ATTENTION FROM THE DESK OF THE EDITOR:
As I watched Cameron Brate single-handedly end my season on Sunday Night, I had to take a long look in the mirror. Am I a fraud? Why do I keep choking?
In the wake of my defeat, this poem kept coming back to me:
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
I will not go gentle into that good night. I will be back and better than ever.
I will never give up, like the Nazi’s in Russia during World War 2, like Alli desperately trying to get her colicky baby to go to sleep, like Ronald Reagan trying to ignore the AIDS crisis, like Marlon searching sea to shining sea for his son Nemo, like Amanda trying to stay with Nick so she’ll be rich one day, like Nicolas Cage stealing the Declaration of Independence. I reiterate: I will never give up.
Year in and year out I spend way too much time trying to create the best possible team to win a championship. But not that I know a team with a K. Farrow starting at running back can make a championship, I have to change my game plan. I need to get more creative. Maybe I’ll only draft white players, or maybe I’ll only draft players who have torn their ACL’s in the past. There’s a secret formula out there and I will not die until I find it. See you next year.
P.S- You’re welcome for denying the Frankes from making the championship. They are already privileged enough.