By TaeHun Yoon

Tense and fierce, wild and loud,
Exuberance erupts beneath the cloud.
No mercy shown on emerald field,
A hundred yards where giants wield.

Ten men like black bears clash and dash,
Following commands with thunderous flash—
From minds that scheme with practiced care,
A ten-yard sprint becomes a prayer.

Sometimes fortune finds its grace—
Seventy-five yards in a single race.
Through rain or snow or howling wind,
Their bodies twist, their will won’t bend.

They fly like gymnasts in mid-air:
Forward rolls and leaps laid bare,
Somersaults and hands that spring,
Backflips, flips, and everything.
Split leaps, tosses, spins on toe,
Pass and throw and muscle flow.

When regular time slips to the end,
An extra ten, the rules extend.
A coin decides who gets the ball—
One chance to rise, or risk the fall.

A touchdown wins in sudden death,
Or crashes fast in seconds’ breath.
Forty ticks—or just four more—
And madness ends the scoreboard war.

Ah, this American craze so bold—
A storm of heart no calm can hold.
Hypertension dressed in cheer,
A roaring art that draws us near.

Beyond the game, beyond the fame—
Is it art? Or just a name?
I believe—it is much more
Than business played on grassy floor.