C. CRATTAN
At a point slightly northeast of the goal,
barely outside the ivy-covered stadium,
is a circle that brick walks converge upon
from four directions. The walkways are lined
with long and wide rows of almost red bougainvillea
and deep purple pansies. Scarlet and blue,
the sun and the sea, create the way
to this circle, this pedestal, this Doric Parthenon,
this statue of the great Doak Walker, poet in place.
He is leaning to his right, right foot on the field,
left knee bent to put his foot at some point
where a would-be tackler could hazard
a guess as to its next coming. No one
can be just like him, but many would be content
to be the chalice ball he holds and feel the wind
in his swinging arms, would be tacklers,
helmeted warriors sweeping by, bowing to tackle,
paying homage to the spondaic substitutions
of his rhythmic feet in motion. The wind
from Olympus, whispers his next step.