It's best to go early in the morning, while the birds,
Still sluggish from their slumber, are spare,
Only found here and there,
Bathing in the dew, shaking off the night,
Amid the dark green carpet on the field...
Echoes of their songs bounce, piercing morning light,
As they take turns lighting in the stands
To dry themselves in the Sun,
Which is not yet on the field...
The painted grid of lines, all numbered, bears witness to
The plans, strategies, and prayers of countless coaches,
Their hopes and dreams of victory;
Still, they only mean one thing to me:
Memories of my Father come when I am on the field...
It was here he found his element;
His plans and strategies were meant
To bring about a different kind of victory:
A victory in song out on the field...
Sight and sound were his weapons,
Brass and drums his ammunition,
And we, my friends and I, his toy soldiers on the field...
Weaving us between the lines
In endless, changing patterns
He bathed us all in discipline,
In pride, and in applause...
Oh, how I miss him when I'm out here on the field...
His shouts no longer echo off the stands,
His bright, white, gloved hands no longer weave
The magic spell of marches, swing, and jazz
Over his dancing army on the field...
The whistles are now blown by someone else,
The faces of the football players and the band,
While always young and fresh,
Are also always new out on the field...
The bleachers are now empty, yet
They stand ready, poised as if a silent choir,
To sing the praises of a man they never knew,
But who, in another place, in another time,
Made a man of me, underneath the lights
Out on the field...
