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Monday, December 7, 2009

Patriots Poetry: "Mighty Brady, the Pat"

Mighty Brady: the Pat

By Rocky (and Ernest Thayer),

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the New England 22 that day:

The score stood 21 to 19, with 3:44 more to play.
And then when a fumble bounced in Miami’s favor and Henne accomplished his aim,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, if only Brady could get back the ball–
We'd put up even money, now, with Brady making the call.

But the defense was on the field with the Dolphins playing stout,
And the Pats looked pourous with time running almost out;
So New England fans sat stricken grim, melancholy and stern,
For there seemed but little chance of Brady getting his turn.

But the defense held the Fish, and to the wonderment of all,
Coach Belichick used his time-outs wisely to get back the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had transpired,
There was the Dolphins up two and ready to kick-off to the Pats, as required.

Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It knocked up the east coast and recoiled up to Maine,
For Brady, mighty Brady, was heading back into the game.

There was ease in Brady’s manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Brady’s bearing and “let’s do this” look on Brady’s face.
And when, drowning out Miami’s jeers, he quickly checked his wristband,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Brady in full command.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he broke the huddle with a clap;
Five thousand tongues salivated when he accepted the center’s shotgun snap.
Then while the Dolphins defense fired their line at him like a rocket,
Defiance gleamed in Brady's eye, as he dropped back sure-footed in the pocket.

And with the leather-covered sphere poised, waiting to be thrown into the air,
Brady stood going through his progressions in haughty grandeur there.
Deep outside the fleet-footed receivers unheeded sped–
"That ain't my style," said Brady throwing short to Morris. "Gain of 11" the announced said.

From the couches of Patriots' fans there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
"Take a deep shot! Take a deep shot!” shouted many on barstool seats;
And its likely they'd all wing it long, had they been in Brady’s cleats.

With a sneer of a Protestant work ethic great Brady’s visage shone;
He signalled for no-huddle; he didn’t want the defense to send substitutes on;
He signaled to the center, and once more the pigskin flew;
And this time Brady went deep right to Aiken–

But they missed the connection and the downmarker read, "Two."

"Flag!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered flag;
But one scornful look from Brady and the audience did gag.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Brady wouldn't let that the opportunity go by again.

The sneer is gone from Brady's lip, his teeth are clenched in detest;
He barks with cruel violence his cadence upon the rest.
And now Brady holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Brady’s throw.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children giggle louder;
But there is no joy in New England­–mighty Brady threw it to Channing Crowder.