It little profits that an idle fan
Near this dark tv, among these skeptics
Match’d with aged buddies, I mete and dole
Unequal expectations on Rich Rod,
Who strives, plans, and coaches, and knows not me.
I cannot rest from internets, I drink
Life to the lees: all times I have enjoy’d
Greatly, have suffer’d greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone: on couches, floor.
The angry Michigan hating-God dash’d
Budding prospects for a winning season.
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known: championships,
And wins, losses, coaches, rivals, heartbreak.
Myself not least, but have cheered through them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers
In ringing stadiums of the Big Ten.
I am a part of all games I have seen;
Yet great success is a scale whereby we
Weigh our expectations. An untravell’d,
Unthink’ably black era have we liv’d.
How anguish’d are we to lose: nay, flounder?
To fall from mountains, once-victorious?
As though to win were happiness, were Life.
Two years pass’d all too tort’uous – misery.
Little remains: but ev’ry hour is an
Opportunity for something greater.
Coach Rodriguez, a bringer of new ways,
Claim’d some two Suns to rebuild and retrain,
And this Blue spirit yearning in desire
To chase victory like a sinking star,
In the Biggest House ever known to man.
Hail! This is my Team, mine own Wolverines,
For whom I carry my torch and my pride.
Well loved by me, they labour endlessly
To make tough a doughy people; through hard
Practice they elevate themselves skyward.
Near blameless is Rod, centred in the storm
Of lawsuits, investigations, char’cter
Assassinations. In offices of
Schembechler Hall hearths burn late into night.
Whilst The Game waits, he works his work, I mine.
There lies the field; the Big House near complete;
There stands the empty scoreboard: new seasons
Await. My Michigan Men, souls that have
Toiled, and wrought, and fought with me — That e’er
With a frolic welcome took the hardships
And the glory. You and I are Arr’gant:
Arrogance hath its honour and its toil;
Loss dims it not: and something ere the End,
Some play of noble note will yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the Arbor,
The long summer wanes; the slow clock ticks, tocks.
The deep MGoWeb moans round with many
Voices. . . . Come, my friends, ‘tis not too late to
Seek a newer form of facial hair. Push
Off, and sitting well in order smite the
Follicles from your cheeks: for my purpose
Holds to grow a magnanimous Mustache!!
It may be that the games will wash us down;
It may be we shall touch the crystal ball,
And see the great Yost, whom we all well knew.
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To Strive, to Grow, to WIN, and not to yield.
Pillaging again this August ...