Just about eight or nine

It's like being eight again.
Waiting on these side-lines;
bright lights reflecting on my pale skin.
Feeling like I'll throw up maybe.
If He calls me in the game.
Just to hear Him call my name,
I'll run out anyway.
I run so funny, I'm clumsy and uneven.
I'm not as fast as everyone else,
and in the past I haven't proved the best.
The pinch effect doesn't work, I'm still here.
I stare up into the air, praying that God will
help me to do better this time.
Then the whistle blows, and the game begins;
and I'm distracted by the bright lights
young mothers smoking while they hold their children.
The different colors of people, the moths in the air;
till the game's reached my face,
and it's that same feeling.
What will I do?
When it's my turn to live, what will I do?
This is my time. What have I done? What will I do?