Now is the spring of our discontent
Made agonizing summer by the mini-camps of June;
And all the stories that loured upon our league
In the deep bosom of the off-season buried.
Now are the Patriots’ brows bound with victo- rious wreaths,
Their bruised arms held high as monuments,
Their underdog status changed to “World Champions.”
Grim-visaged battles have been smoothed into Pro Bowl frivolity,
And now — instead of watching barbed men
Fright the souls of fearful adversaries —
We caper nimbly through baseball season
To the tedious tones of Joe Buck.
But I, that am not suited for sportive alter- nates
Nor made to court a numbing NBA playoffs,
I that am solely stamped and need football’s majesty
To strut before a patriotic ambling Olympics,
I that am curtailed of this fair position,
Cheated of football by dissembling arena-sport,
Unsatisfied, unfinished, sent before my time
Into this dread off-season scarce half my columns written —
And those so lamely and unfathomablely
That Yalies bark at me as I halt by them —
Why, I in this weak piping time of peace
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to spy on coaching changes
And descant on mine own mock drafts.
And therefore since I cannot prove a baseball columnist
To entertain these lazy summer days,
I am determined to prove a humorist
And mock the idle pleasures of these days.
Jokes have I laid, sports-humor dangerous,
By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams
To set my roommates Redskin and the Lion
In deadly hate the one against the other.
And if the Olympics be as inane and boring
As I am football-deprived and ravenous,
This off-season should I closely be mewed up
About a prophecy which says that “P”
Of New England’s crown the usurper shall be.