Quoth the Colt ‘Nevermore’

Based on the weird rules of the NFL on TV (local markets and all that), sometimes you don’t get to watch the game of the week. Sure, it would have been fun to see the Dolphins score 70 points. Travis Kelce and Taylor Swift? Count me in.

Here in Indiana, though, at 1 p.m., the “only game in town” was the local Indianapolis Colts vs. the Baltimore Ravens. Sure, it was a chance to see what Notre Dame alum Kyle Hamilton is up to. But otherwise, it was a dreary game with very few big plays played in dreary weather.  All of this put in my mind Edgar Allen Poe, who gave the Ravens their identity.  So, how would Mr. Poe have reported on the game?  I'd like to think something like this:

Once upon an afternoon dreary, while I pondered, wet and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of plays to be run—

While I coached, nearly tackling, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my stadium door.

“’Tis some visiting team” I muttered, “tapping at my stadium door —

            Only this and nothing more.”

 

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak September;

And each separate hoof print wrought its mark upon the field.

Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

From my gameplans surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lombardi —

For the rare and radiant prize whom the NFL named Lombardi —

            Gone from here, for what feels like, for evermore. 

 

And the grass-stained, sad, rustling of each purple jersey

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic plays never drawn up before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

“’Tis some horse entreating entrance at my stadium door —

Some late visiting team entreating entrance at my stadium door;

            This it is and nothing more.”

 

Presently my defense grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said he, “or Sirs, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I shall not stay behind and so quickly I came running,

And so heavily I became knocking, knocking over your pass thrower,

That I scarce was sure you saw me”—here they moved much slower;

            Kyle Hamilton there and nothing more.

 

Deep across the field, little I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no coach ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

And the pass rush kept coming, only spoken was the whispered word, “Lombardi?”

This I whispered, and a fan echo murmured back the word, “Lombardi!”—

            Merely this and nothing more.

 

Back to the sideline turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a whistling somewhat louder than before.

“Surely,” said I, “surely that is my pash rush again on the gardener;

      Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this game explore —

Let this crowd be still a moment and this game explore;

            ’Tis Hamilton again and nothing more!”

 

Open here he flung the front line, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

But in there stepped a stately Colt of the saintly days of Manning (not really, but go with it);

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

Stood in the home of Tucker, just at the 21-yard line —

            Stood, and kicked and three more.

 

     Then this white horse stunned my gameplan,

By the old and seasoned decorum of the countenance it wore,

    “Though thy jersey be clean and white, thou,” I said, “art sure no game-winner,

     Ancient kicker to pull this team from wandering Achilles’ shore —

Tell me what thy quarterback’s plan is for the endzone’s shore!”

            Quoth (Matt Gay) the Colt “Nevermore.”

 

Much I marveled, this ungainly steed to hear frustration so plainly,

Though his answer had little meaning—little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that our own offense today

Never yet to be blessed with game-winning play with possession of the ball —

Bird or horse has yet to show great play with the ball,

            With such name as “Nevermore.”

 

But the Colt, striding back to the field again, spoke only

That one word, as if all had led to this play.

Much longer than he attempted earlier—not a mane flew then he galloped —

Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other kickers have scored before —

Soon Tucker will save us, as my Hopes have ridden before.”

            Then the horse said “Nevermore.”

 

Startled at such thoughts of kickers when quarterbacks win games,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is special teams stock and store

Caught in some unhappy contract, with a poverty franchise trapped

A runner’s failure to comply followed fast and a prime injury followed faster they bore —

Till the dirges of ownership’s Hope that melancholy burden bore

            Of ‘Never — nevermore’.”

 

But the Colt still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Two more field goals he hit while all others were yet to score;

Then, upon the violet sinking, I betook myself to sending

Our own great one out at the end, thinking what this ominous horse of yore —

What this old, highly paid, seasoned, experienced, and ominous horse of yore

            Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

 

This I stood engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the raven whose fiery eyes shan’t reach into the yellow core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head and game plan hurting

As, with gloating silence, the defense ran out Tucker returned back o’er,

But such a dreary afternoon, with stadium light gloating, was far from o’er,

            We all shall press, ah, nevermore!

 

Then, me thought, the air grew denser, fear shot through as possession was not granted

Flipped by our referee whose coin didn’t tinkle on the grassy floor.

“Wretch,” I cried, “thy Go(o)d(el) hath lent thee—by these refs he hath sent thee

Respite and think of from thy memories of Lombardi;

Run, oh run into this battle, but forget not this lost Lombardi!”

            Quoth the Colt “Nevermore.”

 

“Lamar!” said I, “Passer! Leader still, if bird or hero!

Whether by run or by throw, get us here ashore,

Frenzied yet all undaunted, on this football field enchanted —

On this home by Poe haunted —tell me truly, I implore —

Is there—a touchdown somewhere? Tell me, tell me, I implore!”

            Quoth the Colt “Nevermore.”

 

“Lamar!” said I, “Passer! Leader still, if bird or hero!

Tyche has once again found us and she shall, shall smile down upon us,

Tell this offense with sorrow laden if, within the distant future,

It shall clasp a sainted prize whom the NFL name Lombardi,

Clasp a rare and radiant prize whom the NFL name Lombardi.”

            Quoth the Colt “Nevermore.”

 

“Be that field goal our sign of parting, steed or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—

“Get thee back into the bench and away from the end zone’s shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my irritation at my team unbroken!—quit thy field stance!

Take thy hoof from out my heart, and take no more take thy stance!”

            Quoth the Colt “Nevermore.”

 

And the Colt, never flitting, still is sitting

On the loss column on my team record in the AFC North;

And though there be many fortnights in the season remaining,

And my team will face few obstacles to see the Lombardi within the North;

My spirits from such a bad game of football will travel North  

            Shall be lifted—nevermore!