself again,
that you are not me & I am not you.