Sorry, psychics. I saw in The Baltimore Sun this week that you're going to try to contact Edgar Allan Poe from beyond the grave next month. Nice idea, hope it makes some money to save his house.
But I beat you to it. I stopped by Westminster Hall this week, and while he sends his regards and says he'll be happy to talk to you when you call, the Poester had something to say now. After what happened a week ago, he revised his most famous poem, and asked me to share it:
Once upon last Sunday dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over how Cundiff could miss and Evans did not score,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my rowhouse door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my rowhouse door —
Only this, and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak Foxborough,
With fourth quarter near over and victory so surely in store,
But instead, unfairly, did come such defeat! Vainly I sought to borrow
From the replays, the surcease of sorrow — sorrow for lost Baltimore,
For the city with football fans of such fealty, oh poor Baltimore,
Despair here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple banner
From windows, on streets, a city had dared dream like never before.
Too soon would it be to gaze upon that, I turned deaf to the rapping,
"Begone," I cried out. "No visitors tonight, I must implore,
Leave me to my NFL wrap-up, my Boomer, behind my closed door."
Game over, and nothing more.
At long last, the screens dim to gray when no words remain unspoken
By bloggers, by tweeters, by fans shaken deep to their core.
Yet slumber eludes, and so continues the rapping, only now louder,
That I rise from my tossing, my turning, and cross the cold floor.
What soul is so restless, what ghost so stubborn, I must explore.
Then sleep, and nothing more.
First flicking on the porch light, and then the dead bolt I unlatch,
I throw open to the night darkness the heavy, wooden door.
In steps a stately Raven, Lee Evans, still cloaked in regret,
"I had it, I should have held it, but that Pat, Sterling Moore,
Struck with no warning, and from my grasp the ball tore.
Now Super Bowl, no more."
"But Lee," I demure, "your feet hit the ground, first right and then left,
a catch, methinks, but why no review for to bring the matter to fore?"
But none would be done, nor demanded, so on went the game,
A rush to the finish, and no chance to restore
A touchdown that would bring forth a different final score.
To Indianapolis, nevermore.
As I cursed the officials, there came the sound of more tapping,
"It's open," I call, to another Raven entering through my door,
Billy Cundiff, it is, with a "my bad" on his lips for a last errant kick.
"When the game is on the line," said he, I must make the ball soar.
Instead it went wide, and for that I must be one to abhor."
"No, not true," I say to the kicker. The downs were miscounted
On the stadium scoreboard, and that is what we do deplore,
The last seconds were chaos, the board off by one,
First was really second; second, third, and on through to four.
Rushing to the field, no time to ready and steady and score.
Season's end, and nothing more.
Why oh why, we fans are left to query: Why at least no last time out?
Or was there trickery, such as the hooded one is known for —
Belichick, now hoping to slay Giants come Sunday the next?
While Ravens fans swallow the sorrow that continues to pour
When we think what might have been added to our local football lore.
Till next year, evermore.