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Wit and Humor of America, The Vol 04

<h2>THE GRECO-TROJAN GAME</h2> <h3>BY CHARLES F. JOHNSON</h3> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> First on the ground appeared the god-like Trojan Eleven, Shining in purple and black, with tight and well-fitting sweaters, Woven by Andromache in the well-ordered palace of Priam. After them came, in goodly array, the players of Hellas, Skilled in kicking and blocking and tackling and fooling the umpire. All advanced on the field, marked off with white alabaster, Level and square and true, at the ends two goal posts erected, Richly adorned with silver and gold and carved at the corners, Bearing a legend which read, "Don't talk back at the umpire"— Rule first given by Zeus, for the guidance of voluble mortals. All the rules of the game were deeply cut in the crossbars, So that the players might know exactly how to evade them. </div> <div class="stanza"> On one side of the field were ranged the Trojan spectators, Yelling in composite language their ancient Phrygian war-cry; "Ho-hay-toe, Tou-tais-ton, Ton-tain-to; Boomerah Boomerah, Trojans!" And on the other, the Greeks, fair-haired, and ready to halloo, If occasion should offer and Zeus should grant them a touch-down, "Breck-ek kek-kek-koax, Anax andron, Agamemnon!" </div> <div class="stanza"> First they agreed on an umpire, the silver-tongued Nestor. Long years ago he played end-rush on the Argive eleven; He was admitted by all to be an excellent umpire Save for the habit he had of making public addresses, Tedious, long-winded and dull, and full of minute explanations, How they used to play in the days when Cadmus was half-back, Or how Hermes could dodge, and Ares and Ph&oelig;bus could tackle; Couched in rhythmical language but not one whit to the purpose. On his white hair they carefully placed the sacred tiara, Worn by the foot-ball umpires of old as a badge of their office, Also to save their heads, in case the players should slug them. Then they gave him a spear wherewith to enforce his decisions, And to stick in the ground to mark the place to line up to. He advanced to the thirty-yard line and began an oration: </div> <div class="stanza"> "Listen, Trojans and Greeks! For thirty-five seasons, I played foot-ball in Greece with Peleus for half-back and captain. Those were the days of old when men played the game as they'd orter. Once, I remember, Æacus, the god-like son of Poseidon, Kicked the ball from a drop, clean over the city of Argos. That was the game when Peleus, our captain, lost all his front teeth; Little we cared for teeth or eyes when once we were warmed up. Why, I remember that Æacus ran so that no one could see him, There was just a long hole in the air and a man at the end on't. Hercules umpired that game, and I noticed there wasn't much back-talk." </div> <div class="stanza"> Him interrupting, sternly addressed the King Agamemnon: "Cease, old man; come off your antediluvian boasting; Doubtless our grandpas could all play the game as well as they knew how. They are all dead, and have long lined up in the fields of elysium; If they were here we would wipe up the ground with the rusty old duffers. You call the game, and keep your eye fixed on the helmeted Hector. He'll play off-side all the while, if he thinks the umpire don't see him!" Then the old man threw the lots, but sore was his heart in his bosom. "Troy has the kick-off," he said, "the ball is yours, noble Hector." Then he gave him the ball, a prolate spheroid of leather, Much like the world in its shape, if the world were lengthened, not flattened, Covered with well-sewed leather, the well-seasoned hide of a bison, Killed by Lakon, the hunter, ere bisons were exterminated. On it was painted a battle, a market, a piece of the ocean, Horses and cows and nymphs and things too many to mention. </div> <div class="stanza"> Then the heroes peeled off their sweaters and put on their nose-guards, Also the fiendish expressions the great occasion demanded. Ajax stood on the right; in the center the great Agamemnon; Diomed crouched on the left, the god-like rusher and tackler, Crouched as a panther crouches, if sculptors do justice to panthers. Crafty Ulysses played back, for none of the Trojans could pass him, All the best Greeks were in line, but Podas Okus Achilleus, Who though an excellent kicker stayed all day in his section. </div> <div class="stanza"> Hector dribbled the ball, then seized it and putting his head down, And, as a lion carries a lamb and jumps over fences— Dodging this way and that the shepherds who wish to remonstrate— So did the son of Priam carry the ball through the rush line, Till he was tackled fair by the full-back, the crafty Ulysses. Even then he carried the ball and the son of Laertes Full five yards till they fell to the ground with a deep indentation Where one might hide three men so that no man could see them— Men of the present day, degenerate sons of the heroes— </div> <div class="stanza"> Now, when Pallas Athene discovered the Greeks would be beaten, She slid down from the steep of Olympus upon a toboggan. Sudden she came before crafty Ulysses in guise like a maiden; Not that she thought to fool him, but since Olympian fashion Made the form of a woman good form for a goddess' assumption. She then spoke to him quickly, and said, "O son of Laertes, Seize thou the ball; I will pass it to thee and trip up the Trojan." Her replying, slowly re-worded the son of Laertes— "That will I do, O goddess divine, for he can outrun me." Then when the ball was in play, she cast thick darkness around it. Also around Ulysses she poured invisible darkness. Under this cover, taking the ball he passed down the middle, Silent and swift, unseen, unnoticed, unblocked, and untackled. Meanwhile she piled the Greeks and the Trojans in conglomeration, Much like a tangle of pine-trees where lightning has frequently fallen, Or like a basket of lobsters and crabs which the provident housewife Dumps on the kitchen floor and vainly endeavors to count them, So seemed the legs and the arms and the heads of the twenty-one players. Sudden a shout arose, for under the crossbar, Ulysses, Visible, sat on the ball, quietly making a touch-down; On the tip of his nose were his thumb and fingers extended, Curved and vibrating slow in the sign of the blameless Egyptians. Violent language came to the lips of the helmeted Hector, Under his breath he murmured a few familiar quotations, Scraps of Phrygian folk-lore about the kingdom of Hades; Then he called loud as a trumpet, "I claim foul, Mr. Umpire!" "Touch-down for Greece," said Hector; "'twixt you and me and the goal-post I lost sight of the ball in a very singular manner." </div> <div class="stanza"> Then they carried the sphere back to the twenty-five yard line, Prone on the ground lay a Greek, the leather was poised in his fingers— Thrice Agamemnon adjusted the sphere with deliberation; Then he drew back as a ram draws back for deadly encounter. Then he tripped lightly ahead, and brought his sandal in contact Right at the point; straight flew the ball right over the crossbar, While like the cries of pygmies and cranes the race-yell resounded: "Breck-ek kek-kek-koax, Anax andron, Agamemnon!" </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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