They are the only ones who cushion my feet from the ball. I am the only one who defends them from getting crushed. Two muddy cleats with dirty soles and scars from the game like mine. Two who do not look brand new but are the comfort to my feet. Two ripped sides with water leaking in. From the goal post, we can hear the yells from the sideline, but the players keep fighting for the ball and don’t give up until the last whistle is blown.
Their imperishability is covert. They maneuver their way across the field towards the goal. They get older and they worn down and grasp onto the soles of my feet knowing this could be their last run before they demolish into pieces of muddy fabric. This is how they endure.
Let one show gratitude to the cleats on his feet, as the earth’s soil makes it’s way into the grooves of each cleat. Stomp, stomp, stomp the two make as I remove the dry mud from them. Finally clean.
When I am too tired and too sore to keep running, when I am a human faced creature with sweat dripping down, then take a look at the two cleats. When there is nothing left to give on this field. Two who rushed me around the field. Two who showed me again and do not forget to show me everyday. Two whose only reason is to work and work.