When I saw you for the first time I wanted so badly to be with you. I thought you were lovely, slender, not like the other footballs I’ve fallen on top of or taken to the house. I respected you for your correct scale and deep engravings, but I also lusted for your concaved edges and slender base. I wanted to moisten my needle and penetrate your bladder. I wanted to inflate you to your correct weight, until I realized that you were solid silver and could not be penetrated. Or inflated. Even after knowing these things, I still wanted so very much to try.
We talked a while in Miami, Vince Lombardi Trophy, and during our brief chats I had visions of us. Yes, I know how silly it seems now, looking back. I play football and, well, you’re a football on an unusually-shaped pedestal. I still thought we could make it work. I saw us together, me carrying you down the beach in my arms, shielding you from the salty water to protect your finish. Later that night we would get shitfaced off Everclear, and then curl up in bed. I would run my fingers over your laces and whisper Journey lyrics into one of your noses, and as your metallurgy cooled my chest, we would fall asleep. In the morning, I would have awoken early to make you pancakes on the hot plate that I brought over, since I know you have no stove.
But now you are gone, Vince Lombardi Trophy, as if my fleeting moment to acquire you never existed. You are so far away from me now, perhaps being passed around in Indianapolis like a bowl of delicious pretzels. When I got back to Chicago, I thought, “Why don’t I come to visit you in Indianapolis? It’s in the same state, and we could spend time together and laugh and eat spinach dip, and maybe take you back to my kitchen that I painted pink. I hope you like pink.”
But the fates proclaim that we were not meant to be together, Vince Lombardi Trophy. And so here I sit, distraught with grief and shame, with the George Halas trophy, as I wonder what could have been. Sure, it is a trophy, Vince Lombardi Trophy, but it is not you. Its touch pales to your gleam. And while the Halas trophy and I have tenuous conversations on the living room sofa, fights about the toilet seat, and unsatisfying sessions of lovemaking, I’ll be yearning, hungry, for your delightful charm and pristine sheen.
You’re the one I wanted, Vince Lombardi Trophy. And now you are gone, whisked away from me by my failures. I don’t care what the others might say, I know I could have done more to bring us together. It’s my fault, Vince Lombardi Trophy. You are the epitome of elegance and grace, and I am a large, dumb man. The joy your promise brought to me was real, Vince Lombardi Trophy. I will never forget you.
Maybe we can still be friends?