The Mountaineer's call, a distant, grim sound,
Rodriguez's shadow, on hallowed ground.
No room for weakness, no time for repose,
Only the grind, until the spirit implodes.
He screams for perfection, a fire in his eyes,
"Win at all costs!" is his battle cry.
But I crave a softer game, a gentler pace,
Where wins and losses, fade into a haze.
I'd rather not spot the ball or hold the rope tight,
Than face the pressure, of day and of night.
No need for greatness, no hunger for fame,
Just a simple joy, in this forgotten game.
I'm soft, I know, I'll freely confess,
This game of grit, puts me to the test.
So I'll seek a haven, where coaches gently guide,
Where wins and losses, peacefully subside.
Rodriguez's shadow, on hallowed ground.
No room for weakness, no time for repose,
Only the grind, until the spirit implodes.
He screams for perfection, a fire in his eyes,
"Win at all costs!" is his battle cry.
But I crave a softer game, a gentler pace,
Where wins and losses, fade into a haze.
I'd rather not spot the ball or hold the rope tight,
Than face the pressure, of day and of night.
No need for greatness, no hunger for fame,
Just a simple joy, in this forgotten game.
I'm soft, I know, I'll freely confess,
This game of grit, puts me to the test.
So I'll seek a haven, where coaches gently guide,
Where wins and losses, peacefully subside.
