"Sometimes it is more than a game to be played and more than a race to be run."
Friday, November 1, 2013
Just One Victory
And so the last of the leaves find their peace creating a brown –red- orange – yellow quilt of remembrance on the fields of the boys of summer. Random gatherings at food stores and post offices hundreds of miles from the diamond cathedral in the town where freedom was born are faithful exiled pilgrims in humble celebration and gratitude. The multitude of stories and congratulatory smiles of victory raises them from their daily travails. One pilgrim coated in his adopted city’s armor is saluted by strangers at almost at every stride.The significance of these greetings reaches into his core like some conformational holy spirit.
Just one victory is just what these wanderers desired. It was cosmic. Though Beelzebub’s mark remains, the burning leaves ashes and smoke of redemption rise up sanctifying the pilgrims. Jubilant natives convene at the blood stained finish line with collective whispers of their hallelujah hymn. That season that was, that time is done and as new one is being born .The circle of life complete.
The confidence and determination of a group of crusading players were aware that their mission was more than winning a game or reclaiming a ring. Church bells ring out “Jerusalem!” in this New England town as the duck boats are readied to be launched into the waters carrying the bearded crusaders down the dirty water waving to the adulating liberated throngs. A great sigh rises up ...
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Game Called by darkness — let the curtain fall.
No more remembered thunder sweeps the field.
No more the ancient echoes hear the call
To one who wore so well both sword and shield:
The Big Guy’s left us with the night to face
And there is no one who can take his place.
Game Called — and silence settles on the plain.
Where is the crash of ash against the sphere?
Where is the mighty music, the refrain
That once brought joy to every waiting ear?
The Big Guy’s left us lonely in the dark
Forever waiting for the flaming spark.
Game Called — what more is there for us to say?
How dull and drab the field looks to the eye
For one who ruled it in a golden day
Has waved his cap to bid us all good-bye.
The Big Guy’s gone — by land or sea or foam
May the Great Umpire call him “safe at home.”
- Grantland Rice