A Typical Boyhood

Mine seemed like a typical boyhood made in America

with forts, high tops, frogs, and lemonade.

Eying my older brother’s moves, 

I practiced my drop step and slap shot

when nobody was looking.

Never did my brother question how far I could throw or how high 

I could climb.

No, it was never about ability—

only about nerve.

In our boyhoods, my brother let me tag along

and sometimes even lead.

“You first,” he said when we were sledding,

“Not chicken, are you?”

When my arm broke in the crash, I could tell he was impressed

by my plaster cast.

In my boyhood, the kids on our street picked me early 

when we made teams

We all lived through a fight or two or three and got along 

just fine.

Mine seemed a typical boyhood—

with banana seat bicycles, bottle rockets, and rainy days.

Mom volleyed tennis balls with me

and let me fish at the falls.

When Dad put a hoop on the roof, 

the driveway become mine to shoot, dribble, and dream.

But in school, the teachers didn’t understand 

my boyhood.  

They didn’t care 

that I was quarterback at home or that I wanted to play 

rough, on the grass, with all the boys,

and at recess 

they sentenced me to the blacktop 

where, they said, the girls should play 

hopscotch, jump rope, and four square.

My boyhood confused the men in town 

who coached the teams.

They only let me on the court to shoot around at half-time,

and Little League, they said, 

was not for me.

But when Dad had time, 

he'd pitch batting practice

or we’d play nine. 

He’d take me to see 

Joan Joyce throw strikes, 

Patty Berg sink putts, 

and Billie Jean King rush the net—

games and matches never advertised

or on TV, but in remote arenas and on fan-thin fields

where I could watch 

the lines of sweat 

run along the shadowed ridges

of flexing muscles—

be close enough to here the exhales of effort 

the desire, the nerve

to win.

Dad guided me to those places,

showed me the world had space for me,

and always let me know—

if I ever outgrew my boyhood

or if I never did,

it would all be fine,

with him.

Nancy Boutilier is a high school English teacher and basketball coach who likes a well-executed no-look pass as much as an elegant literary misdirection. Her poetry books are According to Her Contours and On The Eighth Day Adam Slept Alone. After a New England upbringing followed by stints in California and Ohio, Nancy is back in Massachusetts with her partner Christa and their dog Kovick. When not in class, Nancy spends time hiking, kayaking, and sketching birds.