Touchdown

By Lina Lambert

PROMPT — Who am I today?

“Get yourself a wife who watches football on two TV screens!” my husband boasted, “and rubs your shoulders at half-time!”

It is true. It was my idea to set up a second television in our self-made sports bar at home. From the get-go of our romance, Sundays were reserved for football. Quirky game-day rituals became tradition, as we made our secret-ingredient chili, wore mismatched socks, and reclined in the exact same spots week-after-week.

“Hey! It’s only weird if it doesn’t work,” Jim said, convinced of the power of superstitious rituals.

When he died, in March 2021, a part of my football spirit died with him. Cheering for our team wasn’t easy, but I convinced myself to indulge in my decades-long hobby, to keep my love for the game alive, for Jimmy’s sake—and mine.

So, on opening day of this year’s NFL season, I dusted off the Chargers gnomes, slid my feet into Jim’s lucky slippers, cooked up a pot chili, and yelled at the missed field goals, with as much gusto as we once had as a couple.

In grief, preserving traditions is a form of therapy. Some people exert themselves training for marathons, while others embrace the simplicity of painting rocks or writing poetry. Some of us combine hobbies with art. As I did, with this poem—composed at half-time—as if still massaging Jim’s shoulders, only this time, with my words.

Touch Down

I sit in the peach-colored recliner

where you sat for scores of touchdowns

My tears fall as autumn leaves

devastated at your being drafted to the angels

No zebra-striped referee blows the whistle

on my unsportsmanlike conduct, my own self-imposed personal fouls, or the holding

of my breath, my tongue, my tears hidden behind a face mask

A penalty flag appears, to wipe away my fears

In the field of my dreams

We win. We win the coin toss

granting us extra time, extra points

The extra-ordinary

Such unnecessary roughness

that the clock ran out on us

Only inches from the goal

Intercepted

Without even a two-minute warning

I gotta admit,

it’s 300 pounds of effort

Tackling grief

Sacking the blues

Praying for new rules

Keeping the play alive

In the end-zone of my soul

A safety helmet guards my heart

And keeps you alive in an invisible realm

Floating in the air, as real as any Hail Mary

In the nosebleed section

of a star-spangled stadium

With a megaphone that reaches to the beyond

I sing with blessed assurance

Oh say can you see…

If you can see me,

from your seat in the heavens

Touchdown on me…my love

Touch down

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Lina Lambert is a passionate writer known for infusing joy and inspiration into her creative essays, poems and a forthcoming memoir. Recently widowed, she channels resiliency, hope and humor by contributing to monthly columns, podcasts and social media. Lina's work has been featured in anthologies, podcasts and the New York Times. Lina writes from Bishop, California.