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Long Sports Poems | Long Sports Poetry

Long Sports Poems. Below are the most popular long Sports by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sports poems by poem length and keyword.

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Long Poems
Long poem by Robert Candler | Details |

Legend of the Red October Run

Dedicated to the 2000 National College Football Champions, the Oklahoma Sooners 

--------------------------------------------------------------

Over fifty years, boy and man, I’ve been a Sooners fan
Watched and reveled in their glories, every one;
But there’s no more glorious “Sooner Magic” 
Than the Red October Run.

The new millennium's first football season,
Excited Sooners fans’ hopes did soar.
They had tasted victory in Bob Stoops’ first year;
Now, they wanted - no, expected - even more.

There was a glint of promise in Bob’s eyes,
Strength and confidence in his every word.
“Our Team has shown improvement”, is what he said;
“We’ll win!” is what fans heard.

By September’s end, the Sooners were 4 and O,
A “cupcake schedule” some anxious fans would say;
Twenty-two days in October would rule their destiny.
Texas, K-State, Nebraska, the teams they’d have to play.

“OU’s October is a gauntlet”, said ESPN;
“Play #10 and #2 and #1…and win”?
So, on a rainy Saturday morning in Dallas,
The Red October Run would begin.

The Texas State Fair at the Cotton Bowl,
Fans were welcomed by Big Tex.
They screamed, “Go OU!” and “Hook’em Horns!”;
But none could imagine what happened next.

Heupel was a dominating General;
The Sooners Offense, his relentless troops.
Calmus and the Defense assured a total rout,
The Coach of the Day was Bob Stoops.

Sooners fans were wild, delirious with glee;
But Bob seemed focused and sedate.
“We’ll enjoy this victory Sunday;
Then Monday, we’ll prepare for Kansas State”.

No time to revel in the Glory, #2 was tough.
Better than the Huskers?  The possibility was real.
The road to #1 went through Manhattan,
And the Sooners would have to win it on the field.

The sportscasters had a field day.
Last year’s “coaching coup” was news again.
Beasley versus Heupel was “The Match-up”.
Could Heupel evade K-State’s awesome defense 
   and find a way to win? 

Again, Heupel and his troops met the challenge;
And as the Sooners “D” assured a hard fought win,
Every Sooners fan’s heart was stirred.
Could our Sooners be “Big Red” again?

Mighty Nebraska, #1, was coming to Owen Field.
“Biggest OU - Nebraska game in years!” Corso said.
It would be 1 versus 2, a heralded gridiron epic
For the coveted title of…”Big Red”.

It was OU’s biggest home game ever.
The campus was alive with vendors and would-be 
   ticket buyers.
Every Sooners Fan’s heart was pounding.
Could the smell of #1 stoke the Sooners' fires?

The Huskers struck so quickly.
At 14 to nothing, Sooners fans were stunned.
It was shaping up to be a long, long day;
And it wasn’t going to be fun.

Quickly tho’, Heupel rallied his Sooners troops.
They scored and scored and scored again.
The Sooners “D” built a Wall at the 50,
And would not let the Huskers in.

Winners, the Sooners ran and jumped with glee.
Fans flooded Owen Field, milling all around,
Praising and hugging their Sooners Heroes.
They even tore the goal post down.

Now #1, the Sooners had won it on the field.
Their preparation had been well taught.
Bob Stoops, all his great coaches and assistants,
Took pride in how the Sooners fought.

Someone once said, “Everyone loves a winner.”
Everywhere you looked confirmed it’s true.
OU flags fluttered.  Decals, hats, and clothes abound.
Come November, the Sooners and their Fans
    had been renewed,

There’s no slighting the importance of Red October.
The Sooners came together as a Team.
No doubt too, without “The Red October Run”
Their National Championship would still be just a dream.

For the next five games, it was simply unacceptable
For the Sooners to even think that they could fail;
And, tho’ Heupel played injured, they won the Big 12 Championship;
Great Sooners Defense had prevailed.

But no one gave these Big 12 Champs the slightest chance to win
Against the mighty Seminoles of Florida State.
The Heisman Trophy Winner was their quarterback
And their defense was touted to be great.

