My friend's kid runs the sideline, gets a pass,
turns, and scores with a kick to the near post.

It's how the play should go, but at this age
rarely does.  My son sprints to him, arms up.

They high five and celebrate a moment,
then turn to jog back to their positions.

Last year, they would have hopped around madly,
twirled, fallen backwards, and rolled in the grass.

This season, they are serious.  No more
skipping.  No more acting sweetly goofy.

Now, they turn towards one another rather
than towards us.  No more checking that we've seen.

But we have.  We know the score, and what's lost
as they try to turn themselves into men.

From This Miraculous Turning (Press 53, 2014).
Used with the author's permission.