They are the only things that describe me. I am the only one who loves them.
Two rugged cleats with worn bottoms and blistered heels like mine. Two that I cherish here and are here. Two once squeaky but now torn. From on the field, I’m thankful for them, but the crowd only see’s me.
Their strength is underrated. They dig into the sticky mud beneath the ground. They send the ball wherever I please and they stomp back down into the dirt and make rugged contact with the earth between the cleated bottoms and withering down to the bone. This is how they tear.
Let the crowds forget the fight they put up with, they’d dwindle like grass in the winter, each with their laces tightly tied. Fight, fight, fight, they say when I fall. They preach.
When I am too tired and too hurt to keep fighting, when I am fighting to save my breath, then it is I who look down at them. When there is nothing left but to thank save my feet. Two who wear defeat. Two who tear which each and every wear. Two which I fight for to win more.