At the coin toss, Team Captain Torrance Marshall
Said to their quarterback in words most serious and sure,
“You took our boy’s trophy”.  Then he smiled,
“Now we’re gonna take yours”.

The Sooners “D” was everywhere and completely shut them down;
And, when Quentin Griffin’s touchdown closed the door,
Their quarterback knew that Marshall’s words rang true;
The not-so-mighty ‘Noles had not been allowed to score.

Yes, Bob Stoops and his Sooners knew the challenge:
To win Each game ‘til Every game’s been won;
Win for Sooners and their Fans the unchallenged right
To revel in the Glory of being #1.

Yes, my Sooners Team goes on and on,
Different faces, different names;
But these Sooners Champions will be well remembered
For the Season they won Every game.

Undefeated National Champions!
Before October, who would have ever dreamed?
Why, just last year, we didn’t even know the players' names;
And now, they’re College Football’s Greatest Team.

To overcome all adversity and rise to every challenge,
The reward for such a feat is being #1;
Their path to Glory born of a Sooners Legend
Called The Red October Run.

-----------------------------------------


Copyright © Robert Candler | Year Posted 2014


Long poem by Robert Candler | Details |

The Sooner Recruit

Fifty years, boy and man, I’ve been a Sooners fan;
And watched thousands of recruits try to make my Sooners Team.
Often, I’ve enviously wondered what it must be like
To be a touted Sooners recruit, living out his dream.

He’d had a great career through high school;
Made good grades, was a football star, played baseball too.
Coach said college recruiters were watching closely;
So, he tried his very best to make his dream come true.

You see, he’d played on the L’il Sooners as a kid;
Started getting serious about the game when he was only eight
Played with older, bigger boys and practiced hard;
Always told his friends, “To be a Sooner, ya gotta play great”.

Oh yes, his parents raised a football player;
And, even more important, a Sooners fan;
But he wanted more, to be a Sooner,
To feel the glory raining down from the stands. 

Now, the Sooners’ Head Coach is in his living room.
“Son, you’ve got talent.  We think you fit our scheme.
We’re offering you a scholarship, an opportunity
To be an important member of our great Sooners Team”.

His mother smiles her biggest smile.
His father nods proudly and pats him on the knee.
“Lord knows, son, it’s a dream come true.
Go be the very best Sooner you can be”.

He walks into the locker room,
Not quite sure what to expect;
But sure that to play for the Sooners
He will first have to earn respect.

He looks each man straight in the eye - 
Other recruits, trainers, assistants, and every coach.
“Be proud, but respectful”, his mother had said;
Your character, more than your performance, must be above reproach”.

His handshake is firm and he smiles.
“Only one chance for a first impression”, his father had said;
"Always put yourself in positive light, on and off the field.
That’s what it will take to play for the mighty Big Red”.

He meets so many other recruits, each one a high school star.
He’s played against a few and knows they share his dream.
And, to a man, each knows before any chance for Glory,
He first must prove worthy to play for this Sooners Team.

He knows a few will fail to meet the coaches’ expectations.
For some, the scout team will be their fate.
Many will suit up, but rarely play.
Only the very best will ever dare to be great.

Coach says, “If every man learns and executes when called on,
Then this team, we Sooners, will win a lot of games;
But, win or lose, if you play hard and give your very best,
You’ll never have to hang your heads in shame”.

“But gentlemen, with or without you, this team will win.
Every season, the Sooners strive to win it All.
So, listen, work hard, and prepare yourselves.  Each game is war...
And you must be ready when Victory calls”.

Through grueling practices, he finds himself.
As he walks to class, his closest friends are aches and pains;
But, just the other day, Coach helped him up, smiled, and patted his helmet.
“You’re doin’ fine, son.  Keep pushin’.  Remember, no pain, no gain”.

He sees his name on the "open scrimmage" roster for the very first time.
It’s a moment he’ll never forget, another milestone in his dream.
He calls his Mom and Dad, knowing they’ll tell his family and his friends.
He hopes they’ll actually see him play, proof he’s made the Team.

