Janet Fricke Combs

I’m not a fan of football games, per se;
I tune into the Superbowl for ads.
The touchdown dances make me look away;
A jeering, prancing dude in shoulder pads
Will make me cringe, embarrassed. Where’s the sport
In shoving triumph down another’s throat?
(And on the football field, or track, or court
Did not your mother warn you, never gloat?)
We almost turned the game off—fifty one
Was not a contest. Not at first. It seemed
One team was trounced; the outcome done and done—
But then the sportsmanship of which we’ve dreamed
Was on display. The comeback from behind
Was brave and bold; the pure Olympic kind.