One by one, we hung up

the jerseys, placed them under

the mantle like stockings,

allowed ourselves the childish hope

that they had some magic in them.

One by one, we set out tiger-striped

trinkets, put on our ball caps

and loud orange pants,

prayed for such little things as

completions, conversions, touchdowns.

Then one by one, the grown men

turned, stopped, splintered, broke:

became little boys again as they

watched the ambulance back

onto the football field, park

over the big painted-on B,

and carry away their brother.

And one by one, they hung up

their jerseys, ceased to be blue

or black or orange or red, donned

instead the colors of humanity,

bowing heads and breaking rank

to buoy each other

in brokenness.