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End Zone They were gods at seventeen we knew them by number, five, eight, eleven, twenty-two, quarterback, halfback, fullback, A pigskin primer. We lusted after mystery hiding in regulation crotch protectors, shed our bra's Saturday nights, our white cotton panties under pleated, plaid skirts, favors exchanged for lettered V-neck sweaters. Oversized class rings declared us goddesses, holy chattel. The smell of them intoxicated us at seventeen, repelled us at thirty-five. After babies, bottles, unpaid bills, bouts with breast cancer, depression we were too tired to cheer. |
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