Coaching Inspiration

This poem originally appeared online in May 2005 at Opium Magazine. Since then it's gone through some "minor" structural changes. The archive is down at the moment, but this is the poem below. Very good journal/site. Very nice group of folks. Check them out.


"Coaching Inspiration"

It’s the early morning hours before the end of the convention,
and I’m rocking anxious about our final presentation.
Fifteen hundred firms competing for fifteen thousand dollars,
a crystal cup, and a contract to shovel shit in Shelby County.

Down to six of us. We’re more nervous now; my legs
took to shaking in the terminal at RDU three days ago.
Bob, in logistics, thinks we can lowball the other finalists—
he’s in his single room across the hall—he thinks it’s cheaper that way.

Michele and Suzy, next door, got trashed and are taking turns
rehearsing before the porcelain lectern. Each gurgle and gag
slices through the drywall like a dependable spade.
Dan’s in the bed across the room. Talking in his sleep again.

Asks questions to the darkness—only light from my laptop.
Lesbian pornography reflecting in my glasses.
It’s at times like these I’d like to have something to say to them.
Something with zest and promise.

Something witty and memorable like the old ball coaches used to say.
Words that stretched boundaries. Like Lombardi’s “If you aren't fired
with enthusiasm, you will be fired with enthusiasm” or
Leo Derocher saying, “If you don't win, you're going to be fired.
If you do win, you've only put off the day you're going to be fired.”

They knew the value of words, of pep, of wit.
They could stab enough fear or grace into a man
that he’d gladly cut off his nuts and go bobbing.
“Show class, have pride, and display character,”
Bear Bryant once said. “If you do, winning takes care of itself.”
I could pull that off. Pump them up and take that crystal cup.

Old sun snuggles up against the window as I’m still at the computer
fighting over the words. My heartbeats tickle my throat in little licks.
Face numb and heavy. Our presentation is in three hours.
Three hours then sleep. For some reason, I’m stuck

on Derocher’s “Some guys are admired for coming to play. . .
I prefer those who come to kill.” Don’t know what it says about me.
Tired, I guess. Feel like crap. Proposal can only be revised
and practiced so much, but I still feel sick about it.

“The only place success comes before work is in the dictionary,”
Lombardi proclaimed. All I can hope is that all this work
is worth its weight. Just hope today doesn’t end in us reflecting
on Wooden’s “Don't measure yourself by what you have accomplished,
but by what you should have accomplished with your ability.”
That would suck more shit than a B-Series pump from Agpro, Incorporated.

Our green room’s labeled The National Association for Agriculture
and Fertilizer Producers with our company’s name
in lowercase lettering underneath. The four of them huddle
around the portfolio and printed copies of the PowerPoint.
They look beaten. They stink of pessimism. I slam the door

and steal their attention—make them face me
like I’m Bobby Knight or worse.
They expect something from me.
Stares trowel into me from eight brown eyes.
Air feels clammy like an old locker room.

I put my briefcase on the table
and kick the closest folding chair into the wall.
“‘I’m sick and fucking tired of an 8-10 record,’” I shout.
My face, beets. I grab another gulp of dank air.
“‘I’m fucking tired of losing to Purdue!’”
They look at me how the lesbians in the porno do. Never understanding.