State Champions

Friday finally came to the country burg
and all the town’s folk were there.
Excepting, of course, the four babies,
their sitters, and crabby Aunt Molly
who sat at home doing her hair.

By two PM on this uncommon day,
all animals were tended the day’s last care.
Tractors were quieted, last hay pitched,
families were gathered and piled in the truck,
then on to the big city, some praying a prayer.

After more than three hours, almost four,
a massive stadium claimed their collective stare.
Home of their favorite NFL team of them all,
it blocked only a fraction of the vast cityscape.
They were proud of Smalldale, but it didn’t compare.

Nervous and stunned, tickets in hand, Smalldale’s
faithful lurched to the gate, as if on a dare.
For years they had thought of this night, never
really imagining it real. Now as kickoff neared for Smalldale
High, the loyal fans hopes had morphed to a scare.

They settled in their seats, the town’s near population,
to watch Smalldale’s cheerleaders leap with flair.
Moments later, with their team running onto the field,
they screamed “Go Fighting Farmhands!”, green
and yellow megaphones increasing their blare.

Within seconds, Smalldale jaws dropped in conjunction.
“Can this be the pro team?” a fan asked in despair,
as the Capitol City High Cyclones streaked out on the field.
These kids were huge, seventeen point favorites,
and from the opposite side, “Cyclones Rule!” filled the air.

It was then that Charlie, from Smalldale’s general store,
shouted a message, his hometown friends to share.
“Hey, we’re undefeated too, we’ve had a fantastic year.
We’re playing for the championship, we deserve to be here.”
His words were well taken, but this match up seemed unfair.

The captains strolled out for the toss of the coin, the
Cyclone looking almost human, though large as a bear.
“Heads!” he yelled gruffly before the coin hit the ground,
“Heads it is” came the ref’s quick retort. “We’ll receive”
growled Cyclone bear, giving the Farmhand a laser stare.

Smalldale’s kickoff was long and strong and
the ball sailed to the six yard line that’s where.
Taken by the Cyclone’s swift halfback,
he broke to the sideline behind a beefy wall,
and sped to the end zone with room to spare.

The stage was thus set for the entire first half,
even a Smalldale first down was something rare.
But when it was Capitol City’s turn with the ball,
they moved down the field for one score then another,
and stamped out a clear message “You best beware”.

At the half it was Cyclones 20, Farmhands zero,
and Smalldale’s coach jumped on a locker room chair.
“Men” he yelled, “this game’s not over. How bad do
you want to be champs?” He rallied the team, fired
them up, and for the second half they set to prepare.

Back on the field the Farmhands were a new team,
and played both sides of the ball with new-found flair.
They ran and passed, blocked and tackled, scored
a touchdown, a couple of field goals too.
They were playing with abandon, a team on a tear.

Capitol City was hapless in the second half,
as if it wasn’t the same game but a different affair.
Now with ten seconds left, Smalldale’s ball, 4th down,
three to go, they had no choice but to let the ball fly.
Grabbed in the end zone, it met an end’s hands square.

The score now read Cyclones 20, Farmhands 19,
as the crowd for both sides was more than aware,
and both mulled the gravity of the decision at hand.
Smalldale’s town folk screamed “two, two, two!”
and its coach held thumbs up to make his declare.

From the sidelines came a player to bring in the plan,
a play action pass would catch the Cyclones unaware.
The ball was snapped, the quarterback faked the run,
then drifted back and found a wide out in the “zone”.
The referee’s arms shot straight up, a symmetrical pair.

Oh somewhere there may be others as happy,
(but you have to try hard to imagine where)
as the Farmhands with their names on the
“State Champions” trophy. And the Smalldale
faithful, who each strutted out like a big city millionaire.

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