Do I Lie to Make Myself Happy?

100. I've been meaning to tackle this list for a while.
99. I never feel like writing anymore.
98. Life can be a fog.
97. I'm turning into a purplish donkey named e-or, or something.
96. I've never read Pooh crap.
95. I found a CD with 1000 classic titles on it for a buck.
94. Phillis Wheatly wasn't on it.
93. Nevermind, I don't think that is her name. I'm smuck.
92. If you know her name, don't tell me---

WAIT WAIT WAIT--I can do this, give me another chance.
Put me in the game coach--

"Go to the ball, Jason!"
"Why won't he go to the ball?" The umbrellas are up
and the parents shout at the sidelines.
The dad with a long, stringy ponytail quips sarcastically
to anyone who will hear.
Players slip in the mud, get kicked in the face--
and the game goes on.

Wrapped in blankets, bottoms slung in canvas chairs,
coffees and hot chocolates--some woman shouts
in Spanish with bright red lips
a phrase I wish I could remember.

The goalie skips across to his box
and pulls at his tabogan, wipes his nose--
the trophies remain dull and wet in another box,
far removed.

I finger the antenae in my pocket,
two dimes and a nickel, an old receipt.
My nose is cold and I can't imagine
not running the field,
not slipping on wet grass,
not making contact with the ball
and somehow not out-shining them all.