Confessions of a born spectator

Poet: Ogden Nash

One infant grows up and becomes a jockey
Another plays basketball or hockey

This one the prize ring hates to enter
That one becomes a tackle or center

I am just glad as glad can be
That I am not them, that they are not me

With all my heart I do admire
Athletes who sweat for fun or hire

Who take the field in gaudy pomp
And maim each other as they romp

My limp and bashful spirit feeds
On other people's heroic deeds

Now A runs ninety yards to score
B knocks the champion to the floor

Crisking vertebrae and spines
Lashes his steed across the line

You'd think my ego it would please
To swap positions with one of these

Well, ego it might be pleased enough
But zealous athletes play so rough

They do not ever in their dealings
Consider one another's feelings

I'm glad that when my struggle begins
'Twixt prudence and ego, prudence wins

When swollen eye meets gnarled first
When snaps the knee, and cracks the wrist

When officialdom demands
Is there a doctor in the stands?

My soul in true thanksgiving speaks
For this modest of physiques

"Athletes, I'll drink to you,
Or eat with you
Or anything except compete with you

Buy tickets worth their radium
To watch you gamble in the stadium

And reassure myself anew
That you are not me and I'm not you