Confessions of a born spectator

Confessions of a born spectator
One infant grows up and becomes a jockey,
Another plays basketball or hockey,
This one the prize ring hates to enter
That one becomes a tackle or center,

I am just glad as glad can be
That I am not them, that they are not me.
With all my heart I do admire
Athletes who sweat for fun or hire,
Who take the field in gaudy pomp,

And maim each other as they romp.
My limp and bashful spirit feeds
On other people's heroic deeds.
Now A runs ninety yards to score,
B knocks the champion to the floor,

Crisking vertebrae and spins,
Lashes his steed across the line,
You'd think my ego it would please
To swap positions with one of these
Well, ego it might be pleased enough,

But zealous athletes play so rough,
They do not ever in their dealings
Consider one another's feelings,
I'm glad that when my struggle begins
"Twixt prudence and ego, prudence wins.

When swollen eye meets gnarled first
When snaps the knee, and cracks the wrist
When officialdom demands,
Is there a doctor in the stands?
My soul in true thanksgiving speaks

For this modest of physiques:
"Athletes, I'll drink to you
Or eat with you,
Or anything except compete with you,
Buy tickets worth their radium,

To watch you gamble in the stadium,
And reassure myself anew,
That you are not me and I'm not you".
----Ogden Nash