The Raven

December '98, so dreary, Fry retired, weak and weary,
A coach with joir de vivre who would go down in Hawkeye football lore
Stoops was gone whilst I was napping, but suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my office door.
“’Tis Hlas of the Gazette” I muttered, “tapping at my office door
Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
Our recruiting class had just one member, a backup guard from Bettendorf
Fry I did not wish to fire; vainly I had sought to hire
Stoops or Allen or Bill Snyder, one who saw Fry as mentor
From the coaching tree of Fry, someone who was here before
To drag the program off the floor

So everything was quite uncertain, 'cept that we had no Iron Curtain
The next year would bring fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“Spurrier or Brown or Carr will not be walking through my door
And yet there was some visitor knocking at my office door
I hope it's not Frank Lauterbur."

Open here I flung the door, and on the cold wind I abhor
In there flew a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he
But with a snort and backhand wave he perched above my office door
Perched upon a bust of Alford just above my office door
Perched, and sat, and nothing more

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
Twirled its fingers, clapping, never changing the countenance it wore,
“As you flew and did not crawl, thou,” I said, “know none of football,
Ravens like Art Modell leaving Indy for the eastern shore
Tell me where you came from 'fore you knocked upon my office door”
Quoth the Raven “Baltimore.”

Much I marveled that this coddled bird looking like Norm MacDonald,
Had coached with a modern Rommel for the Ravens of Baltimore
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Knew more football than all-seeing Marchibroda in Baltimore
Soon-to-be-canned Marchibroda living there in Baltimore
Ravens showing him the door

The Raven told me, sitting lonely, he knew football but offense only
He also knew of Fry, having coached at Iowa once before
As he moved from door to leather sofa, quick, I put together
The Raven and Fry were birds of a feather, friends from days of yore
"But surely you will soon return," I said, "to Ted in Baltimore."
Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

Startled at this frank admission I asked, "If I got permission,
Considering the team's condition, this program on the floor
And if you are without a master, will you help avoid disaster?"
He chewed his gum a little faster and took a notepad from his drawers
Wrote a single scribbled note and put it on the door
The note said "Never score"

The Raven's note, it was beguiling; quizzically, I sat there smiling,
I wheeled my cushioned seat in front of Alford bust and door;
Then, upon the leather sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore
What this chewing, khaki-clad, offensive bird of yore
Meant in writing “Never score.”

While I was engaged in guessing, the Raven grinned, thereby expressing
That he had a meaning I had never heard before;
"Philosophy I am refining, for my experience is mining
Talent for offensive lining, but I will make the Hawk fans roar,
They will love me, trust me, never think of showing me the door,
So long as we Never Score"

"We'll play all freshmen for the next year, system looking small and austere
And in Year Two we'll win three games and definitely not four
But in Year Three and through Year Four we'll show the Big Ten how to score
Reach heights that we've never even imagined before
Build up equity just as those freshmen head toward the door.
And then it's time for 'Never Score.'"

"Oh Bird," I said, confusion setting in, "I don't believe I'm getting
How it is that you're not fretting at the thought of never score."
"From Year Six on, I will be wedding defense, punting, lots of sweating
All in service of upsetting Michigan every year or four
All for Iowa fifty-five, Ohio State twenty-four
I'll beat Penn State by six to four."

"Now there are downsides to Never Scoring; for one, the football's awfully boring
But if I'm constantly imploring players to go down and score
Fans will believe that I have tried to keep the legacy of Fry
When actually I'd rather die than make a downfield throw
They'll blame the players or assistants but not me, never, nor
You although I Never Score."

"And in those big-game upset seasons expectations will stay within reason
We'll win a big one, then get beaten, never better than eight and four.
Fans, reporters, TV stations, they shall adjust their expectations
They will all hold celebrations for wins in late December bowls
They'll pay me bonuses for seven wins and late December bowls
All the while, Never Score."

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
You will destroy football with determination not to score!"
But desperate I was, and daunted, and so I hired him, the vaunted
Teacher of Jonathan Ogden, The Raven, Ferentz, man o war
He did exactly what he said, three ten-win years, decades of bore
And still his teams will Never Score.

After aught-six, as scores were falling, Palo Alto, it came calling
I left Raven and Alford there and departed for Western shore!
I offered the Raven a token of that lie his soul hath spoken!
With Alford's tenure now long gone, he got the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Alford also never scored.

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
Next to his own bust above the football office door;
He and his son perpetually scheming, always dreaming, always dreaming,
Of new and different ways to play football without trying to score;
Fourteen years without a title, fans expecting eight and four
Every year they Never Score.