held it high in the air
with the unbroken arm holding the handlebars
and then not holding them and Daniel flying
around the park like some kid
gravity couldn’t mess with.
While me and Darry and Ollie watched him amazed.
And terrified.
ZJ
I used to wonder who I’d be if “Zachariah 44” Johnson wasn’t my daddy.
First time people who know
even a little bit about football meet me,
it’s like they know him, not me. To them,
I’m Zachariah’s son.
The tight end guy’s kid.
I’m Zachariah Johnson Jr. ZJ. I’m the one
whose daddy plays pro ball. I’m the tall kid
with my daddy’s same broad shoulders. I’m the one
who doesn’t dream of going pro.
Music maybe.
But not football.
Still, even at school, feels like my dad’s in two places
at once—dropping me off out front, saying
Learn lots, little man, then
walking into the classroom ahead of me.
I mean, not him but
his shadow. And me almost invisible
inside it.
Except to my boys
who see me walking into the classroom and say
What’s up, ZJ?
Your mom throw any cookies in your lunch?
Then all three of them open their hands
beneath their desks so that when
the teacher’s back is turned
I can sneak them one.
You Love a Thing?
Ever since I was a little kid,
I’ve loved football, my daddy told me.
Through every broken toe and cracked rib
and jammed finger
and slam to the shoulder
and slam to the head, I still
loved it.
You got something you love, little man?
Then you good.
You love food? You cook.
You love clothes? You design.
You love the wind and water? You sail.
Me, my daddy said,
I love everything about the game.
Even the smell of the ball.
Then he laughed, said
Imagine loving something so much, you love
the smell of it?
It smells like leather and dirt and sweat and new snow.
I love football with all
of my senses. Love the taste and feel
of the air in my mouth
running with the ball on a cold day. Love the smell
of the ball when I press it to my face
and the smell of the field right after it rains.
I love the way the sky looks as we stare up at it
while some celebrity sings “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
Love the sound of the crowd cheering us on.
When you love a thing, little man, my dad said,
you gotta love it with everything you got.
Till you can’t even tell where that thing you love begins
and where you end.
Who We Are & What We Love
Ollie divides fractions in his head,
can multiply them too—gives you the answer while
you’re still trying to write down the problem, knows
so much about so much but doesn’t show off
about knowing.
Darry—besides running fast, he can dance. Get the music
going and my boy moves like water flowing.
All smooth like that.
Daniel’s super chill, says stuff like
You okay, my man? You need to talk?
And really means it. And really listens.
Calls his bike a Magic Broom, spins it in so many circles
we all get dizzy, but not Daniel,
who bounces the front tire back to earth
without even blinking,
says That was for all of y’all who are stuck on the ground.
Me, I play the guitar. Mostly songs
that come into my head. Music
is always circling my brain. Hard to explain
how songs do that.
But when I play them, everything
makes some kind of strange sense like
my guitar has all the answers.
When I sing, the songs feel
as magic as Daniel’s bike
as brilliant as Ollie’s numbers
as smooth as Darry’s moves
as good as the four of us hanging out
on a bright cold Saturday afternoon.
It feels right
and clear
and always.
Ollie
Ollie says he doesn’t really remember the beginning
of his story.
Says he’s glad about that.
It was a tragedy, he says.
And when things like that happen, your mind blanks out.
It’s like your mind knows, he says, how to take care of itself.
Before he was one of my best friends, he was a baby
with green eyes and a bright red Afro
left outside a Texas church in a basket
with a note pinned to his blanket
Please take care of this baby. And love him like crazy too.
He used to take the note out of his pocket all the time.
Now he keeps it stored away, in a plastic bag, the paper inside yellowish and ripped on one corner.
Too delicate, Ollie says, to show anybody anymore.
We all know what came next in the story Ollie says
he can’t remember.
A preacher and his wife found
and kept him.
Loved Ollie just like the note asked them to do.
Then the preacher died and it was only his wife—
Bernadette, who’s Ollie’s mom.