As he suits up for the last pre-season open scrimmage,
He wonders if the coaches would really let a freshman play at all;
But Coach puts him in for eight plays against the first team;
He makes two great open-field tackles and intercepts the ball.

He barely hears the roar of the crowd, as the whole defense “gives him five”.
He’s so excited, he forgets to ask if he can keep that ball.
Fans are buzzing, “Did you see that hit”!?  “Who is that kid”!?
“Will he red shirt or will Coach let him play this fall”? 

He sees his name in the Sunday paper, hears it on local sports.
He’s happy, but he doesn’t let it go to his head.
He keeps his focus and uses it as motivation.
After all, he wants to start one day for the mighty Big Red.

Yes, we’ll hear more of this young recruit.
Perhaps, one day he’ll be the hero of the game.
A seasoned veteran, maybe All Conference or even All American,
Who’s tasted Victory many times and helped glorify the Sooners’ name.

Oh yes, there have been so many who’ve aspired;
But many fewer who’ve actually made our Sooners Team.
They are our heroes, each and every one;
For it’s through their accomplishments, we fans can live the dream.

Billy Vessels, Steve Owens, Billy Sims, and Jason White,
The Selmons, Little Joe, the Boz, Josh Heupel, and “Q”
They, and so many others, were once touted Sooners recruits;
Who set a higher mark and built the Tradition that is OU.

So, c’mon! c’mon! all you great young football players!
Dedicate your talents to OU’s Team and OU’s Fans.
Make Oklahoma’s Owen Field your Field of Dreams,
And feel the Glory raining down from the stands. 

Copyright © Robert Candler | Year Posted 2014


Long poem by Robert Candler | Details |

Went Fishin'


Submitted to the "Gone Fishin" contest
------------------------------------------------

Trollin’ the islands at Texoma,
It was April, 1964.
New rod and reel in hand,
I’d NEVER been fishing before.

A Garcia 2510T casting rod.
The reel, a Mitchell 301,
Plus hand-selected worms and lures…
I was ready to have some fun.

My teacher, a master fisherman,
Had fished all over the earth...
From trout in Austrian mountain streams
To sea bass just west of Perth.

He showed me all the basics,
Including how to tie a lure.
“No snaps. They’re no good.
Tie’em on…just to be sure.”

He made me practice casting.
“Take aim with your rod’s tip 
Take her back - ten, eleven, twelve, one;
Smoothly return to ten… with just a little flip.”

While I practiced the casting motion,
He said, “Large Mouths will be jumpin’ bugs.
Water’s bubblin’ with Sand Bass spawnin’.
You’ll know the difference if one gives you a tug.”

As we drifted around the islands,
He said, “I think you’re ready.”
So, I picked a lure, a pretty Heddon;
And tied her on.  My hands were steady.

Yellow with black dots and a weed guard. 
A streamer tail and double treble hooks.
Who knew if she would do the job,
But I liked the way she looked.

As I tied her on, I looked around
For a likely place for my first cast.
Magazine pictures always showed weeds
In the background of a striking Bass.

So, I picked a reed bed in the shallows;
Threw my first cast, watched her fly.
What happened next was the stuff of dreams.
We couldn’t believe our eyes. 

About eighteen inches before she lit,
A monstrous Large Mouth erupted from the water.
My teacher screamed, “Holy Mary, Mother of God!  
Kiss O’Reilly’s Ugly Daughter!”

When the Bass broke water, it scared me. 
My whole body jerked and shook.
So sudden, so silent, it seemed like slow motion.
Until I heard him screaming, “Set the hook!  Set the hook!”

When the big Bass scared me,
I must have set the hook.
The tussle was on, long and hard.
This fish didn’t want to be cooked.

My lack of skills prevailed, however,
As I finally reeled him in;
I grabbed him by the lower lip,
Like I’d seen Don Wallace do, time and time again.

“Oh, my God”, he murmured as he weighed the Bass;
“Jeez.  Over thirteen pounds....Thirteen pounds, two.”
He took out his Polaroid and laughed, 
“I’ll take a picture of this fish... holdin' you.”

