Roger McCloskey

Play

Snap the pig skin, #42 Fullback Draw, cleats digging the turf, attract 
a crowd of yellow jackets, take a head on hit, it's just a face, don't worry 
if you gain a thousand yards, maybe they'll get you a new one

     That's the way to stick 'em, Clyde
     Bust his ass good
     Show them who the boss man is

Half back sweep, #28 running wide, pulling muscle beach guards, miss 
a crucial block outside, a blindside, clothesline tackle

     That's all right, #28
     You'll be back in no time
     It's just a broken neck
     You only got what you deserved
     You're lucky you didn't make him mad
     Mr. Clyde, he pretty bad tonight

Drop back eight yards and pass, time the wide receiver's pattern down field 
one half a second late, create a collision course in the seams of the defensive zone

     Stick that boy in the ribs, Clyde
     He's got no business on your side of the field
     These boys gotta learn they be in your league now

Fourth down seventeen yards to go, sign up for the suicide squad, chase 
the punted ball toward the return man, don't worry about what might get 
in your way, if it doesn't move knock it over, make Astro turf out of it, if 
it's alive and it's not wearing the same colored jersey as you make sure as 
hell he's much better off dead anyway

     Show them nice fans at home who's number one, Clyde
     You're on National TV
     Smile your ass off, baby
     Show them pearly whites
     They cost enough to fix
     Good thing you can write them off
     Cause you’re a C LEB  RA  Tee

Whistle blowing dead the play, flying yellow penalty flags on the play
     That's a personal foul
     #27 Defense
     Flagrant face masking  That's 15 yards and an automatic first down.  
When play resumes it will be red ball on their own 45 yard line play will 
resume when they're done strapping that man on the  
stretcher, these things take time, they're worried about the spinal cord, one 
paralyzed guy a game is more than enough already
  
     Tough break, Clyde
     I guess you showed that sucker who's boss
     Now you get back out there and kick some real ass
     Show those mothers what this game of football is all about
     
    Whatever you say, man, you're the coach

Demolition

Spinning wheels, choking hot exhaust fumes, dull roaring engines, bumping fenders, the smell of burning rubber

Sweating in the cheap seats, cut off white paint smeared blue jeans, pale blue polyester tank top, brown bagged Budweiser quarts, redlined, bulging egg yellow fish eyes

Cheap crashing shots, breaking glass, hanging fenders, gasoline dripping on the wreckage bearing roadway, hot black oil sputter­ing, spattering, dripping

Fat middle aged rolls, exploding purple blotching veins, yellow K‑Mart shorts, ketchup and cooking oil stained, pink tank top, sagging stretching bra, hard packs of Marlboro, Cricket lighters, missing front teeth, near sighted black velvet eyes

Steeled meshing gears, screeching bald tires, sliding out of control, out over the roadway, the gas,  the smoke and the flame

Fourteen years old, bare chested, denim vested, smoking unfiltered Camels, handmade blue tattoos, Born to Raise Hell stoned eyes, no shoes, no socks, hunching forward squinting

White helmeted drivers, black sliding plastic face shielding visors, thick leather gloves, hot clinging asbestos jackets, tight strapping seat belts, thick medal roll bars, splintered, shattered windshields

Black printed 4 out of 5 doctors and dentists recommend Oral Sex custom designed t-shirt, the fat flapping day-glo tongue, the unwashed, stringy, shoulder length blonde hair, torn too tight jeans, flip flopping shoes, hickey spotted neck, pouting red painted lips, crazy tainted eyes, maybe 15, 16, 17 years old

Boiling, steaming, spitting radiators; spilling car guts, hanging bumpers, dragging mufflers, sparking, clanging metal dragging against the dead gray and black stained concrete

Squirming, yelling, fighting children, strings of fire crackers exploding beneath the bleacher seats, drugged mother slapping loud children, fathers fingering their thick Jack Daniels buckled belts, motor grease grime, dirty faces staring back, grim, determined, defiant

Twisted, ruined metal, deflated tires and burning rubber, car graveyard wreckage, over the garbled loudspeaker system : Car #26 looks like a winner

The sweating, clustered crowd, penetrating Raceway lamps, rank smells of rubber and filtered cigars, of gun powder, leaking gasoline, spilt beer, the poison clouds of hot exhaust fumes

Roger McCloskey’s latest work in progress is “The Race Car Driver’s Anxiety at the Pace”.