War fought over languid fields of pelt and iron till the season is through

The crisp salute of a job well done; a winner marked at last.

Names etched and banners unfurled; a champion, tried and true.

And we go about our ways, reminiscing upon the past,

Wondering what could have been,

Wondering when we will rise and celebrate.

The Long Road to December lies within.

From the onset of the August drought to the September congregate.

And yet it has eluded me for these passing years

Sweep the caucus of the champions anew.

This misguided trophy of weekly fears,

This incoherent goblet of a wanderer’s few,

This old-standing tradition of honor and misfortune.

All for that wretched cup of despair; all for that Crown of Charles Town.

Winning scores and agony in defeat level out the respectable proportion, 

The Long road to December is walked with a smile and is walked with a frown.

It is here we make our mark or squander our chances

All in order to cherish a championship. All in order to forge a memory to remember,

For our victories seemingly fall to the accords of pomp and circumstances.

This, while traversing the Long Road to December. 

Photo by Giorgio Trovato on Unsplash