He snapped the picture of me holding the Bass;
On the back wrote the date, the length and weight.
As he turned to put the camera away……
Get ready.  This is the part that’s great.

I’d watched Don Wallace ‘catch and release’.
He always did that on his show.
“This fish put up a good fight.” he’d say;
“Now it’s time to let him go.”

Yes, as my teacher put away the camera,
I held the big Bass by the lower lip and tail
And ‘swished’ him in the water,
Making sure his gills would not fail.

My teacher turned and saw what I was doing
Just as I let the big Bass go.
This, too, was like slow motion
As I heard him screaming, “NOOOOOOO!”

“Why would you do that, Lad?
Do ya know nothin’ at all?
A fish like that... on your very first cast?
Well...Lad, that fish goes on the wall.”

“Well…he’ll be here next year.” I said with a smile,
“And even bigger, I’ll bet.”
He said, ”You’ll make a fisherman, Lad.
It’s not for the fish that we fish…

but for the great stories we get.” 

I still have that lure…and the rod and reel.
Still in their bags and boxes, just like new.
I thought about selling them on eBay,
But 50 years later, they have sentimental value.

You see…I’ve been invited to go fishin’ several times
By golfin’ buddies and other friends;
But for some reason…I really don’t know why…
I’ve never gone fishin’ again.

They say, “Truth is stranger than fiction.”
And I believe that is a fact.
I hope you enjoyed this bit of truth and,
In the meantime…..”Ya’ll come back!”

Copyright © Robert Candler | Year Posted 2014


Long poem by Vee Bdosa | Details |

MEGAN'S HIT - the Baseball Sonnet

      MEGANS HIT - the Baseball Sonnet
There on the deck, I took a practice swing
tormented in the possiblity--
then hope was dashed--I found no hope to bring
up to the plate, when Ump cried out, "Strike 3!"

I was the last to bat--in this last game--
just oh for three, my record said it all!
And in the dugout, faces all the same,
the looks of gloom! Just waiting for my fall!

I took my place, right up there to the plate.
Out on the mound, the picher grinned at me--
as if he hoped to make my swinging late,
or throw me one--I couldn't even see!

    He'd walked a batter, waiting on first base,
    to tie the score, if we'd get in the race!

                    II.

"No girl can hit!" I heard the catcher call,
and echoed from the bleachers was the same,
we made our stands, the umpire cried "Play ball!"
(the umpire was my Daddy, in this game.)

I gripped the bat, the windup came too fast!
As did the ball, but where it should have been!
"Strike one!" the umpire yelled at last--
The fastest ball that I have ever seen!

"She'll never swing!" the catchers words for me--
then threw the ball out to the pichers hand!
While out on first, my runner waits to see
if I can swing, or only make a stand!

   Right in my face--the picher scouled a bit--
   while I choked up--and readied for a hit!
   
                   III.

All set to hit--I made it then my dream!
and came the ball--I could not swing at that!
"Strike twoooo!" the umpire made it scream,
then said to me, "You've got to swing the bat!"

The bat it weighed a hundred pounds or so;
"She'll never swing," the pichers eyes did say,
With that he gave his very best, I know!
I glued my eyes--as it screamed straight my way!

I never saw the hitting of the ball!
but won't forget the cracking sound of it!
Nor know again the feeling of it all
of this my very most important hit!

   The sound it made--that ev'ryone could hear--
   a batters dream--but pichers' greatest fear!

                   IV.

The ball soared hard and high past second base!
then seemed to drop so slowly from above,
as quick as I could get us in the race,
I watched it bounce right off the fielders glove!

The tying run was just ahead of me!
Ole "Never-Steal" now ran like not before!
And right behind, fast as my feet could be 
I gave my best! And then I gave some more!

The crowd gave out the seasons wildest plea!
As I yelled to the runner just ahead,
with all the grit that I could find in me,
"I'm going in! And if you stop--you're dead!"

   Ole "Never Steal" was giving all he could
   and on his heels--I made my promise good!

                V.

