Fighting Weight

The first thing I typed was, “Stretching is serious business”

but I knew right away Lance would never say that.

I remember how we sat on chairs with wheels

and pretended to race down the hall

         to the waiting room and back.

No one had ever told me that recovering

from knee surgery would be this fun.

Before track practice in high school,

I would jog up and down the football field

and hit my butt with my own heels

and say, “Look, I’m kicking my own ass!”

Once a week, in the afternoon, I would stroll into his office

in shorts and a t-shirt that said Eat What Elephants Eat.

I often forget what this shirt says

but I will always remember the nurse

in blue scrubs at the urgent care who said,

“Peanuts? Am I supposed to eat peanuts?”

What I do remember Lance saying was,

         “Your balance is coming back.”

“Brian Bosworth was my idol when I played college ball.”

         “I’m just trying to keep up with you.”

“166 is your fighting weight then.”

when he said the thing

about my fighting weight,

which put me in mind of Caesars Palace

It would be years before

I knew enough about the body

to understand that when the scale

life has been clowning me

for thirteen rounds now, dancing

around the ring like Sugar Ray,

forward as if the year is 1980

and my name is Roberto

Durán, las manos de piedra,

My brain doesn’t know 

all the seats

in the Olympic Stadium are empty,

doesn’t know the lights are off

and there is no bell to ring.

This morning in the shower, 

I sat in the corner, 

placed both hands on my large, wet stomach, 

and said, “Thank you,” 

and then, “No más.”