(To Be Sung to the Tune of Abdul El Bulbul Amir and Ivan Skivinsky Skivar)
Ohio State’s Buckeyes were gridiron’s best
At midseason one nine three five;
On victory’s wave, they were riding the crest,
‘Til November second arrived.
Their sportswriters’ label became “Scarlet Scourge”,
Descriptionwise, very profound;
While eagerly, fans deemed their legions “Real George”,
‘Til November second rolled ‘round.
But meanwhile, the Irish at Notre Dame, Ind.
Weren’t being excitingly cheered;
Things looked pretty gloomy in yonder South Bend,
‘Til November second appeared.
Despite a tradition of champion play,
This one was a woebegone band;
But then, the day’s calendar page was torn ‘way,
With November second at hand.
They met in Columbus, the Buckeyes’ home field,
As host forces quickly took hold;
The downtrodden Irish two touchdowns did yield,
And November second seemed cold.
The third quarter showed no additional score,
As fifteen more minutes ticked on;
A thirteen point lead in those past days of yore
Meant November’s Buckeyes had won.
The fourth quarter opened with old Notre Dame
Across the Bucks’ goal line at last;
But extra point kicking was found to be lame,
And November two would close fast.
In due course, the stadium clock advised then
That just ninety seconds remained,
When Ireland’s brave stalwarts hit pay dirt again,
But only twelve points had been gained.
However, it wasn’t all over quite yet --
Ohio soon fumbled the ball;
An Irish recovery allowed them to get
One more skimpy chance to stand tall.
The clock said that only a play it would yield,
As halfback Bill Shakespeare’s last gasp
Was skillfully hurling the pigskin downfield
To receiver Millner’s firm grasp.
A climactic touchdown within a mere wink,
With eighteen to thirteen the spread;
The great Scarlet Scourge had turned into pale pink,
And Notre Dame full speed ahead.
The aftermath brought about many sour grapes;
Excuses abounded galore.
Religious intolerance took on new shapes,
As prejudice uttered a roar.
It seems that the Buckeye who’d fumbled the ball
Was true Roman Catholic by choice.
So, with no delay, out came a loud call
In boisterous, obnoxious voice.
The rumor was spread in terms both clear and frank
That Catholics on OSU’s squad
Had orders from priests it was either the tank,
Or else condemnation from God.
An ironic twist to this religion bilk
May come as a surprise to you,
That passer Bill Shakespeare of Protestant ilk,
Connected with Millner, a Jew.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
THE 1954 CLEVELAND INDIANS
Our most recent contribution to this blog dealt with one Whitey Prokop, who failed to come through on promises made by the Cleveland, Ohio newspaper sportwriters that he’d soon be setting the world on fire as a Notre Dame gridiron ace. That particular journalistic shemozzle occurred in the early 1940s. Then, roughly a decade later, the local press gentry pulled off a similarly overzealous blunder.
There’s no question but that the 1954 Cleveland Indians were a fine ball club. Although the hitting power wasn’t overly sensational, the team had been blessed with one of the most potent pitching staffs in history. The hurling corps of Bob Lemon, Early Wynn, Mike Garcia, and Herb Score as starters, along with two bullpen stalwarts in Don Mossi and Ray Narleske, proved way too much for all the American League rivals, including the mighty New York Yankees.
It was those very Bronx Bombers who’d held the regular season record of 110 victories ever since 1927. While the Indians were in the process of clinching the 1954 pennant, and getting progressively closer to that figure, the Cleveland sports pundits began tossing “greatest baseball team of all time” accolades their way. When the dust finally cleared, the ending total of 111 wins confirmed such point in their vacant home city minds. They proudly shouted by way of printed copy that the Indians had surpassed every other club in diamond annals, basing their case strictly on a less-than-truly-meaningful statistic.
For any readers who may not readily recall the 1954 World Series, the underdog New York Giants gave the Tribe a dowsing, then a thumping, followed by a clobbering, and lastly a whupping, to wind up the October classic four-zip in the National League’s favor.
Due to some unexplainable reason, the local papers suddenly forgot to affix that all-time greatest label any longer, while seeming most reluctant even to admit having used it in the first place. Once again, they’d gone overboard, as do so many journalists worldwide virtually every day of the week.
There’s no question but that the 1954 Cleveland Indians were a fine ball club. Although the hitting power wasn’t overly sensational, the team had been blessed with one of the most potent pitching staffs in history. The hurling corps of Bob Lemon, Early Wynn, Mike Garcia, and Herb Score as starters, along with two bullpen stalwarts in Don Mossi and Ray Narleske, proved way too much for all the American League rivals, including the mighty New York Yankees.
It was those very Bronx Bombers who’d held the regular season record of 110 victories ever since 1927. While the Indians were in the process of clinching the 1954 pennant, and getting progressively closer to that figure, the Cleveland sports pundits began tossing “greatest baseball team of all time” accolades their way. When the dust finally cleared, the ending total of 111 wins confirmed such point in their vacant home city minds. They proudly shouted by way of printed copy that the Indians had surpassed every other club in diamond annals, basing their case strictly on a less-than-truly-meaningful statistic.