We saw the ball come by as rounding third!
Not once a hesitation in it all--
and as the umpire watched without a word--
he swept his arms, to make the tying call!

The score was tied--third baseman set to throw--
now ready at home plate, the catcher stood--
and through it all--my only thought was GO!
but if I did--I'd have to make it good!

I knew the ball was thrown down to home plate!
The catcher poised, and glued where he should be!
I had to slide, and heard the ball hit late!
"She's SAFE! She's SAFE!" my Daddy yelled to me!
        
    Now layed to rest--our coaches greatest fear--
    the only game we won--throughout the year!
© ron wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet

Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2014


Long poem by Vee Bdosa | Details |

Megan's Hit

      MEGANS HIT
There on the deck, I took a practice swing
tormented in the possiblity--
then hope was dashed--I found no hope to bring
up to the plate, when Ump cried out, "Strike 3!"

I was the last to bat--in this last game--
just oh for three, my record said it all!
And in the dugout, faces all the same,
the looks of gloom! Just waiting for my fall!

I took my place, right up there to the plate.
Out on the mound, the picher grinned at me--
as if he hoped to make my swinging late,
or throw me one--I couldn't even see!

    He'd walked a batter, waiting on first base,
    to tie the score, if we'd get in the race!

                    II.

"No girl can hit!" I heard the catcher call,
and echoed from the bleachers was the same,
we made our stands, the umpire cried "Play ball!"
(the umpire was my Daddy, in this game.)

I gripped the bat, the windup came too fast!
As did the ball, but where it should have been!
"Strike one!" the umpire yelled at last--
The fastest ball that I have ever seen!

"She'll never swing!" the catchers words for me--
then threw the ball out to the pichers hand!
While out on first, my runner waits to see
if I can swing, or only make a stand!

   Right in my face--the picher scouled a bit--
   while I choked up--and readied for a hit!
   
                   III.

All set to hit--I made it then my dream!
and came the ball--I could not swing at that!
"Strike twoooo!" the umpire made it scream,
then said to me, "You've got to swing the bat!"

The bat it weighed a hundred pounds or so;
"She'll never swing," the pichers eyes did say,
With that he gave his very best, I know!
I glued my eyes--as it screamed straight my way!

I never saw the hitting of the ball!
but won't forget the cracking sound of it!
Nor know again the feeling of it all
of this my very most important hit!

   The sound it made--that ev'ryone could hear--
   a batters dream--but pichers' greatest fear!

                   IV.

The ball soared hard and high past second base!
then seemed to drop so slowly from above,
as quick as I could get us in the race,
I watched it bounce right off the fielders glove!

The tying run was just ahead of me!
Ole "Never-Steal" now ran like not before!
And right behind, fast as my feet could be 
I gave my best! And then I gave some more!

The crowd gave out the seasons wildest plea!
As I yelled to the runner just ahead,
with all the grit that I could find in me,
"I'm going in! And if you stop--you're dead!"

   Ole "Never Steal" was giving all he could
   and on his heels--I made my promise good!

                V.

We saw the ball come by as rounding third!
Not once a hesitation in it all--
and as the umpire watched without a word--
he swept his arms, to make the tying call!

The score was tied--third baseman set to throw--
now ready at home plate, the catcher stood--
and through it all--my only thought was GO!
but if I did--I'd have to make it good!

I knew the ball was thrown down to home plate!
The catcher poised, and glued where he should be!
I had to slide, and heard the ball hit late!
"She's SAFE! She's SAFE!" my Daddy yelled to me!
        
    Now layed to rest--our coaches greatest fear--
    the only game we won--throughout the year!
© ron wilson arbuthnot
aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet

Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2015


Long poem by Robert Candler | Details |

Sooner Magic

Dedicated to the Oklahoma Sooners & Saint Barry Switzer

-------------------------------------------------

Fifty years, boy & man, I’ve been a Sooner Fan;
And, like others, I’ve wondered many times:
Just what is Sooner Magic?
Is it real…or only in our minds?

Sooner Magic has won many games
And has even saved some seasons.
Fans always revel in its Glory;
But, still, we seek its reason.

