Pain

After watching a weekend of gridiron passion,
I'm left shaking my head, in a curious fashion,
at the antics of players who suffer some hurt,
then play Pagliacci right there in the dirt.

They grimace and wail and claw at the turf
and slam their fists in the face of the earth.
They writhe and coil and clutch at their knee,
while the cameras roll, for all to see.

What ever happened to those men
too tough to cry, too strong to bend,
who hid their little ache and pain
and limped back to the line again?

The men who played the game of old
would never think to be so bold
as twist and writhe upon the grass
and show the world their cowardice.

No matter how the pain would wrench him,
he showed it not, for fear they'd bench him.
No minor wound would end his day;
Back to the line! He came to play!

He did not ham it up gesticular;
the men of old were more testicular.
What's happened to that fire? That grit?
The boys today show none of it.

Perhaps they moan and twist and curse
because their pain is in their purse?