published on
Almost
His name was Mediocrates,
His flesh is long since rotten,
You'll find him in no history book,
His name and bones forgotten,
By all but me, but then, you see,
Back then they would remember,
For Mediocrates,
Was a perennial contender,
In every game you'd hear his name,
Among the final field,
But vanquished every single time,
When champions stood, he'd kneel,
Some victors' names, they'd stake their claims,
Then be gone, like a ghost,
But Mediocrates was ALWAYS there,
Of those that won...almost,
His fans? they'd always clap their hands,
Be there and feel the thrill,
But for that shout of Victory,
In their throats always stilled,
To run the race, fall on your face,
A hundred times kiss ground,
Is less than to have run but once,
If ONCE, you wore the crown,
For once you've gained the mountaintop,
The only way is,
Down
For a while you may linger,
On the ledge with clutching fingers,
And mundane or most spectacular,
your fall,
But Mediocrates, his fans,
Mere footnotes, measly also-rans,
They never got to feel that fall,
At all,
Champs may fall from top to bottom,
But the rings, oh they've still got 'em,
That sweet fleeting moment,
None can take away,
And though losses, now, we've counted,
That mount HAS BEEN surmounted,
Scars will heal and we'll,
Be BACK up there someday,
which is more than Mediocrates can say,
Lord Tennyson once said, (I've read),
Though not of games of ball,
"Tis better to have loved, and lost,
Than never loved at all."
So I take heart, a Tiger fan,
A Tiger fan am I,
And In my recent memory,
We held that trophy high,
Not some distant, dusty banner,
Half forgotten in a hall,
Or Mediocrates's trophy,
Which was never won at all,
This year may not be ours, true,
Might be beaten blue and black,
But at least we've got the chops,
To tell the mountaintop,
"We're Back."
- Genre
- Sports