Is it more than simple superstition?
If so, Sooner Magic must have a source;
And some way to know exactly when
To unleash its awe-inspiring force.

Yes, something very special happens on the field
When the desperate hopes of All the Sooner Fans
Somehow fill our Sooners’ hearts with Urgency.
Oh yes, they feel it…to a man.

And, as that feeling swells in their hearts,
It’s like some supernatural persuasion.
Our Sooners do what must be done,
They rise to the occasion.

Oh, there’s more to Sooner Magic.
On this point, please don’t be deceived.
Before Fans can even hope for Sooner Magic,
First…we must Believe.

Believe in the Power of Tradition.
Believe in our Sooners’ Will to Win.
Believe our Sooners will make it happen.
Believe because they’ve done it…
   time and time again.

Yet, there’s still more to Sooner Magic, 
A simple fact beyond reproach
Fans’ Belief must find its inspiration
In the Heart of the Sooners’ Head Football Coach.

With Confidence and Strength of Purpose,
He molds the Character of our Sooner Team.
He transforms talents into skills and abilities
And forges Victories out of Dreams

He’s taught our Sooners how to win;
But, win or lose, to give their All;
That Luck is Timing, but also Preparation,
For they must be ready when Victory calls.

In the blink of an eye it happens,
What seems a relentless tide is turned;
But it’s not called Sooner Magic
Without a Victory…well earned.

A breakaway run, a recovered fumble, 
   an intercepted pass;
Yes, Sooner Magic only seems to happen
   when it must.
Anxious Fans go wild.  Our Sooners win the game;
And, somehow, Sooner Magic always seems so just.

But Sooner Magic doesn’t happen every game;
And, sometimes, it’s simply not enough.
For on any given game day,
Their foe may just be too tough. 

Even when “The Streak” died that day, 
There was solace in what Coach Wilkinson would say:
“I’m proud of you.  The only ones who never lose
Are the ones who never played”.
 
So, there it is; no mystery now.
Sooner Magic’s source is plain to see:
A Coach and his Team in singular accord
With the Hearts of Fans like you and me.

So, Fans, be very proud;
And know we play a glorious part;
For Sooner Magic never happens
If we’re not True of Spirit, True of Heart.

For as long as Fans have Faith,
As long as Fans Believe,
There’s no limit what our Sooners, 
With a little Sooner Magic, can achieve.

Yes, it’s simply called Sooner Magic,
Great moments to be remembered 
   with a measure of glee;
And fondly recounted, season after 
   season,
Moments when our Sooners were as
   great as they could be.

Copyright © Robert Candler | Year Posted 2014


Long poem by T Wignesan | Details |

The Little Master, Sachin Tendulkar

The Little Master, Sachin Tendulkar

At Wankhede Stadium in Mumbai,
   The Little Master chose to say good-bye;
His Rembrandtesque canvass hat shading eyes,
   He whispered thanks up to high-open skies.

Gods spurned earth but as living Avatar
   Though Sachin was not from Superman star,
Yet rolled cork and leather, he hit so far
   Which soared not from willow but from his roar.

And when his bat was laid up for the day
   After ferrying his side to safety bay,
He donned his landscape painter’s sunshade hat
   And took his long-on stance as humble brat.

A twelve-year old watched India lose the Cup,
   At thirty-seven roused his side, backed up
To the topmost crest in cricketing tide
   And put one voice in a people torn aside.

A whole nation woke to the cry: Tendlya:
   Beggar, Brahmin, Bhai and even infidel.
All drenched in the tide of common feeling
   For one novelist’s second book breeding.

Only five-foot five, strong neck in between
   Body made to withstand pace bowling steam:
No bumper nor full toss cowered him down
   Not even that mean ball bled his nose brown.

At Wankhede Stadium in Mumbai
   The Little Master chose to say good-bye,
His Rembrandtesque canvass hat shading eyes
   He whispered thanks up to high-open skies.

Then the nation held its breath at ninety-nine,
   While Sachin knocked nineties, not the last nine
To make that long-awaited world history,
    Until Bangladeshi ODI test victory.