For any readers who may not readily recall the 1954 World Series, the underdog New York Giants gave the Tribe a dowsing, then a thumping, followed by a clobbering, and lastly a whupping, to wind up the October classic four-zip in the National League’s favor.
Due to some unexplainable reason, the local papers suddenly forgot to affix that all-time greatest label any longer, while seeming most reluctant even to admit having used it in the first place. Once again, they’d gone overboard, as do so many journalists worldwide virtually every day of the week.
BUILDUP AND LETDOWN IN SOUTH BEND or LOCAL BOY FAILS TO MAKE GOOD
Back in this writer’s youthful Cleveland, Ohio days, there used to be an annual city championship football game between the winners of the two major high school athletic conferences, the East Senate and West Senate. Lakefront Stadium, home field for the Indians, was always the location, which indicates the local importance attached.
We still recall a particular hero of approximately 1940 vintage known as Whitey Prokop, whose real first name has been forgotten. This sterling halfback led his Cathedral Latin High teammates to a solid championship victory for the East Senate. All three Cleveland newspapers promptly hailed him as maybe only a notch or two below Superman, in their customary overblown journalistic manner.
Unhappily, the story didn’t end there. A few months later, the local tabloids heralded the fact that Whitey had enrolled at Notre Dame University, where his gridiron deeds would no doubt soon be lifting the Fighting Irish to new highs, as they mopped up the floor with Army, Navy, Southern California, and a huge array of Big Ten adversaries.
Come the following early autumn, we’d frequently see sports page writeups on pre-season practice at South Bend, never failing to mention the powerful Prokop, sometimes supplemented by photos. Most assuredly, “our boy” was destined to knock them dead.
As things turned out, however, poor Whitey’s chief accomplishments in four years at Notre Dame were serving with maybe the tenth or eleventh team, not even being part of the traveling squad. His name never appeared on the school’s annual lists of coveted ND monogram winners.
Why, pray tell? Hadn’t young Prokop been the best football player in the entire city of Cleveland throughout his high school career? Of course he had. At Notre Dame, though, he was competing for a lineup spot with the best from Chicago, Detroit, St. Louis, and Cincinnati, not to mention Fargo, North Dakota and Podunk, Kansas. Only the most select could attain starting positions. Countless and useless words of local newsprint praise had proven to be far from enough to vault the lad into gridiron immortality.
Whitey had a younger brother named Eddie, who followed in his wake at Cathedral Latin with comparable distinction. We once learned that the elder’s fraternal advice upon graduation was to steer clear of Notre Dame, for rather obvious reasons. Who could blame him for feeling this way, after falling flat in the face of such verbal blasts about his coming greatness?
Wisely therefore, Eddie opted for Georgia Tech, where he carved out a pretty fair niche for himself in that school’s annals as a single-wing tailback, guiding his team to continued success, culminating with a 1944 Sugar Bowl victory over Tulsa. It’s somewhat gratifying that the Prokop name can still be remembered, despite the unfortunate downfall from anticipated grace of Whitey Who.
We still recall a particular hero of approximately 1940 vintage known as Whitey Prokop, whose real first name has been forgotten. This sterling halfback led his Cathedral Latin High teammates to a solid championship victory for the East Senate. All three Cleveland newspapers promptly hailed him as maybe only a notch or two below Superman, in their customary overblown journalistic manner.
Unhappily, the story didn’t end there. A few months later, the local tabloids heralded the fact that Whitey had enrolled at Notre Dame University, where his gridiron deeds would no doubt soon be lifting the Fighting Irish to new highs, as they mopped up the floor with Army, Navy, Southern California, and a huge array of Big Ten adversaries.
Come the following early autumn, we’d frequently see sports page writeups on pre-season practice at South Bend, never failing to mention the powerful Prokop, sometimes supplemented by photos. Most assuredly, “our boy” was destined to knock them dead.
As things turned out, however, poor Whitey’s chief accomplishments in four years at Notre Dame were serving with maybe the tenth or eleventh team, not even being part of the traveling squad. His name never appeared on the school’s annual lists of coveted ND monogram winners.
Why, pray tell? Hadn’t young Prokop been the best football player in the entire city of Cleveland throughout his high school career? Of course he had. At Notre Dame, though, he was competing for a lineup spot with the best from Chicago, Detroit, St. Louis, and Cincinnati, not to mention Fargo, North Dakota and Podunk, Kansas. Only the most select could attain starting positions. Countless and useless words of local newsprint praise had proven to be far from enough to vault the lad into gridiron immortality.
Whitey had a younger brother named Eddie, who followed in his wake at Cathedral Latin with comparable distinction. We once learned that the elder’s fraternal advice upon graduation was to steer clear of Notre Dame, for rather obvious reasons. Who could blame him for feeling this way, after falling flat in the face of such verbal blasts about his coming greatness?
Wisely therefore, Eddie opted for Georgia Tech, where he carved out a pretty fair niche for himself in that school’s annals as a single-wing tailback, guiding his team to continued success, culminating with a 1944 Sugar Bowl victory over Tulsa. It’s somewhat gratifying that the Prokop name can still be remembered, despite the unfortunate downfall from anticipated grace of Whitey Who.
