Football poetry - My collected works

[Hawg73]

Sports poetry - My collected works

Many of you already know that I write the occasional poem and actually have the balls to post them.

Though it may look like a sign of insecurity to post them again I decided after Pookie brought it up to collect them on one thread for those who haven't seen them before or who may not be totally sick of them, plus this site dumps threads after a while and thought it might be good to have them in one place for reference.

The first one was written prior to the opener vs. the Steelers last year (2002) and was basically my first real attempt at a complete poem.

It is purposely melodramatic as that did strike me as basically a war.


When the last echo dies

They ride in from the West like the curtain of old
Cloaked in the colors of midnight and gold
With eyes filled with fire from long winter's despair
And howling like wolves as they enter our lair

To revenge they are sworn, oaths taken in blood
Unleashed like the fury of a terrible flood
An unstoppable force is what many would say
But an immovable object stands in their way

Now many a word has been written and said
Long 'ere the first drop of blood has been shed
Of how heavy the head is that still wears the crown
And how mighty the armies that would take us down

But deep in our souls is a fire without name
That asks for no quarter and burns like a flame
That bows not to glory nor seeks out its light
And stands in defiance, never turns from a fight

As the battle is joined with flesh and bone and not swords
And is squared on the field with great deeds and not words
In the heat of the moment some will rise and some fall
Some will hide in the shadows or will answer the call

And when the anthems are played and the coin has been tossed
Whether fortune shines down or if stars have been crossed
What befalls on that night is a tale not yet told
And can't be revealed not for love nor for gold

And when the beacon is cast on the stars overhead
And the warriors to the arena are led
Let our voices be joined in a thunderous roar
To remind them of what they are fighting for

And may it be said many long ages hence
That tonight starts a journey, a mighty defense
Well knowing the road many pitfalls may bring
But a small price to pay in the quest for the ring.

And after the fray when the last echo dies
With a September moon shining bright in the skies
Would that the victors in the end standing true
Are the Champions of the Red, Silver and Blue

 

[Hawg73]

This one was done prior to the 1st Bills game last year:

Drew Has Left the Building

It started many years ago when our record was the worst
There was a golden boy named Drew and the Tuna picked him first
It wasn't very long before long sufferin' fans could see
That this kid was the one to bring respectability

He hailed from Walla-Walla in the state of Washington
And the balls flew from his fingertips like bullets from a gun
Even as a rookie - you could see him standing tall
It looked like he was Canton-bound, a sure thing for the Hall

Could he throw a square out? Yes, like few before him could
and fans up in the stands would say "My God this kid is good!"
His legend was a-growing and the wiseguys in the know
Could see his arm'd take us just as far as we would go

A team was built around him and the kid became renowned
And the Pats no more were doormats but contenders for the crown
The wins they came in bunches and we finally had our day
But were beaten in New Orleans by the Packers from Green Bay

Our fortunes started slipping when the Tuna took his leave
And Kraft brought Pete the Poodle in with nothing up his sleeve
Now many were the reasons for the Patriot's decline
Some said it was the coaching, others sure it was the line

Some blamed Bobby Grier, the man who couldn't pick his nose
And DB's started snatching all of Bledsoe's errant throws
And many were the questions that began to fill the air
As Drew's once steely eyes began to show a vacant stare

"A Deer caught in the headlights" is was what his detractors said
"No fire in his belly" and "His cleats are filled with lead"
The Drew fans said "Don't blame him- he's no supporting cast"
"You must be blind- have you not seen what he's done in the past?"

