[BostonCard]

Big Game at the ’Fürd [With apologies to Ernest Thayer]

The score stood Cardinal 20, and the Bears trailed by just four,
But hope still filled the bleachers as the clock read one minute more.
And when the kickoff fluttered down and bounced along the ground,
A roar went up from Berkeley’s side—the Bears had come unbound.

For first a screen to Davis gained a tidy little slice,
And then a slant to Johnson put the Bears across the ice.
And when a draw play burst ahead for nearly fifteen more,
A mighty faith swept through the stands: Cal would settle this old score.

Then up from golden benches rose a thunderous, yearning plea,
A single name repeated loud—the quarterback, J.T.
If only he could rally them, if only he’d not fall,
The Bears could snatch the Big Game back and seize the Axe for all.

There was ease in J.T.’s huddle, and confidence in his eyes,
No tremble touched his cadence as he called the next surprise.
And when he barked the snap count and the ball came flying back,
A swelling expectation rose: No chance of a Stanford sack.

The first down toss was laser-sharp, a rocket to the seam;
The second found a tailback who danced nimbly through the team.
On third he scrambled deftly, dodging tackles left and right—
And now the Bears stood fourth and short, with mere seconds left to fight.

Then from the sideline thousands cried, “This play will make us whole!”
And J.T. nodded solemnly—this drive would be his role.
He checked the routes, he scanned the front, he steadied trembling fate,
For never had old Big Game hung on such a slender slate.

The ball was snapped—too slowly—and the pocket quickly broke;
A Stanford end came flying in as if on wings of smoke.
J.T. stepped up, he cocked his arm to launch the winning crown—
But red-and-white came crashing through and hurled the hero down.

Oh, somewhere Bears are cheering still, their hopes not turned to dust;
And somewhere students chant their songs with undiminished trust.
But under Stanford’s twilight sky, no joy came out of that—
For J.T. fell on fourth and last, and Big Game ended flat.

And as the Axe was hoisted high, the victors sang their tune—
For mighty J.T., pride of Cal,
Was sacked as time expired—
And Stanford held the boon.

[BostonCard]

Big Game at the ’Fürd [With apologies to Ernest Thayer]

The score stood Cardinal 20, and the Bears trailed by just four,
But hope still filled the bleachers as the clock read one minute more.
And when the kickoff fluttered down and bounced along the ground,
A roar went up from Berkeley’s side—the Bears had come unbound.

For first a screen to Davis gained a tidy little slice,
And then a slant to Johnson put the Bears across the ice.
And when a draw play burst ahead for nearly fifteen more,
A mighty faith swept through the stands: Cal would settle this old score.

Then up from golden benches rose a thunderous, yearning plea,
A single name repeated loud—the quarterback, J.T.
If only he could rally them, if only he’d not fall,
The Bears could snatch the Big Game back and seize the Axe for all.

There was ease in J.T.’s huddle, and confidence in his eyes,
No tremble touched his cadence as he called the next surprise.
And when he barked the snap count and the ball came flying back,
A swelling expectation rose: No chance of a Stanford sack.

The first down toss was laser-sharp, a rocket to the seam;
The second found a tailback who danced nimbly through the team.
On third he scrambled deftly, dodging tackles left and right—
And now the Bears stood fourth and short, with mere seconds left to fight.

Then from the sideline thousands cried, “This play will make us whole!”
And J.T. nodded solemnly—this drive would be his role.
He checked the routes, he scanned the front, he steadied trembling fate,
For never had old Big Game hung on such a slender slate.

The ball was snapped—too slowly—and the pocket quickly broke;
A Stanford end came flying in as if on wings of smoke.
J.T. stepped up, he cocked his arm to launch the winning crown—
But red-and-white came crashing through and hurled the hero down.

Oh, somewhere Bears are cheering still, their hopes not turned to dust;
And somewhere students chant their songs with undiminished trust.
But under Stanford’s twilight sky, no joy came out of that—
For J.T. fell on fourth and last, and Big Game ended flat.

And as the Axe was hoisted high, the victors sang their tune—
For mighty J.T., pride of Cal,
Was sacked as time expired—
And Stanford held the boon.