Hold down the block.

[Certain]

"Come on, Simmons, hold your fucking block!"

Coach's whistle pierces. Sweat streams down Jason's cheeks.
Head down, ass up until the snap and straightened knees.
He's made his peace with the taped fingers and lingering pains,
but betrays his weak past with deep gasps and physical strains.
He's still jiggling weight from his days as a fat kid
with no place in the game.
He's never facing that way again.
Determined to find meaning through something more
than cheesecake and potato skins.
But hunger pangs hit him like a linebacker,
so he grinds faster, setting the blocks, steady and locked.
As he steps into spot, ducking down, he starts seeing time backwards.

"Hold your damn block, Simmons!"

They're running behind him again on the right side.
Strong side. Jason's side. Carving holes with tight strides,
he buckles another defender to open a gap for the back,
who dashes through fast. Touchdown. But at practice it lacks
the glory of six and a rest. Coach sticks out his chest,
"Simmons, you weren't on the A-Gap! You were listening, yes?"
"But we scored?!" And Jason recalls meeting Coach in physical ed.
A chubby dork showing surprise strength with weights in limited sets.
The roster spot. The letterman jacket.
From oft-forgot to friends with the masses.

"What the hell are you doing, Simmons? Hold down your block!"

Jason's pressing. Feels his heart beating with the same force
of that defensive tackle. Shedding shackles, he maintains course
and keeps the pocket protected. All the while, he's not stopping for breath yet,
determined to make good on his honest regrets and nodding his head, "Yes,"
as Coach barks another order while Jason's coughing up phlegm.
The puke can's on the sideline, but he's not leaving the field.
Hobbled and wrecked, his back in his stance, feeble but healed
as another snap count fades out. And then he fades out.
And Jason falls to the turf face down.

[Fig]

Cool. I like football so this is cool. The intri***y of your rhyming works more to highlight your storytelling, like here
and keeps the pocket protected. All the while, he's not stopping for breath yet,
determined to make good on his honest regrets and nodding his head, "Yes,"

I remember Pancake boy making a point that your wording is on point, but not in the same was as say a neighbor or dull boy, it's contextually on point, er I guess. You use words more based on how they fit, rather than how they look or feel, which helps with straightforward pieces like this (straightforward as apposed to the usual om steeze)
Cool story though. I related to the pressures expressed here, aside from the fatty stuff. Good imagery and writing overall.

[big baby]

oh neighbor and dull boy Eh! FUCKA U

[big baby]

i like the way you write and im glad you are having sex again mister certain boy, you coming to this site is aportal in which we connect to a higher degree of virtualization in d-minor with the concept of materializing the spewing of thought provoking analysis provided by the construct of digital age, brewing a physical plane. I can't touch you, with my fingers in space, typing a blip on a page, like radar. It ain't far from your best, but you invaded a space where you rarely go. Eyes barely low, drunk from the cupboard you broke the wine a couple months ago. Loveless, loathing, abroad and brooding, lawless, soothing, heart is hootin'. God, you're ruthless, but not, you're clueless. You stop and do this, with an open heart, and knew it wasn't what you wanted it to be from the start. You're decent, certain, and decents' perfect. That's not to say you don't have things to brush up on, you're a painting untouched, unphased, and it sucks. Cause a canvass is an atlas for your to map your emotions, you've splashed a trinkle of acid paint on it, though it's, barely burning, evading from turning the page and discerning other things you have learned through your journalist journey. A disservice to you, would not be giving a rhyming unfurling bunch of lines I'm just blurting onto this forum. You're for yourself and other people, you're for em'. Most confuse you for boring, cause they can't diffuse the emporium you come through when you wrote em'. The way you use words to tell a story, is a hellish, gory war scene, enhanced by a cleverly woven word-ings, you chose for the specific set of sordid; illicit mesh of touring. If I had any critique of your finishing peaks, is that you're more of a literate preacher and don't venture in the cresty demeanor of r-rated saw plays, or sexual-predator, explicit material. You're getting there, debonair. With a pinch of extra flare, you could become an exceptional heir and could possibly be the best, in here. I liked it.

[Certain]

i like the way you write and im glad you are having sex again mister certain boy, you coming to this site is aportal in which we connect to a higher degree of virtualization in d-minor with the concept of materializing the spewing of thought provoking analysis provided by the construct of digital age, brewing a physical plane. I can't touch you, with my fingers in space, typing a blip on a page, like radar. It ain't far from your best, but you invaded a space where you rarely go. Eyes barely low, drunk from the cupboard you broke the wine a couple months ago. Loveless, loathing, abroad and brooding, lawless, soothing, heart is hootin'. God, you're ruthless, but not, you're clueless. You stop and do this, with an open heart, and knew it wasn't what you wanted it to be from the start. You're decent, certain, and decents' perfect. That's not to say you don't have things to brush up on, you're a painting untouched, unphased, and it sucks. Cause a canvass is an atlas for your to map your emotions, you've splashed a trinkle of acid paint on it, though it's, barely burning, evading from turning the page and discerning other things you have learned through your journalist journey. A disservice to you, would not be giving a rhyming unfurling bunch of lines I'm just blurting onto this forum. You're for yourself and other people, you're for em'. Most confuse you for boring, cause they can't diffuse the emporium you come through when you wrote em'. The way you use words to tell a story, is a hellish, gory war scene, enhanced by a cleverly woven word-ings, you chose for the specific set of sordid; illicit mesh of touring. If I had any critique of your finishing peaks, is that you're more of a literate preacher and don't venture in the cresty demeanor of r-rated saw plays, or sexual-predator, explicit material. You're getting there, debonair. With a pinch of extra flare, you could become an exceptional heir and could possibly be the best, in here. I liked it.

I liked this. Thanks, both of you friends.

[Witty]

Yeah it was good i guess.

WHATEVER.

hate you.