(with apologies to Ernest Lawrence Thayer)
The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Brown eleven that day;
The score stood one to nil with just the second half to play.
Ten minutes passed and already a goal had been conceded,
A shot from nearly forty yards—most fans were still not seated.
Grandstrand thought it Bernstein’s ball and Bernstein thought it Paul’s,
Both players stopped, the ball skipped in, onlookers were appalled.
The halftime whistle sounded and the home fans longed to boo.
How could the mighty Bears come out and lose to ODU?
A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to the hope that springs eternal in BrowNation’s breast:
They thought, “If only we could score and knot the game at one,
We’d surely score the second goal—this game could still be won.”
The players marched back to the field this crisp November night,
Their uniforms now glowing in the incandescent light.
They scanned the urging masses as they closely huddled in,
And on a three count bellowed out a bleacher-shaking, “Win!”
And soon it was apparent that these boys were not distraught,
They passed and dribbled skillfully, they clawed and kicked and fought.
Five minutes in, a Davies shot, beyond the reach of all,
It kissed the bar and stirred the net, a dipping, perfect ball.
The striker leapt into the sky and pumped his arms—relief!
While manic coliseum fans now burst with self-belief.
Then shot and shot flew at the goal like missiles—whizzing, humming,
As hecklers yelled to injured foes, “The waa-mbulance is coming.”
Shots hit defenders, missed the net, were cleared to left and right,
and clattered off the posts—metallic echoes in the night.
Oh, with such joy and fortitude the players played to win,
Their spirits flowed with confidence, their upward lifted chins.
Then overtime—a corner kick—the fans got to their feet,
and stomped with raucous vigor as if sound could send defeat,
Three thousand throats united in a cry that shook the earth,
And players danced inside the box, prepared for winner’s mirth.
Then as the player set the ball and lifted high his hand,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt ‘twas Bruno in command.
The ball came swerving in and half a dozen rose to meet it,
Mittens hurled skyward with the enemy defeated.
But wait—the ball was cleared away? A counter had begun—
The ball was launched directly to a streaking striker’s run,
He blocked a tackle, ran to goal and with the keeper set,
Released a shot that bulged that awful, god-forsaken net.
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 P-Town—the Bears have been knocked out.
Much later, when the lights go out, the stadium is cleared,
There linger but faint traces of a faded, distant cheer,
Coach Noonan sits with head in hands, that loss—so quick, so near!
He solemnly confesses, “I thought this was the year.”
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Loyal readers: Thank you for following the Brown Men’s Soccer team during this historic 2007 season. It has truly been a pleasure to coach, play with, and write about this very special group of young men. If you are a regular reader of this blog, please do me a favor: post a comment below. I know the players and coaches read the blog regularly, and it would be great for them to hear your thoughts on the season.
Thank you for spilling coffee on your keyboard every time Brown scored this year, and thanks for reading.
-Anders
