Page 44 of Changing the Playbook
“Traitor,” I mutter, draining my beer in one desperate gulp. “If I die up there, I’m haunting you first.”
“I’d expect nothing less.” She lifts her glass in a mock toast, eyes dancing. “Break a leg, Fartman.”
Purple Hair beckons from the platform, holding the microphone like she’s offering me a live grenade. The crowd parts as I stand, and I catch fragments of conversation that do nothing for my confidence: “—plays hockey, I think—” and “—this should be interesting—” and “—is he having a stroke?”
The walk to the platform feels endless, and then I’m on stage with mic in hand. Under the lights, the crowd blurs into a mass of expectant faces. All except Sophie, who remains crystalline in my peripheral vision, leaning forward, chin on her hand, watching with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
“So.” My voice cracks immediately. “I’m Mike, and I’m here because I thought trying new things would be good for personal growth. Turns out I was wrong.”
A few chuckles ripple through the crowd.
“I play hockey,” I continue, finding my rhythm. “Which means I’m used to people yelling at me. But usually I’m wearing pads and they’re behind glass.”
More laughs, louder now, and Sophie’s smile widens.
“I wrote something.” I make a show of pulling my phone out. “But then someone told me poetry night isn’t the place for haikus about cafeteria food, so...”
“Read the haiku!” Some drunk hero shouts from the back.
I look at Sophie, who nods with exaggerated seriousness.
“Alright.” I pretend to read from my screen. “Cafeteria fish / Mystery meat swimming in / Regret and beige sauce.”
The bar erupts—half groaning at the terrible poetry, half laughing at its accuracy, in roughly even proportions. Even the overly serious turtleneck brigade cracks a few smiles.
“But seriously,” I say once the noise dies down from the gag. “I did try to write something real. It’s about—” I swallow, throat suddenly dry. “It’s about what happens when you realize the plan you’ve been following might be someone else’s map.”
The bar quiets. I find Sophie’s eyes across the room and hold them.
“I had it all figured out at five years old?—
Every goal, every play, every story foretold.
Built my life like a ladder, each rung in its place,
Never stopped to ask why I was climbing like it’s a race.
But certainty’s just fear dressed in its Sunday best,
And plans are just cages we build in our chest.
So I’m learning that watercolors bleed past the lines,
That pottery wheels spin truth better than time.
I’m learning that poems don’t need perfect rhyme,
That falling apart might be falling in line?—
That the best map to follow might be no map at all,
And the bravest thing sometimes
Is just learning to fall.
And maybe that’s why,
And when, we learn how to fly.”
