How I learned to stop worrying and love World Ball

I was always afraid of sports.

Kicked twice in the head, 

it seemed a ball

would only ruin me

with concussion or worse, imaginary

bloody noses bleeding on tv.

The extent of my projected humiliation

was vast, perhaps international

though I lacked the requisite

narcissism for that scale of shame.

I first played the game whose status 

is contemporary in water, buoyant

with new pals and eager to be part

of something bigger and ancient

as poetry. Yes

I would have this ball punted

to the skull if it wanted. Lighter than air,

a world ball soars and swerves

by only impulse of the group sync

rhythm of fun and trust. Yes, this is earnest. 

Thanks to Big Joe. Certain 

bubbles surprise us rising from stillness 

like the bubble man of the Boardwalk

on Ocean Beach, bubbling a hundred

bubbles a pop. With this ball,

no one comes to blows. 

A collaboration cannot 

lose, not even under capital's rule;

a rat cannot fly after all, unless 

tied to a balloon 

as in some bleak Glaswegian movie. 

So exit the race, serving again:

look to the ceiling fan

of Woolsey, whose arm is missing 

since an ancestral game 

had taken a hit too far.

No need to stay cool.

World Ball's the coolest.