Phrenospasm

Punt means surrender, but that’s never enough, not in America, not among boys on Saturday afternoon behind the grade school. I can’t help myself. I run full speed, time my dive, launch myself like a missile. The football in my gut, the wind knocked out of me—what I now know is called phrenospasm. It’s a hollow feeling, not being able to breathe. It keeps me in line, still, whenever I can’t decide between glamour and grace.