As the line was crossed and t’s were dotted, the s’s felt incomplete. Not unusual for s’s, a motley group of tail-enders often bringing up the rear, like late arrivals to a party long since ended. Like the football team that can’t claim title to their effort, only to their losses—those last to reach the finish line insist it tastes of victory, that finishing deserves its own gold medal. But this meager plot of land so often claimed by other also-rans is merely well-worn turf. My jealous heart desires real victory, claiming untilled soil that I cannot admit does not exist.