Coney Island Baby

I didn’t play football
for the coach.
I played soccer
though my father
coached football.
He was a linebacker
in high school.
He inspired fear
in straight dudes.
I stood up straight
when he entered a room,
and many times under his gaze
I wanted to die.
When I was a young man
in high school,
I wanted to find my soul.
My father the coach
had a straight shadow.
I was a goalkeeper.
I was alone in front of a net.
To keep the ball from hitting
the net was the meaning
of my life. I didn’t
play football. My soul
was a funny place.
My father coached in the city.
My soul was a funny place
that my father coached.
It was like a sewer.
I hit myself.
When I hit myself, I hit myself.
It was a funny place.
Give it to me now!
I was a young man.
I sang in the choir.
Singing was a way of having a soul.
My father sang in the shower.
It was a secret,
don’t tell!
We sang “Coney Island Baby.”
Rich man. Poor man.
Beggar man. Thief.
When I sang, it felt like stealing.
I had shame.
When the ball went in the net,
I was not a human being.
I hit myself. It was a circus.
The football coach
didn’t need to hit me.
He laughed like turning
back a clock!
He summoned me
to the living room,
raised a drink to his lips,
and went to work
taking off my soul.
He didn’t raise a hand.
He did not stand.
I was made to stand straight.
I was a straight dude.
I said sir. I did not sing.
He laughed at what I loved.
I was small like a linebacker.
I was lightweight.
He had eyes like erasers
in his head. I avoided rooms
that he was in. In the summer,
I lifted weights with his football team.
I was good at it.
I was good at not letting things in.
It was my position.

Read more from Issue 22.1.