And so in Patriot Nation - had begun the great debate
The biggest controversy since "Less filling" or "Tastes great"
Each boast that he's a leader or that his spirals spun so sweet
Were countered by assertions that the guy had happy feet

If Belichick had his doubts at least he kept the status quo
Until Drew's chest was stove in by the force of Lewis' blow
And while Bledsoe was laid up, almost dead as you'll recall
They named young Tom the starter and they handed him the ball

The Bledsoe faithful flipped out when he healed and rode the pine
"Add insult to injury" was their collective whine
Young Brady wasn't good enough to ever please that crew
That worshipped at the altar of a fallen God named Drew

And then their prayers were answered it was in the Pittsburgh game
Lee Flowers yanked Tom's ankle and the new kid came up lame
So the call went out to Bledsoe, to come to the rescue
And both camps held their breath because they'd seen what he could do

He staggered like a drunken moose and tossed a hook shot up
Then threw it straight to Porter who then quickly coughed it up
But the eyes of Bledsoe's faithful saw Montana in his prime
The Brady bunch said "HolyShit, we dodged a bullet that time"

"We won it ALL with Brady" was the Tom supporter's sneer
It was rapidly apparent that both could not stay here
Old Drew was like a maiden who was pining for a date
But the phone was not a-ringing and the hour was growing late

Then finally his ship came in from snowy Buffalo
They were his only suitor and we sadly watched him go
Some people they got misty eyed, too bad it came to this
So we packed him off with a box lunch and a farewell kiss

Some said "We will regret it", some said "Good riddance, Drew"
And the bloody controversy reared it's ugly head anew
Now Halloween's approaching and the Bledsoe Bowl is 'nigh
This QB controversy is like "The Thing That Wouldn't Die"

And now Drew's moon is waxing and Tom's is on the wane
The best laid plans of mice and men have gone astray again
And what's important Sunday is not which one stakes his claim
But Bledsoe versus Brady will be the game within a game

Oh somewhere in this land of ours there's one who doesn't care
The way they throw the deep ball or the way they comb their hair
But not here in New England where the two sides never quit
The mighty Drew has left the building, now let's all get over it.

 

[Hawg73]

Then I did another for his return to Foxboro.

Return of a Favored Son

They say that you can't go home again and the road goes ever on
But return you must again - to see if where you left is gone
And sadly many times it seems a different place we find
And those out of our sight are sometimes also out of mind

But we keep a special place for some, and never can forget
The ones whose exit you rejoice or those that you regret
The ones who made a difference and the ones who left their mark
Or coaxed a raging bonfire from a tiny fading spark

But now the page is turned and a new chapter has begun
And (still) balls leave Drew's fingertips like bullets from a gun
But he rules another kingdom now and serves another crown
And burns the midnight oil and plots of ways to take us down

Now friendship has its limits and there's business to attend
His schemes - they must be countered and his playoff dreams must end
Ended here and now - and in the place they once began
And witnessed by the people who once thought he was the man

Now the torch has surely passed on - and time waits for no one
Not the rabble or the nameless, nor the King's most favored son
The echoed cheers will rain down - annointing his once-sainted brow
Will he turn his back on them or acknowledge them somehow?

For here is where he made his name - and his story still unfolds
And his darts that once were aimed at Troy now target Price and Moulds
And try as Bledsoe might there still are things he can't forget
But the tale is in the telling and his tale is not done yet

And Sunday we will look down and see our former chosen one
As he casts a shadow lengthened by the cold December Sun
That shadow that could rise up and still consume us all
Or disappear without a trace as he takes another fall

The devil that you know sometimes will best the one you don't
It's possible he'll beat us - but more likely that he won't
My guess is he'll be buried - 'neath a blue and silver tide
Then scrape himself up off the turf and out of town he'll ride

But while he's here I hope he takes some time to look around
At last year's flag and good King Kraft's new stately castle grounds
While Drew may have his regrets - you just know he'll never quit.
He need not hang his head because he's part of all of it.

 

[Hawg73]

Then my last one (whew). My inspiration for this was my brother It's_Good's undying love for the Red Sox and his frighteningly accurate memory of all of the wacky things that happen to his favorite team.

