Perhaps let me rattle off a statistic 

That you do not know

Yes, I recognize that man's face

Without a mask,

Without a last name,

Or a hat.

I dream of dribbles 

And talk of balks

And shot clocks.

I visit a place I've never been

And am home.

Sitting in these green seats with strangers

Beside me, I feel known.

Tell me you've never felt community

Never felt the thrill of something

That you will visit in your memory

And yet...

She did not know

That she would grow up

To look in the mirror &

Hate what she sees

Worrying she'll never

Fill out her jeans

Ruling out possible careers

Because she fails to feel

P R E T T Y.

Sydney,

They tell me,

You could grow up to be a sportscaster

You're pretty enough.

Do you have to be beautiful

To talk golf putts and hockey pucks?

Magazines & TV's tell me you have to be

P R E T T Y

If you want to track the rain

Or call a game

Or sing a refrain

Or pretend to be someone you're not 

For someone else to be entertained

I'm ambitious but I'm also honest

So I can admit to being indecisive 

And yet...

If I can't decide

Who I'm going to be 

(Although that question terrifies me)

I'm going to lose my COOL.

Be cool...

Be cool.

I am fascinated by strikeouts &

Play calls &

Foul balls.

But you misunderstand.

I don't want to be

P R E T T Y 

To stand in front of cameramen,

Smiling easily, speaking smoothly.

I want to write

And know I am good (not P R E T T Y) enough to do so.

​