Runnin' With the Dogs

>The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Bulldog six that day,
The score stood two to two, with but sixteen minutes to play.

And then when Fulton fanned a shot, and Gergen did the same,
A pall-like 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 the Bulldogs could get themselves reset.
We’d put up even money now, if Raymond hit the net.”

Akins seemed a bit lost, without linemate Curry;
And Kemper, who was a wrecker, took a sketchy penalty
So upon that stricken multitude, grim melancholy set;
for there seemed but little chance of anyone hitting the net.

But Gergen let drive some good shots, to the wonderment of all.
And Fulton tried a wraparound, but none would get the call.
And when the whistle blew, and men saw what had occurred,
there was nothing in the net, except Bobby Goepfert.

Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
it rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
it pounded through on the mountain and recoiled upon the plain;
for the Bulldogs, mighty Bulldogs, were refusing to be slain.

There was ease in McKnight’s manner as he stepped into his place,
there was pride in Carroll’s bearing and a smile lit Nisky’s face.
And when, among the many cheers, the face-off match was set,
no stranger in the crowd could doubt tDogs would hit the net.

Ten thousand eyes were on them as they skated up the ice.
Five thousand tongues applauded, cause Johnson’s saves were nice.
Then, while the writhing Goepfert was flopping on the ground,
the Bulldogs all dug at it, but no one could get it ’round.

And now the rubber cylinder came hurtling through the air,
and Johnson stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Shot by the sturdy Husky the puck unheeded sped —
“That ain’t my style,” said Johnson.

“No goal!” Jon Campion said.
From the benches, maroon and gold, there went up a muffled roar,
like the beating of the storm waves on a stern and distant shore.
“Kill him! Kill the umpire!” shouted someone (probably the Bob),
and it’s likely they’d have killed him had not replay done its job.

With a smile of certain victory, each Bulldog’s visage shone,
they stilled the rising tumult, they bade the game go on.
At a signal from the referee, the linesman dropped the puck,
the goal horn blasted loudly, but Jon Campion said, “No luck!”

“Fraud!” cried the maddened Huskies, and their fans answered “Fraud!”
But at scornful looks from Bulldogs, the audience was awed.
They saw each face grow stern and cold, they saw the muscles strain,
and they knew that Johnson wouldn’t let that puck go by again.

The sneer has fled from Fulton’s lip, the teeth are clenched in hate.
He enters the faceoff circle, against a guy named Nate.
And now the linesman holds the puck, and now he lets it go,
and now the air is shattered by the force of Nodl’s blow.

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 little children shout,
but there is no joy in Mudville — the mighty Bulldogs got knocked out.

*this poem is an adaptation of “Casey at the Bat” by Ernest L. Thayer