The Tearaway Warmup Pants are Key by Adam Straus

The tearaway warmup pants are key, because I’m mostly naked before I even hit the ground, pants floating next to me like a crumpled parachute. I rip my shirt off Hulk-style, using the notch I pre-cut in the collar, and take one inhale to appreciate the scene: 75,000 fans rising above me in concrete stadium tiers, Super Bowl pageantry on the jumbotron, an angry usher rushing towards the railing from which I’ve just leapt. 

And I’m off, a hairless meteor streaking across the sideline. I shaved my pubes in the hotel last night; just wanted to manicure the lawn so everyone could see the house clearly. Had a bit of a philosophical hang-up about where pubes end and upper leg hair begins, erred on the side of upper leg hair, carved out a weird bald patch in the middle of my body, kept trying to blend the edges of the bald patch, wound up shaving myself from ankles to eyebrows (inclusive). 

The clean shave has me aerodynamic. I dodge a security guard, hurdle a cameraman, flash past a reporter, and I’m on the field. The field of play where play has stopped, because the referee is pointing at me and blowing his whistle. The athletes stand around, hands on their hips, and you really can’t tell how big these guys are on TV. I haven’t had a sip of water in two days to get lean, and I’m profoundly aware of how close my skeleton is to the surface of my skin. The players are wrapped in pads, jerseys, helmets, athletic tape, sweatbands, compression sleeves, high socks, knee braces, elbow braces, neck rolls, and sticky gloves. Their dark visors hover above my head.

I glance down, see my dick slapping against the side of my legs as I run. The cold really isn’t doing me any favors; I was planning on it being a few degrees warmer. Surely all the guys watching understand, and they’ll explain this phenomenon to the girls. Surely they’ll know what’s important is this took a year of headstand practice, a year of clothes-ripping practice, expensive plane tickets, an expensive hotel, Super Bowl seats with a comma in the price tag, three days no pay and no tips with my BoA savings already down to double digits; all for twenty more, fifteen more, ten more yards in the sun. 

I make it to the NFL logo at midfield. A horde of security guards in hi-viz windbreakers close in. The crowd roars. Forearms on ground, kick feet in air; I’m standing on my head and for a moment it’s me, holding up the world.

Adam Straus‘ work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Iowa Review, The Hopkins Review, Pithead Chapel, JMWW, The South Dakota Review, and elsewhere. Adam holds an MFA from Rutgers-Camden.

21 July 2023