The Enraged Head Coach(es): A Poem Cleft in Twain
Given the events of the past few days, I was conflicted about which direction I should take my weekly poem. Tankertoad requested I use Twain's "The Aged Pilot Man," so I viewed what was happening through that lens. Part of me was angry about the fallout from the Vandy game, but part of me wanted to move on to far more important matters. I eventually threw up my metaphorical hands and decided to write two poems and post whichever one I liked best. Then I decided to post both poems and let y'all decide which one was best (or I could ask the NCAA and assume that whichever one they pick is not the best because they are consistently inconsistent which would mean that whichever one they pick might actually be the best and...never mind).
The first is written from the perspective of our new best friend, Coach Franklin. The original "Aged Pilot Man" is all about wrong perceptions and exaggeration, so I figured that this poem would be a good medium for portraying his perspective. The second is written from that beloved Floridian icon of truth, justice, and the Gator way, Urban Meyer. This poem tells about this time when he played the Dawgs and was on the receiving end of a Really Bad Deal that led to a somewhat controversial decision. As always, the original is linked in the first line. With apologies to Mark Twain:
In the Commies’ stadium, it was,
an autumn evening’s tilt,
I coached a bunch of eggheads
who went to Vanderbilt.
From Athens-town a bus pulled up
filled up with miscreants
that strutted ‘round in jerseys white
and shiny silver pants.
Their team came rushing on the field,
saying, "Shut up, you fools, and play.
Shut up your mouth, shut up, losers,
shut up while yet you may."
The game was on; my brave young men
fought ‘gainst this thuggish team.
And played they clean and sportsmanlike,
polite in the extreme.
"Low blows! Low blows!" I told my men
as their running backs sped on.
They ran and passed, we passed some, too;
they missed a field goal again.
The referees bad hits did see
from those ill-mannered guys.
They threw the yellow-sheeted flag
on us more than was wise.
For nothing did my players do,
it seemed to my keen eyes.
The quarters four did pass us fast!
"Three points here, three points there,
three points scant," I laughed at them,
their red zone points so rare.
A panic struck their blackened hearts;
a rude plan did unfold.
For plain to all, they pitched a fit;
they cussed and punched and kicked and bit
and fought my men with fists and hits
and beat them right out of their wits,
completely unprovoked.
"Sever their back-spines! Cripple the linemen!"
yelled a coach from the other sideline.
At ballgame’s end I searched for him
so I could give him a piece of my mind.
Then gathered together both football teams
in a melee at midfield.
Their defensive coach was haranguing me;
he did refuse to yield.
He yelled til he was red in the face;
my own was placid and calm.
The others were greatly out of line;
my escort employed his palms.
The carnage round me disappeared;
my eyes became unblinded.
Both teams walked off the playing field,
of coaches’ ire reminded.
The Other Enraged Head Coach
Near the end of October, it was,
at start of autumn’s chill.
I rode forth with my Gators
to the town of Jacksonville.
From Athens-town a bus pulled up
filled up with miscreants
that strutted ‘round in jerseys white
and shiny silver pants.
At game’s first rushing score, their coach
said, "Strut your stuff, offensive line.
Strut your stuff and draw a flag
or face a hefty practice fine."
Their team came on the football field
from star to clipboard king.
They jumped around and taunted us,
and insults they did fling.
My quarterback, Tim Tebow, cried,
so keenly he did feel.
But still those Bulldogs danced and writhed;
it was a real bad deal.
"A hole, O-line!" their heads went down;
their running back sped on.
Stafford did pass, and Tebow, too;
no one could stop Knowshon.
He ran right through our defense stout;
we chased him all in vain.
Crying, "Your yardage is a fluke; at fault
is Tebow’s shoulder pain!"
Alas, my D-line could not stop
Knowshon for little gain.
The quarters four did pass us fast.
Three points large the Dawgs did get.
Forty-two to thirty points
plus one great vengeance debt.
Anger lurked inside my heart
beneath my calm façade.
In spite of my accepting look,
a vengeful, vicious vow I took
to get those Bulldogs, hook or crook;
I would get them in my book—
my tactics all unflawed.
"Stop the game clock! Laugh at the Dawgs!"
I said at next year’s game.
Inspired I was by the Gator Stomp;
I told them all it was the same.
But gathered together defeated Dawgs
who fiercely told me thus:
"Team motivation is quite different from
Demoralizing us.
But don’t you worry, you Gators coach,
that this will make us hate you more.
Our hatred of Gators is fierce and strong,
a vast and unmeasured store."
Tim Tebow left; nothing was right.
I was by circumstance inspired.
And—lying once the final year—
Saw the light and retired.
An (admittedly grainy) illustration of Vandy's style of play. Notice the official looking down on the play while doing nothing. The tubby observer could be Charlie Weis scouting the competition or could could be any overweight buffoon that enjoys a good laugh.
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proud to be the first to rec what may be your best yet (it kind of rhymes, right)
http://sportsandgrits.com/
Ms. Grip,
I will try and get out an even further thank you and compliment at some point, however, for now, thank you for taking my suggestion and working with it. This is not an easy poem to mimic.
I think I would have been a better English Major than Political Science one, but it seems so many English teachers and professors sucked the fun out of it. You bring it back to something fun and good.
I knew of Mark Twain’s poem from early childhood. Having read Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn twice each & also having done a report (one where I disagreed with my English 102 professor and got a B) on Huck Finn, there are few authors as I younger man I became more familiar with. As I loved his books so much, I figured I would likely love his poems just as much. Which is how I found this one poem, likely 25 years ago. I think, now, as an Aged Pilot Man myself, this poem may have more meaning now, than then. But back then, while not entirely understanding it, I somehow knew Mark Twain was trying to say something very serious. And I think now I understand that Samuel Clemens was talking about my favorite passion: leadership.
Thanks for this post, and all your writing, and making literature fun. It was always meant to be.
"I don't care for Auburn."
To continue on,
Cherokee’s Grip, do you think Mark Twain is talking about the Aged Pilot Man as a leader, as “man”, or is there a greater metaphor that the Aged Pilot Man is God or Christ?
I can’t believe I never saw this.
"I don't care for Auburn."
Nicely. Done.
Broadcasting live from a secure location underneath the Hell Gate Bridge
by The Quincy Carter of Accountants on Oct 21, 2011 8:33 PM EDT reply actions

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