Monday, April 26, 2010
THIS WAS A MAN
On the 31st of March 1931, a commercial airliner crashed into a Kansas wheat field, killing all its six passengers plus the two-man crew. Among the fatalities was Knute Kenneth Rockne, Notre Dame’s head football coach, whose team had reached championship heights the preceding autumn. The fact that said gentleman was cut down at the very pinnacle of his career tended to enhance a virtually unsurpassed public image for the time, not only in the sport arena, but others as well. Furthermore, through direct personal observation decades later, we found that the degree of glorification accorded by his peers hadn’t seemed to abate one bit.
While residing in Cleveland, Ohio during the mid-1950s, this writer had a business colleague who’d recently graduated from Notre Dame. Aware of our virtual immersion in football lore, for two consecutive years he extended invitations to be his guest at a particular annual alumni gathering, and both were eagerly accepted.
At the time, and quite possibly ever since, on the Sunday morning closest to March 31, an annual Rockne Memorial Mass and Breakfast affair would be held, at the Cleveland Diocese Cathedral and a major hotel ball room respectively, in honor of the school’s most renowned figure. Not being Catholic, we would forego the religious part of the program, but rendezvous with the host for the subsequent ceremonies.
We can say unequivocally that the sense of amazement experienced on these two consecutive occasions remains vivid to this day. Although a quarter century had already passed since Rockne’s tragic demise, the collective near-reverent feelings about the man showed no sign whatsoever of having dwindled. After the breakfast serving and the prime eulogical address delivery, ex-players and former cohorts of the great coach kept stepping up to the podium, one after the other, to express their own heartfelt sentiments.
By and large, these volunteer speakers were brawny, middle-aging, baldheaded, red-faced and broken-nosed Irishmen, all of whom looked ready to engage in fisticuff encounters at the slightest provocation and hold their own most adequately. In nearly every instance, however, before finishing their individual commentaries, the big fellows’ voices would begin to crack, making it somewhat difficult to carry on. A few of these hulking behemoths even came perilously close to breaking down into tears.
As previously indicated, we witnessed this same sequence of events two years in a row.
The degree of emotion displayed on behalf of a man twenty-five or so years following his death has never been forgotten. Did such beloved persons as Abraham Lincoln, Franklin D. Roosevelt, and John F. Kennedy ever receive comparable adulation that long afterward? The answer has to be not normally, or at least not to such an extent. Off hand, in fact, we can barely recall anyone short of Jesus Himself as having retained such ongoing esteem.
We mentioned earlier that having lost “Rock” when he’d reached his career apex may well have contributed significantly to his lasting memory. Even so, perhaps as in the play Julius Caesar, when Marc Antony gazed upon the body of his vanquished adversary Brutus and stated that nature might stand up and say to all the world “This was a man”, such words might also apply to Notre Dame’s most legendary person.
While residing in Cleveland, Ohio during the mid-1950s, this writer had a business colleague who’d recently graduated from Notre Dame. Aware of our virtual immersion in football lore, for two consecutive years he extended invitations to be his guest at a particular annual alumni gathering, and both were eagerly accepted.
At the time, and quite possibly ever since, on the Sunday morning closest to March 31, an annual Rockne Memorial Mass and Breakfast affair would be held, at the Cleveland Diocese Cathedral and a major hotel ball room respectively, in honor of the school’s most renowned figure. Not being Catholic, we would forego the religious part of the program, but rendezvous with the host for the subsequent ceremonies.
We can say unequivocally that the sense of amazement experienced on these two consecutive occasions remains vivid to this day. Although a quarter century had already passed since Rockne’s tragic demise, the collective near-reverent feelings about the man showed no sign whatsoever of having dwindled. After the breakfast serving and the prime eulogical address delivery, ex-players and former cohorts of the great coach kept stepping up to the podium, one after the other, to express their own heartfelt sentiments.
By and large, these volunteer speakers were brawny, middle-aging, baldheaded, red-faced and broken-nosed Irishmen, all of whom looked ready to engage in fisticuff encounters at the slightest provocation and hold their own most adequately. In nearly every instance, however, before finishing their individual commentaries, the big fellows’ voices would begin to crack, making it somewhat difficult to carry on. A few of these hulking behemoths even came perilously close to breaking down into tears.
As previously indicated, we witnessed this same sequence of events two years in a row.
The degree of emotion displayed on behalf of a man twenty-five or so years following his death has never been forgotten. Did such beloved persons as Abraham Lincoln, Franklin D. Roosevelt, and John F. Kennedy ever receive comparable adulation that long afterward? The answer has to be not normally, or at least not to such an extent. Off hand, in fact, we can barely recall anyone short of Jesus Himself as having retained such ongoing esteem.
We mentioned earlier that having lost “Rock” when he’d reached his career apex may well have contributed significantly to his lasting memory. Even so, perhaps as in the play Julius Caesar, when Marc Antony gazed upon the body of his vanquished adversary Brutus and stated that nature might stand up and say to all the world “This was a man”, such words might also apply to Notre Dame’s most legendary person.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
