I learned to fall in love at a young age
with everything capable of being broken.
But a color blind child didn’t know anything
better than static, some square box and its black fuzz.
That television could barely stand on Grandma’s
kitchen table, perhaps drunk off the volume

or drunk off the scent of her burning bagels.
I turned the knob to fight for visible Giants jerseys,

proud of that in-the-stadium feeling. Last section seats
without binoculars. Grandma in the background buttering

what I’d later throw at the wall on fourth and inches
but they couldn’t convert. Suicide squeezes for the scoreboard.

Soon I’d be expected to know real disaster— Grandma’s eyes
would give out and to her I’d become those little black dots

that even the strongest whiskey won’t block out.
The anger of knowing she couldn’t formulate an image

of me, now at twenty-four, wearing jerseys too small
on those Sundays I hid from what I’ve taught myself is unbearable—
a world made for punching walls since I can’t punch
those who claim to protect her, since I can’t punch everyone

who thinks I don’t know how to escape from anything.
I’ve tried saying I’ll believe in God for a second in case
it helps, but end up settling on the pride I gained
through the torture of that New York 2001 Super Bowl loss.

How I trained myself to fixate on footballs instead
of faces. How I became selfish and fell asleep, fists clenched

over the kitchen table and how Grandma carried
me to bed after gently prying them apart,
whispering there’s always next year while I selfishly
ignored her own struggle for happiness.

Caroline Depalma is a poet living in the East Village. She will be completing her MFA in Poetry at New School University in May, and samples from her thesis can be found at her blog.

This poem was selected for an Honorable Mention in the 2008 "Play Ball" Writing Contest.

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Keywords : football, Giants, family

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