As we tumble, tumble, tumble…
First Pitch: 6:40 PM CDT
TV: Bulls—t Season’s Nearly Over
Radio: TIBN, WCCO 830, The Wolf 102.9 FM, Audacy
Know Yo’ Foe: Fish on First
This season started with Poe. It will end with Poe.
Hear the bleachers with the yells—
Joyous yells!
What a year of ecstasy their clamoring foretells!
How they holler, holler, holler,
Through the chilling air of spring!
Lacking any fear of squalor,
Every agony is smaller,
Crushed by every powered swing.
Marking time, time, time,
In a nine-swift-innings rhyme,
With the overjoyed discordance as the great crescendo swells
From the yells, yells, yells, yells,
Yells, yells, yells—
From the cheering and the rearing of the yells.
Hear the stadium with yells,
Happy yells!
What a spring of victory their harmony compels!
Though the April saw a blip,
There was time to right the ship.
Had a meaty treaty signed
Within the nose,
Ripped a streak a dozen long,
Continuity applauding in a song
As it rose!
Oh, as worry all dispels,
What a roar of rhapsody perpetually wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the summer! How it tells
Of the season that impels
Further swinging, further bringing
Further yells, yells, yells,
Of the yells, yells, yells, yells,
Yells, yells, yells—
To the rooting and the hooting of the yells!
Hear the loud alarming yells—
Worried yells!
What old familiar fear their hurriedness foretells!
Yes, the common twinge of loss
Paints a dark transparent gloss;
Far too horrified to cheer,
They can only hear fear
In the room,
In a clamorous delirium to the mercy of the games,
In a mad solicitation as the season meets the flames,
Leaping flames, flames, flames,
With their all-consuming claims,
And a furious conviction
Now—now that this affliction
Might surround Minnesota in gloom.
Oh, the yells, yells, yells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of despair!
How they scream, and cry, and roar!
Like the fans who came before,
How it screeches through the suffocating air!
Yet the fear it fully knows,
By the stressing,
And the pressing,
How the chance of winning goes;
Yet the fear forever smells,
In the pleading,
And acceding.
How the hoping sinks and quells,
By the sinking and the quelling in the yearning of the yells—
Of the yells—
Of the yells, yells, yells, yells,
Yells, yells, yells—
In the worry and the fury of the yells!
Hear the dulling of the yells—
Tired yells!
What a fall of solemn blot their tedium compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver in the blight
Of the melancholy dour of chances flown!
For every sound that floats
From the ache within our throats
Is a groan.
And the people—ah, the people—
We who yearn for joy to keep’ll
Bawl alone,
Seeing tumbling, tumbling, tumbling,
In a numb discordant drone,
Hopes of glory lost in stumbling;
Lay the season under stone—
It is neither top nor bottom—
It is neither spring nor autumn—
It is Fool:
And a Fool it is who trolls;
And he LOLs, LOLs, LOLs,
LOLs
A nostrum from the yells!
From the fanbase locked in cells,
From the claustrum come the yells!
Hang our chances, toll the bells;
Marking time, time, time,
In a nine-long-innings rhyme,
On the rostrum, one who yells—
Ever yells:
Marking time, time, time,
In a nine-drear-innings rhyme,
To the warning of the yells—
Of the yells, yells, yells—
To the mourning of the yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
Through the knells, knells, knells,
In a nine-bleak-innings rhyme,
To the wailing of the yells—
Of the yells, yells, yells—
To the trailing of the yells,
Of the yells, yells, yells, yells—
Yells, yells, yells—
To the sorrow—‘til tomorrow—of the yells.
Image via The Seattle School of Theology & Psychology