Billy Buck

Things were looking brilliant for the Boston nine that day
We were up 3 games to 2 and soon would put New York away
With Clemens on the mound the Mets would have an uphill climb
The Sox it seemed had beaten the Bambino's curse this time

With Clemens firing bullets his opponents flailed in vain
But he lost it when a sudden blister robbed his grip in pain
And so before the 8th the Rocket grabbed himself some pine
Looking back we should have known it was a sign

The Sox misplayed two bunts and lo, the sacks were filled with Mets
So we pulled the infield in - in an attempt to hedge all bets
But Carter came to bat and all of Shea was filled with glee
When he hit a towering sacrifice to knot the score at 3

And so the score remained until the top of inning ten
Hendu hit a homer and we grabbed the lead again
When Barrett singled Boggsy in to stretch our lead to two
Then visions of a Series win were born in us anew

Stanley was all steamed up to step in and close the book
But Johnny Mac decided to continue with the rook
Schiraldi was his handle - one that lives in Boston lore
The man that had been called upon to barricade the door

Things were looking bright when Wally Backman was retired
Then Keith came in to take his cuts and their second chance expired
For even though Schiraldi's eyes were glazed and filled with fear
Hernandez made an out and in the clubhouse cracked a beer

The scoreboard was flashing "CONGRATULATIONS, RED SOX"
No miracle could help the Mets escape Houdini's box
Then just before the champange's pop and celebration's start
Just when you first taste victory - and that's the hardest part

Carter took a hack and ripped a two-out single bagger
Then Mitchell hit one too and twisted in a little dagger
The next two pitches found their mark - Schiraldi's aim was true
And he had Knight on the ropes with a count that stood at oh and two

One strike from immortality - the spheroid in his hands
And the ever lasting gratitude of all of Boston's fans
But the Mets showed that they still had potent hickory to wield
When Knight looped yet another one which dropped in center field

Carter cut the lead to one as he sprinted in from third
and all across New England muttered curses could be heard
"Not again" they whispered and other things of darker tone
and they prayed to Gods above for whatever mercy could be shown

Old Mac had seen enough and from Schiraldi took the ball
And handed it to Stanley upon whose shoulders rested all
Then Mookie took his stance at home and on it tapped his bat
The Steamer stood and toed the mound and fiddled with his hat

His jaw was set and mirthless - his expression cold and hard
Then he threw some sinkerballs which were his calling card
The count ran 2 and 2 and Mookie fouled off several more
Then Stanley loosed a wild pitch which let Mitchell tie the score

From Providence to Presque Isle and at all points in between
The weary Red Sox fans could not believe what they had seen
'Neath Heaven's vast indifference the nightmare scene played out
And the legion's joyful cries were quickly turned to tortured shouts

Stanley had been shaken but continue on he would
Perhaps Gedman should've caught it - if he was any good
The Steamer readied his next pitch prepared to state his case
And waiting for it Buckner crouched a few steps off 1st base

Beneath his dark blue baseball cap his piercing eyes did glow
And a scowl was faintly hidden by his dark mustachio
Above his spikes his ankles creaked just like a rusty gate
No one could know the many ways that pitch would rule his fate

The sinker came in towards the plate and we all feared the worst
But Wilson hit a grounder that took a path towards first
We all breathed a sigh and saw that Buckner had it cold
When right between his spindly legs that storied baseball rolled

Oh tonight there will be tears shed at the chances we have blown
In Medford and in Braintree and in many parts unknown
and somewhere drunken Sox fans drown in seas of rotgut hooch
There is no joy in Boston - 'cause Bill Buckner screwed the pooch

 

[pookie]

Awesome stuff bro....

That Billy Buck one makes me want to go back to '86, smoke a doobie, visit old friends and run Buckner over with my wife's minivan!!

 

[Hawg73]

A Poem for the 7th game

(orginally posted 10/31/2003)

It took me more than a week to begin this, which began writing itself in my head on the night of October 16th. It is in part a horror story in the form of a poem and so appropriate for Halloween, but we have had enough ghost stories to last for quite a while, thank you, so I tried to soften the blow a bit. I felt better after writing it and exorcising some demons of my own, so hopefully you will feel a little bit of the same after reading it.

I dedicate this poem to the memory of my Aunt Eleanor, a Red Sox fan to the core, may she rest in peace and the certain knowledge that we'll get 'em next year.