Over heads of cover and point with off-lifts
   Elegant leg glances through long-stop rifts
Straight drives above umpires’ dreamy heads
   Dashing pulls past gaping square leg dreads.

Back to back boundaries and easy singles
   Late cuts through second slips’ shocking bungles
Then the home-stretch past the century post
   When India at last roared in burning thirst.

Myriad mrthangists thumped the beat
   Plaintive senais by the million broke out neat
Temple bells joined in the merry festival:
   Ton-up! O! Ton-up! No more survival !

But the Champ had other ideas in sight
   Like the fastest one day fireworks of might,
So he flashed his blade all over the tight field
   To rob the world of its remaining shield.

Now he says forty is not really old
   Cricket’s not the only thing to be sold:
To be a god in Hindustan is not all
   To be a PM is not given to all.

Not one vote will go to the other men
   Not one voice will be raised against batsmen
Who put the nation on the map of runs:
   The man with the bat is the man who runs.

At Wankhede Stadium in Mumbai
   The Little Master chose to say good-bye:
His Rembrandtesque canvass hat shading eyes
   He mumbled something to himself between sighs.

© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2013


Long poem by Roy Jerden | Details |

Six Man Dance

Out in small town Texas, a handshake is a deal.
Folks go to church on Sunday, say grace at every meal.
Men open doors for ladies, kids say sir and ma'am.
Boys can't wait to join the Corps, and serve their Uncle Sam.

But if you were to go there, come autumn Friday nights
the place might be deserted, when the whole darn town unites,
upon a spread of hallowed ground, a grassy green expanse,
to celebrate their civic pride and watch the six man dance.

Now this dance is not for sissies, and I think you would agree
if you knew a bit about a man by the name of Jack Pardee.
Yep, they call it six man football, and they don’t get much acclaim.
They don't play for scholarships; but for the glory of the game.

Three up front and three in back, any lad can be the man
to pass or catch or run the ball, and kick it if he can.
A first down costs you fifteen yards; a field goal gets you four.
You’ll hardly wait two minutes there before another score.

Because for those without some speed, this game is not contrived,
and if one team can't keep it up, they might get forty-fived.
That's what they call the mercy rule, 'cause scoring is so fast.
No point in running up the tab when one team is outclassed.

So if you want a taste of life the way it used to be,
where folks can trust each other and kids can still run free,
and there’s a game where little fellers surely stand a chance,
drive out to small town Texas, and watch the six man dance.

© December 9, 2012

As a teenager, Jack Pardee moved to Christoval, Texas where he excelled as a member of the six-man football team. Pardee is the only six-man player to later have played or coached in the NFL. He was an All-American linebacker at Texas A&M University and a two-time All-Pro with the Los Angeles Rams (1963) and the Washington Redskins (1971).
He is the only head coach to helm a team in college football, the National Football League, the United States Football League, the World Football League, and the Canadian Football League. Pardee was inducted into the College Football Hall of Fame as a player in 1986.
In the 2008–2009 season the state of Texas had 183 six-man football teams, more than all the other states combined. The number of schools opting for six-man football is expected to increase due to declining population in small West Texas towns, and newer private schools opting for six-man football.
The rules are slightly different than the 11-man version as explained in the poem. The "Mercy Rule" will end a game when one team is ahead 45 points or more at half-time or any time in the second half, hence the expression "getting forty-fived".

Copyright © Roy Jerden | Year Posted 2012


Long poem by T Wignesan | Details |

Villanelle: The Cricketers' Hakka: How's Zaat

Villanelle : The Cricketer’s Hakka : « How’s Zaat ! »

Balls thud into pads bats gloves or whisk past batsmen
At bowler’s end or square leg umpires stare stand
« How’s Zaat ! » yell players game’s holy silence broken

Two umpires two batsmen players eleven
All rivet eyes on five half ounzes ball leather bound
Balls thud into pads bats gloves or whisk past batsmen

Main aim of the game ball must be struck by batsmen
Who guard Holy Trinity wickets honour bound
« How’s Zaat ! » yell players game’s holy silence broken

