Ah Sunday in November, when a middle-aged woman's fancy turns to... football... and poetry.
How do I love football? Let me count the ways...
(With apologies to Elizabeth Barrett Browning)
How do I love football? Let me count the ways.
I love football to the first down and touch down or field goal
Each drive can reach, as the ball is passed or run down the field
From the end zone of the opposing team and the ideal runback.
I love football to the level of each Sunday's
Most heated game, by sun and stadium-light.
I love football freely, as men strive for touchdowns;
I love football purely, as they return from punts.
I love football with a passion put to use
In shouting for my teams, and with a chilled beer.
I love football with a love I seemed to lose
When my teams lost, --- I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if the football gods so choose,
I shall but love thee better after my team wins the Super Bowl.
The Jets Fan's Prayer (Cleveland Edition)
Our Jets team, which art in Cleveland,
hallowed be thy run game.
Thy defense come.
Thy will be done on the Browns,
as it was on the Patriots and Bills.
Give us this Sunday our next big win,
and forgive us our sacks and penalties,
as we block and intercept those who seek to score against us.
Lead us not into defeat,
but deliver us to the Super Bowl.
O Giants! My Giants! (With apologies to Walt Whitman)
O GIANTS! My Giants! your fearful rivalry is done;
The team has weather'd every sack, the prize we sought is won;
The Cowboys are here, the shouts I hear, the fans all exulting,
While Eli takes the steady snap, the offense grim and daring:
O hut! hut! hut!
Soon they'll be bleeding drops of Cowboy silver,
When on the field another Cowboy pass lies,
Fumbled yet again.