Diamonds and Dust


You wish that you could stop the painful memories return
Whose images upon our minds eternally are burned
Those haunting blows that seem to laugh and mock us in the dark
And find the weakest points inside wherein they leave their mark

This time the tale is of two men who wore the scarlet B
Upon their brows a navy cap and the weight of history
For everywhere are Red Sox fans that bear a broken heart
And remember October 16th as the night it fell apart

One of them a pitcher some would say who topped them all
A man that when t'was darkest, you would want to have the ball
An artist and a diva and a master or a con
Whose shoulders knew the weight that all our hopes did rest upon.

The other is a man whose story came to bitter ends
And never should have left North Carolina for the Fens
But leave it all behind he did because he loved this game
Now forever foul profanites are wedded to his name

Pedro was the genius with a horsehide in his hand
And in his lengthy fingers it would do as he'd command
But fragile is his shoulder so we'd lift him when it burned
In hopes that he would pitch someday when all the leaves had turned

Now Grady was a decent man and solid was his word
And respected by his charges despite charges you have heard
A player's manager indeed and often on the spot
But we chalked up 95 wins and locked down a wild card slot

You see these guys were different and were not your Father's Sox
They cowboyed up when things got tight, chased many from the box
With all for one and one for all, to win it was their goal
They flourished in the pressure that makes diamonds out of coal

We watched them as we'd always done, but special they did seem
And we tossed our fears away and once again we chased the dream
They would burst into a light more blinding than the Summer sun.
And for once at last, at long last we would call them Champions.

That dream it seemed was short-lived when in Oakland on the coast
We were down two games to none and it appeared that we were toast
But we rallied and kicked their asses, just like Todd Walker said
Now the Yanks, our ancient rivals, lay in waiting just ahead

So once again the trumpets blew, and stars were all aligned
As if crafted by the Baseball Gods and all the fates designed
Once more the pinstriped Yanks would be the ones we'd have to face
and a curse of eighty-five years length could finally be erased

It went much as expected and these two ancient rivals fought
And added to the legends in the manner that they ought
Both teams and fans exhausted from the first half dozen's strain
Went onward to a seventh without a clue to which would reign

The matchup for that evening brought a wry smile to our face
A high-noon showdown featuring our once and current ace
The Rocket moved on years before, now his twilight gathered fast
His long and gloried days at end, this night could be his last

If that ironic twist was not enough to bring a thrill
In the game we had to win we would send Pedro to the hill
In the churning, angry maelstrom of the House-that-Ruth-built's glare
There stood a lone Dominican who was no stranger there

It wasn't very long before we torched Clemens for four
And edged a struggling Roger ever closer to the door
Then Torre pulled the plug and from the legend took the ball
And he walked head down those dugout steps to a final curtain call

Martinez was magnificent and the equal to his task
And ignored the taunting insults rain, as if you had to ask.
In his piercing eyes unblinking you could see the fires burn
We could feel the Empire crumbling for tonight would be our turn

The cameras panned the stands and their faces did betray
Uncertainty was creeping in, t'was not to be their day
For Pedro did display that night a master craftman's touch
So often we had seen from him, though lately not that much

Through six he'd silenced bats that had produced a single run
And we went into the seventh with a score that stood at four to one
Pedro showed he's mortal and the Yanks showed they weren't through
And three solid smashes later closed the gap to four to two

We could see Martinez tiring as so often was the case
He'd thrown one hundred pitches and you could see it in his face
But he escaped the inning and we didn't wonder why
He thanked the Gods he prayed to and then pointed at the sky

Six outs awaited destiny and the Sox showed they weren't through
When Ortiz took Wells deep and pushed the lead to five to two
So it seemed that the Yankees had their backs against the wall
And Timlin at the bullpen gate was waiting for the call

But the call was not to come and to our horror and chagrin
A shocked and puzzled Nation saw Martinez was still in
Without a breath we watched that weary warrior kick and throw
And he got Nick Johnson to popout and there were only five to go

