Where the grass isn’t green’r

Hunter Eagan, Contributing Writer

When you saw the crummy old field, you’d never take a second look.

When you happened to make your way down it didn’t seem to get better.

When the bright blue of the track was its only saving grace

From patches of sand.

To the rough of the dirt.

The seemingly endless holes scattered throughout your sight.


Where you see negatives.

Where you see imperfections.

I am reminded of its past.

Not only the hardships I faced and overcame, but countless before me.

The field where I lay my hardened hand every week.

The field from which I hear the stands cheer like the sound of a booming hurricane.

Where the music beats my own ears and drowns out the world.

I see marks where dreams came true.

The rough of the patches left by the stampedes of young men raging on the field.

I see evidence of the hard work and sacrifice only understood by those who lived it.

These scars left by us paint a picture beyond foreseeable worth.

But a picture that allows people like me to see beyond its standing image.

These imperfections are what give that field its personality, its dirty, ugly, wonderful personality.

Although getting a new one wouldn’t hurt.

Hunter Eagan