The idea’s to score more runs to secure win
Leg before wicket brings down batsmen standing grand
Balls thud into pads bats gloves or whisk past batsmen

Matters not a whit if ball on pads make bails spin
Mighty yell in unison must umpire confound
« How’s Zaat ! » yell players game’s holy silence broken

Yell must at all costs contradict the truth even
Force umpires to doubt their own judgement to withstand
Balls thud into pads bats gloves or whisk past batsmen
« How’s Zaat ! » yell players game’s holy silence broken

  
Note : The batsman can be given out in various ways , but it’s the umpire who decides whether the batsman’s « out » in the following cases : « leg before wicket » (where the bowled ball is stopped from reaching the wickets by the batsman’s pads), ; « run out » (where the batsman during play stands with his bat outside the creases at the wickets) ; « caught » (where the ball bowled by the bowler is caught by any fielder after it ricochets either from the bat or the gloves) ; « no ball » (where the bowler delivers the ball while his foot is outside the crease at his end), ; « hit wicket » (where the batsman even accidentally strikes the wickets with his bat) ; « wide » (where the bowled ball is reasonably out of reach of the batsman) ; « no ball or throw » (where the bowled ball is delivered while bending or hooking the elbow). 
	It is the custom – at least, in the old days – that whenever the above-mentioned irregularities occur during a match, the players on the fielding side all in one voice yell : « How’s Zaat ! » (How’s That !) and look at the umpire for his verdict in an attempt to intimidate him - just in case he was inattentive at the crucial moment. Likely as not, it is also the custom to yell out even if there was no case to be made out in their favour. 

(The wording is mine : the official description of the rules might differ from my definitions which are formulated from my own experience as a player.)

© T. Wignesan – Paris,  2016

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2016


Long poem by Nileisha Giselle Deliz Diana | Details |

The Legend of G-Man, Garrett Gamble's Historic Hockey Night

On a historic, emotional night of March 28th, 2015
It was the most important hockey night to be remembered

While the current players played 82 games for the season
This member played only 1 game for one true reason
To cheer for the team he loves for all his entire life
And so his passion gave the Toronto Maple Leafs a great new hope

Entered through the player's locker room to find his true colors
A sweater of the blue and white awaited for Garrett Gamble
Enriched with his honorable name and its number
He will be known for the team as the "G-Man" of #42

Having an everlasting smile and determination on his face
The voice of the Air Canada Centre called out his name
And as Wendel Clark skated by his side, this is true heroism

All he ever wanted on his life was to drop the puck on center ice
Making this wish a reality was the chance of his lifetime
Being an honorary "Puck Dropper" was the role destined to play
And so he signified the start of this game

The "Battle of Ontario" was fought for long, hard minutes
And it all seemed all hope was lost as the Maple Leafs fell behind
Garrett's undying determination was to be seen with his wish
He knew the Maple Leafs will fight back along with him to win

One final period and the Maple Leafs won't dare to lose
For they fought along with the spirit of the "G-Man"
Dared on a risky play with time against them
Bozak sounded the goal horn, keeping Garrett's hopes alive

A tied game was taken into the Overtime Period
And Garrett "G-Man" Gamble was the 5th man to play on the ice
His true preseverance for the game and the sport led upon this
Brewer tapping the game-winner, sent the crowd on loud cheers

The Toronto Maple Leafs saluted to the crowd as the winners
"Bozie " and the "G-Man" emerged on the ice together as victors

Eric Brewer earned the 3rd Star of the Game for delivering the victory
Tyler Bozak was awarded the 2nd Star of the Game with his "Hat-Trick"
But it was Garrett "G-Man" Gamble who deserved the 1st Star of the Game
For his undying will and spirit to rally a team who gone on a rough journey

He enjoyed this game will a full beacon of happiness in his heart
"It was a great day!", these were the emotional words of the "G-Man"

This was a story of a loyal fan who became a player with true honors
The honorable player who played along with his beloved team with heart
And with his heart... became an inspiring legend for life... forever

People of the Leafs Nation... this was "The Legend of "G-Man"

Copyright © Nileisha Giselle Deliz Diana | Year Posted 2015


Long Poems