|Posted by Bahku on February 23, 2010 at 2:57 PM|
*This is just for fun, and if it sounds a bit "old-fashioned", it's because I tried my best to stay as close to the original format and style as possible. (It's a parody of Ernest Thayer's classic poem "Casey At The Bat", published originally in the San Francisco Examiner on June 3, 1888). I hope I did it at least a little justice, and more importantly, I hope you enjoy.*
RAY-RAY AT THE STRIPE
The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Boston five that day:
The score stood 80 - 80 with one minute left to play.
And then when KG missed a dunk and Perkins did the same,
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 Allen could but overcome the hype -
We'd put up even money, now, with Ray-Ray at the stripe.
But Perkins got a whistle, and so did Rondo, too,
And the former launched a couple bricks, the latter missed his, too;
So upon that stricken multitude grew melancholy ripe,
For there seemed but little chance of Ray-Ray's getting to the stripe.
But Pierce let fly an outlet pass, to the wonderment of all,
And the hero nick-named "Jesus" was the one who caught the ball;
And when the "D", back on their heels, had heard the whistle blow,
They knew that Ray had drawn a foul with no time left to go.
Then from 18 thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the Garden, it rang the North Church bell;
It knocked upon the Brighton doors, and recoiled in Brookline,
For Allen - mighty "Ray-Ray"- was advancing to the line.
There was ease in Allen's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Sugar Ray's bearing, and a smile on his face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly waved his hand,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt, 'twas 'Shuttlesworth' in command.
Nearly forty thousand eyes transfixed as he dried his palms of sweat;
Eighteen thousand tongues applauded, soon the foe would pay their debt.
And while the head official wiped the ball upon his hip,
Defiance gleamed in Ray-Ray's eye, a sneer curled Ray-Ray's lip.
And now the micro-composite sphere came hurtling through the air,
Ray Allen stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the still defenders the ball unheeded sped -
"Let's get this done," said 'Jesus' ... "Just shoot," the referee said.
From the bleachers, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
"Don't rush him, Ref - be quiet!" shouted someone in the stands;
And they might have started throwing things, had Ray not raised his hands.
With a smile of Christian charity Ray Allen's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
When silence fell he squared the line, and when his feet were set,
He shot it - rim and backboard - but it never touched the net.
"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud;
But one scornful look from Allen, and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Ray would never let his free-throw miss again.
The sneer now gone from Ray-Ray's lip, his teeth are clenched and sore;
He pounds with such cruel violence, the orange ball upon the floor.
And now Ray holds the basketball so lightly - like it's hot -
And now all hopes are soaring through the air with Ray's next shot.
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 songs still rhyme;
But there is no joy in Boston ... this one's going to overtime.
Categories: Boston Celtics