Friday's Field
A slightly sum still in his teens
Yet beneath that wiry frame
Beat a hardy heart, a will which sought
What all lads long to gain -
Da’s nod. A word not even spoken
Yet with a glint there in his eye,
A father’s simple gesture says,
“That’s me lad, I love him, aye!”
That slightly sum - his name was James
In the afternoons of fall
Would ply upon the practice field
That girded game football.
Head to heel in padded guise
He strained his cleats in drill
Til against those lads of weight and size
He deemed, “Tis more than I’ve to fill.”
Ne’er the less came Friday night -
Teams charged the field of play;
And in their midst that slightly sum
All armored for the fray.
There too amid the crowded roar
A father poised his praise -
To feel, to hear, to sense his son
Through the fog of darkened haze.
Bright lights revealed the numbered yards,
Sounds boasted proud battle cries -
The band, the banter, the bards of sport,
Cheering teams toward victory’s prize.
Ah, there’s young James in armor full
Encircled with his team;
In drill to warm the loins for game
Of the squad so fit, so lean.
A whistle blows, the time is nigh
To kick it from the tee.
As the ball becomes the focus
Teams merge to pry it free.
Yet, not our James upon that grid
Resigned but to the chair
Til against those lads of weight and size
Coach deems he won’t impair.
For James this scene becomes routine
Through the orange and red of fall;
Weeks practice for perfection
While those Fridays do not call.
Still there amid the crowded roar
Sits father poised to praise -
Listening, straining to see his son
Through the fog of darkened haze.
And dark the day in that December
Da passed unto the Lord,
When coach did call upon young James
Saddened - so forlorn.
“Sorry 'bout your da, dear lad,
How is it I might help?”
“I now must play on Friday’s field
To prove it of myself!”
“Oh son, we’re in the final days,”
Came coach’s quick reply.
“Think first we must about the team,
That precious trophy prize.”
Abruptly then, coach rose to leave
Remorse in his goodbye,
But inward asking, “Was a coach’s goal
Not to win or at least to try?”
When alone and in reflection,
Coach considered what he must;
Was it winning or it teaching
The charge therein his trust?
And so it was on Friday’s field
Came that slightly sum to play,
Head to heel in padded guise
All armored for the fray.
And play he did young James that night
Like no one there before.
Not only did he strain the cleats
Til muscle said, “No more!”
He drained his will of all therein
As coach and mates admired
This slightly sum in all-out war,
“We too must play like him!”
Was when they’d won the cherished prize
And Friday’s field had cleared,
With James amid the lockers lone,
His coach did the appear.
“What a game! Have you a minute?
I think we need to talk.
How well you played that girded game -
My doubting was for naught.
How and where and why I need ask
Did spring your strength of play?”
Young James eyed coach, breathed deep a pause,
“For my da did I play this day.
Always there mid the crowded roar
Straining to see me play.
But heaven hosts no more haze,
Only rainbow’s full array.”
Young James to coach did then explain
His father’s dedication
For he amid the crowded roar
Was simply supplication.
His fog was that of blinded eyes,
The darkened haze his shades
What then he could not see at all
Today is Da’s parade.
(2015)
This story was related to me in 1965 when part of a Student Council workshop in Whitehall, Ohio. It was told in narrative form and in her words by our beloved advisor, Louella Compton. After many years and numerous attempts, I am now satisfied that the verse and words presented here would meet her standards and approval in re-telling the story.
