When you say a literary work “dates itself,” you might mean it is old-fashioned or representative of another era, as in a classic work by John Donne or John Milton, maybe. It’s possible, however, for a more recent work to date itself, too, in that society’s norms change, sometimes more swiftly than we expect.
If you want to know if a poem has dated itself in this manner, there is no better laboratory than a younger generation of readers. Reading Gary Gildner’s “First Practice” to young sports lovers may lead to some surprises. Some “mysteries” for them would be easily interpreted by their parents and grandparents.
The poem details a first football practice (though the sport is not mentioned) led by an old-school coach and veteran of war. Let’s take a look at the poem first:
“First Practice” by Gary Gildner
After the doctor checked to see
we weren’t ruptured,
the man with the short cigar took us
under the grade school,
where we went in case of attack
or storm, and said
he was Clifford Hill, he was
a man who believed dogs
ate dogs, he had once killed
for his country, and if
there were any girls present
for them to leave now.
No one left. OK, he said, he said I take
that to mean you are hungry
men who hate to lose as much
as I do. OK. Then
he made two lines of us
facing each other,
and across the way, he said,
is the man you hate most
in the world,
and if we are to win
that title I want to see how.
But I don’t want to see
any marks when you’re dressed,
he said. He said, Now.
Right out of the gate, the first two lines, which reference a rather routine physical practice done by doctors to prospective football players before any season began, would perplex today’s youth. More perplexing still might be these words:
the man with the short cigar took us
under the grade school,
where we went in case of attack
or storm
Readers might be mightily challenged by the words “under the grade school” and “in case of attack,” even in this age of nuclear saber rattling. Who can blame them? Who can conceive that people of an age familiar to me were once told to crouch under school desks in the event of an atomic bombing?
Younger readers might be given pause by the lines “if / there were any girls present / for them to leave now” if they take it literally. The thought of boys being called girls as an insult by an adult? Dated, probably. So politically incorrect in this day and age that it just doesn’t happen (and if it does, like kitty videos, it’ll “goes viral” in a hurry).
You might even find readers who are convinced this poem was about war, not sports, unless they wisely point out the words “if we are to win / that title I want to see how.” Unfortunately, the final lines might muddy the waters anew: “But I don’t want to see / any marks when you’re dressed.”
Marks? On clothes?
You see the problem. Read in the 1960s — the decade Gildner was no doubt recalling — “First Practice” is a simple and charming take on authority abused and innocence bewildered, so much so that the poet recalls it all these years later. But without the benefit of 50 years, the poem’s assumptions about its readers hits some turbulence. Kids might be intrigued by the poem, but they’re more likely to be perplexed.
Time does funny things, in other words, just as much to more recent poems as to truly ancient ones, but one purpose of poems is to become snapshots in time, historical records, remembrances–if you’ll forgive–of things past, such as of a first practice, for instance. One that becomes a lasting impression. And a very good poem.