The 2nd in our series of epic poems... The Iliad it ain't!
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Terry At The Rod
The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Open Final that day,
The score stood four to three, but with no more games to play.
And then when Terry piped a push, against a "D" that gave him fits,
An eerie silence fell upon the watchers in the pits.
A straggling few got up for beer, to ease a long day's thirst.
The rest clung to that hope, that their team could finish first.
They thought, "if only Terry could but get a shot to take.
We'd put up even money now, with Terry and his snake."
But Tommy's five had bested Moore's, as did also Mare's pass;
And the former was a spitter, while the latter always class.
So upon that stricken multitude, fell a melancholy pall;
For there seemed but little chance of Terry with the ball.
But Mares let drive a quick shot, to the wonder of all around.
And Tommy, with much surprise, did not see, but heard the awful sound.
And when all heads were lifted, they all saw an open door,
Somehow the shot went backwards. Diaz chalked the point. Four-four.
Then from deep in Tommy's throat, "Ah ***!" arose in youthful rage;
it rumbled through the player lounge, it rattled at the stage;
It pounded through in the gallery. Mares recoiled as if aflame;
For Terry, mighty Terry, was again back in the game.
There was ease in Terry's manner as he fed more coins into their place,
There was pride in Terry's bearing and a smile lit Terry's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly gave a nod,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt t'was Terry at the rod.
Ten thousand eyes were on him as he shifts his awesome mass.
Some gags are stifled when he pulls his shorts from twixt his ass.
Then, while the writhing Tommy ground the ball into his palm,
defiance flashed in Terry's eye, a sneer broke Terry's calm.
And now the crimson-colored sphere came bouncing from the hole across,
Terry's five moved fast and hard; "Just block the pass. If not, a loss!".
And off Tom's speedy three-man the ball unheeded rolled --
"That ain't my fault!", thought Terry. "Watch the jar!" the Ref then told.
From the bleachers, filled with players, there went up a muffled roar,
like the beating of the storm waves on a stern and distant shore.
"Kill him! Kill the Ref!" shouted someone on the stand,
and it's likely they'd have killed him had not Terry raised his hand.
With a smile of Christian charity, Big Terry's visage shone,
he stilled the rising tumult, he bade the game go on.
He signaled to his partner, and with a crack the sphere flew in,
but Diaz' hand slipped off the wood, and the Ref said, "Sorry, spin!"
"Bull***!" cried the maddened throng, and others loudly hissed.
But one scornful look from Terry, all knew that he was pissed.
They saw his glasses slide back up, they saw his muscles strain,
and they knew that Terry wouldn't let that ball go by again.
The sneer has fled from Terry's lip, chubby finger pokes the ball.
He pounds, with cruel violence, a bounce pass off the wall.
And now the big man sets the ball, and now he lets it go,
Yet one small piece of yellow toe deflects the force of Terry's blow.
Oh, somewhere in this ballroom the lights are shining bright.
Matches playing somewhere else, and somewhere there's a fight.
And, some who now are aching, some tylenol is popped,
But there is no joy in Pitville --
Mighty Terry has been slopped.
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