When Jeter smacked a double it seemed our worst fears had come true
Surely now he'd pull him, surely now he'd see he's through
Surely now he'd choose to lift him and to turn this thing around
And then Grady, Grady Little walked out slowly towards the mound

We finally took a breath because it seemed he'd heard our plea
To pull our Ace and in his place pitch Timlin or Embree
Pedro's heart was willing, but his pride a deadly sin
Shook off the signs to hit the pine and help cement the win

He told the skip he could go on, though you know it was a lie
And frozen in the spotlights glare old Grady let him try
Now none of us will ever know or ever understand
The thoughts, or lack thereof, that then existed in that man

And so we watched in horror as on deaf ears fell our plea
Bernie hit a single and our lead shrank five to three
An old familiar song began that played by ghostly hands
And Matsui cracked a double which bounced in the right field stands

While in the dugout Grady sat and watched it from afar
And left it to his Cowboy's care and to his falling star
There was no way could we stop it, not for money nor for love
And Posada's blooper landed far past Nomar's outstretched glove

We watched it all unravel and afraid it was too late
And Matsui rounded third and then he slid and slapped the plate
Then that Master of the obvious found his way out to the hill
But by now in Red Sox Nation there had spread a ghostly chill

Now everywhere across this land and far-off foreign soil
Wherever Sox fans gathered angry blood began to boil
They called for Grady's carcass and they called for Grady's head
And we knew deep in our bones the year was over, we were dead

By now it's all a blur - I can't recall what happened after that
I sat stock-still an empty shell in a navy baseball hat
I might have been there on my couch or the mountains of the moon
And the final blow, if you have to know, an irony from Boone.

Now everywhere a stillness hung, so empty, vast and deep
As parents watched their little Sox fans cry themselves to sleep
And we within our walls of pain sat long into the night
Staring at the darkness until replaced by morning's light

Now Fenway sits in shadows deep awaiting winter's snow
And bare tree branches - silhouettes in the fading sunset's glow
There's a rhythm in this life of ours - an ever rolling tide
That those who wear the Scarlet B know all too well inside

But seasons lose thier hold on us so another may begin
And soon enough this one will pass and we will start again
For whatever doesn't kill us makes us stronger in it's turn
And the fires of the Hot Stove League already hotly burn

Again we all will proudly don familiar navy hats
And the thunder of a summer's night will come from Boston bats
A phoenix from the ash will rise and soon will take it's wing
For deep down in our Red Sox hearts hope does eternal spring

 

[FallingAlice]

Awesome stuff bro....

That Billy Buck one makes me want to go back to '86, smoke a doobie, visit old friends and run Buckner over with my wife's minivan!!

See now, that's the mark of a great poem. A visceral reaction to it.

 

[Hawg73]

A poem for the playoffs: Ode to Peyton

originally posted 01/13/2005


I'm about Peyton'd-out by this point in the week, but felt the need to write a little poem about the man whose name seems to be on everybody's mind. It's a little long and a bit on the weird side, but I had a good time with it and I hope you enjoy reading it.


Ode to Peyton

He began his storied run as daddy Archie's middle son
and from his crib he made a strong debut
He showed uncommon poise-- by launching rattles at his toys
when they showed him blitz, but he saw cover two

He idolized his famous dad-- a legend in the football mad
southern region of the U-S-A.
Instead of climbing trees-- he watched film religiously
and feasted on a full pigskin buffet.

And soon began the dream-- as the leader of his team
a sophomore star for Newman Prep's behalf
Brother Cooper caught him nine--which was a fateful sign
and that was Peyton's first game at the half

In this time he got a taste-- of all the records he would waste
some numbers that you thought you'd never see
He heard Ole Miss's shouts, but auditioned for the scouts
and he volunteered to go to Tennessee

At the moment he arrived the Orange rooters were revived
by Fulmer's headstrong Freshman prize recruit
His passes filled the sky once more-- and all the football pundits swore
He'd grind the SEC beneath his boot

'Twas there he rose to fame-- to the football world's acclaim
this QB with a cool and steady hand
His passes were like darts-- as he won most of his starts
and even led the Pride of the Southland band

