An Entire Team of Me

Every morning they knock the dirt from their grass-stained cleats. The sun hangs low in the sky, draping shadows across the field as the men march to the center of the chalk-lined turf. Their socks moisten as they track through the dew-laden grass, each untouched blade glistening with light. The shrill sound of a whistle pierces the air, getting all to line up for stretches and drills, to awaken muscles that lay sleeping the previous night. This is what goes on inside me, for I am a football team. I may not offer the appearance of a single player, much less an entire squad, but it’s true. At any given time I am one of them; which one, however, all depends on whether life finds me on offense or defense. When the ball is in my control, I can be confident, the traveler, the comedian, or the writer; when I’m under attack, I can be worrisome, the sugar-coater, the introvert, or even the writer again, because he can really be both.

My inner traveler insists I explore the world’s grandeur at every opportunity. He is bold and trusting, which is necessary, for he lacks understanding of foreign languages. He’s the one that convinces me I must go overseas during spring break, rather than spend it at home, and that I should shun the Burger Kings of France and instead let seasoned snails slither down my throat. That instance was kind of a shame, though, that I didn’t eat at my first choice of place; I was really set on trying a Junior Louis XIV. The traveler seeks to experience the romanticism of traversing unexplored land, of unfurling weathered maps on the earthen floor of a tent. He wants to hold down the edges with a rusted lantern that protects a flickering flame, reading pages by the soft glow. With modern travel, however, he also enjoys the sight of boundless hills that appear through a thick airplane window, beyond the misty guise of clouds as he makes a skyward approach.

The introvert has few words for others, as he prefers to remain in the backdrop of the world as much as he can. His personal credo is that it is better to not speak and be presumed dumb than to open one’s mouth and remove all doubt. These tendencies were learned with the help of my brother, who, when growing up, would have either a snide remark or dirty look to most everything I’d say. While his nastiness has diminished, my words are still closely managed, so as to prevent something regrettable from slipping through my lips.

The sugar-coater doesn’t want to make anyone angry, so what he will often do—as the name suggests—is offer news that is slightly misinterpreted to favor whomever he’s telling it to. This is to prevent any immediate backlash, and is usually in regards to his estimated time of arrival by car. This backfires when the person gets upset about being ready significantly earlier than when he actually gets there.

My worrisome self is overly cautious. He is unpleasant to be around, for he is always concerned with others’ interpretation of him. In order to manage this, he considers what others might think of him and his actions to too great an extent, making him stay quiet; this keeps him from being an acceptable person anyway. He worries, debates himself over useless matters, and wastes entirely too much time to doing so. Often times, he over-thinks a particularly bad fumble or interception in life, trying to make sense of what went wrong. This only makes things worse. If nothing else, he needs to learn that it’s infinitely better to move on than to dwell on negativity.

The confident part of me is who I wish would remain dominant. He is aware that the world is here for us to be good to one another, and that when we are all sharing with one another our time on earth, the talents that God has given us, and the treasure that we have, all will be well. He knows that we must get what we can from our lives, appreciating them, for we never know when they may dramatically change or end. Full of generosity, kindness, and love for all people, he understands that we are in control of our own happiness, and that it is up to ourselves to create meaning in our lives. Unfortunately, he isn’t demanding enough to take control of my body full-time. It’s just his personality.

The comedian will go to any length to conjure his art for others. I like to phrase it like that, because it’s usually just a thinly veiled method of being insulting. The comedian knows that to craft the perfect bit of humor requires wit, intelligence, and a disregard for common taste. He has a physiological need to turn everything into a joke, so few words will pass through his ears without a response, whether his comments are funny to more or less than one person. As enjoyable as he may be to some, to others, he can easily be the most aggravating.

The writer is the most fluidly adaptable of all, in that he may embody the feelings associated with any personality. Utilizing the experiences of each one, he dissects and deciphers what is usable to him. He is the one most in tune with words, though since he prefers isolation, he speaks through his fingers more than his mouth. He enjoys turning a good phrase, creating vivid descriptions, and capturing emotion and feeling on the page.

In time, the players tire, and regardless of the score, they all trudge off the field together. Under illuminating towers of light, the men move on, while patches of dirt and upturned grass flash in and out of their shadows. They arrive at their lockers and untie their cleats, some with bandaged fingers, and others with bound wrists. The players will ache as they lie in bed, but in the morning they’ll be back, ready to overcome a new day’s challenges. This mental game inside me can quite often be a physical one.