It's not about the house.

Tuesday, September 9, 2008

No Joy In Townville

The outlook sure was brilliant for New England’s team that day;
The record 0-0, a whole season left to play,
And then when Sammy slipped his grip, and Pollard took his aim,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

As our hero got up to go, we heard his pain expressed,
And with him went the hope from each and every human breast;
They thought, "It is still football, everybody takes a whack—
We'd put up even money now, with Brady gone, that’s that."

We felt for Matty Cassel, the mood was like a wake,
When he comes in, people go home, but there's too much now at stake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat;
For there seemed but little chance of happy news from Brady’s CAT.

But Matt let drive a bullet, to the wonderment of all,
And Moss, the much despised, got his glue-hands on the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,
There was Randy with a first down and Matt Cassel’s fear deterred.

From sixty thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
And 81 looked to the door, hoping for number twelve;
Alas, the door was empty, they were cheering now for Matt,
Because Brady, mighty Brady, was not going to come back.

There’d been pain in Brady’s countenance as he stepped from his place;
There was pride in Brady’s bearing, but the truth in Brady’s face.
And when, responding to the cheers, Randy kept looking back,
No stranger in the crowd could want anything more than that.

Ten million eyes spent hours trolling for the latest dirt.
Five million tongues were wagging on how badly he was hurt.
The papers had to write about the game they played to win,
And wait for news from Foxborough of the condition Brady’s in.

And now theories aplenty came hurtling through the air,
Who would they sign, how would they do, would anyone still care?
Closed-mouthed stood Coach as always, close-knit the team he led—
Until "He ain't okay," admitted Belichick. "That’s it!" the haters said.

From the city, from the people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
"Kill him! Kill Bernie Pollard!" shouted some wackos on the web;
And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Sammy kept his head.

With a look of resignation, Morris took the questions on;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade them move along;
He signaled to reporters, as once more the question flew;
“Do you think the hit was dirty?” “Look, I don’t think he meant to.”

“Foul!” cried the boy who'd looked in vain for his best friend
And “Blood!” cried some who didn’t want the dynasty to end.
But Coach is stern and cold, which is just how Coach plays the game,
When he tells us it will be a year till Brady moves the chains.

The cool has fled from Brady’s brow, the teeth are clenched in pain;
He pounds the ground with violence on the tape loop once again.
And now the QB holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Pollard’s blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout;
But there is no joy in Townville — mighty Brady's knee went out.

4 comments:

Khurston said...

THAT was poetry. dang.

Poppo said...

Hope you don't mind but I sent it to "The Big Show" at WEEI

Robert said...

If there was a contest, you just won.

pork luck said...

YOU ARE BRILLIANT!