But not all was pure as snow and it's fair that you should know
the Gators took a chunk out of his ass
Every year would start the same-- Peyton won most every game
'til Florida left him sprawled upon the grass

As so the die was cast-- each year nailed upon the mast
of the one team that he couldn't seem to beat
Down deep in Peyton's mind-- he would search but couldn't find
a way to taste that final vic'try sweet

With his future neatly graphed-- he then readied for the draft
prepared to be the greatest you would see
But before he hit the pros-- he recieved a final blow
when Woodson won the Heisman and not he

Then in April he was called-- with the one pick overall
and Coltland had a savior Indy bound
For the team that Johnny U-- had once worn the blue horseshoe
had annointed him the new king to be crowned

He was wise beyond his years-- in the pocket showed no fears
and quickly showed his mettle to his foes
No mortal protege'-- Manning called most of the plays
and to the lofty heights his legend rose

As opponents flailed in vain-- to stop this mighty train
this man that redefined the passing game
His teammates took the pledge-- Pollard, Harrison and Edge
the Lombardi trophy was their solemn aim

But like the Gators years before-- one team barred that golden door
the one team that he couldn't seem to beat
Each year a mirror tale-- and from Manning came a wail
a cry 'twas not at all like "Cut that meat!"

This team as you recall-- is the one that plays their ball
in a place they call Gillette in Foxboro
And the man that pulls the strings-- melting Peyton's waxen wings
Is Belichick-- as if you didn't know

At him they used to laugh, but he's a master of his craft
and Indy is the focus of his thoughts
He will watch the film on you-- 'til he knows what you will do
and he'll hatch a plan to tie you up in knots.

Now Peyton will arrive-- with a mark that stands at oh and five
seeking his redemption and his due
Captain Ahab had his whale-- Manning knows he cannot fail
fail to win the big one-- yes, it's true.

He has nightmares when he dreams-- starring Bill's defensive schemes
and his nemeses in silver, red and blue
He sees Willie coming free and in panic cannot see
which defensive back is covering who

Then he spies a mighty whale-- with a hide of ghostly pale
and he's on a tossing ship in stormy seas
That iv'ry beast that spurs his chase-- the only way he can erase
the bitter taste of what may never be

In this restless dreaming state-- Peyton prays it's not too late
and like Old Ahab holds his harpoon high
Is he at sea or Foxboro?-- no longer does he know
but he cocks his arm and then he lets it fly...........

On early Sunday he will rise-- and rub his bloodshot eyes
and wonder will it be his Groundhog day?
Only hours 'til his fate-- for New England lies in wait
and the Champions are standing in his way.

 

[Ras]

I can't write poems or poetry for crap......those that do have my adimration. See what I mean....

Here I sit all brokenhearted,
Came to sh@t and only farted.
As sh@t on the end is of taper,
my a@@hole doesn't slam shut.
Damn, I ran out of paper!

 

[SuperBowlBound]

That is really great. A lot of good material in those lines. This must have taken you a long time to come up with.

 

[Patsdude123]

patriots rule,
colts mule,
monkeys dance,
donkeys shrew,
and that is what is mixed it created pig stew

 

[SamtheBam]

Your stuff is good Hawg

I'm not the most poetic person but once in a while something comes to me. I wrote this in 2006, the year Bush, Brees, Payton, and Colston arrived in New Orleans and the Saints were making noise after returning from the hurricane.


Black and Gold Autumn


<!--- blog body --->Feint in the direction of the celebrated Bush
and his job is done
Feed the Redwood
shunned til the 11th hour by all but one,
the oxygen his #12 supplies
breathes life to the ten-thousand score
who have returned to their forever altered existance
for it is they who produce the energy and provide the motive
With a westerly Brees at his back
in part whose hands our sense of worth lies
Our new mentor, armed with a small headset and a large resolve,
restores honor to those who can once again stand proud

 

[Gamegents]

Man these were awesome to read. Do you care if I share them?

 

[richarddylan177]

Yeah this is really awesome stuff to read and many of lines are based on true words.