They creep up from the shadows of the Pontiac Silverdome. Moving swiftly across the cool Midwestern plains, they find their home in the minds of the ever hopeful. They infest their hosts thoughts with memories of despair. Of glory unreached. Promises broken. Dreams unfulfilled.
There was Barry, of course, a beloved legend who simply could bear no more. Driven away, cast into the darkness with Moore, Millen and Fontes. It wasn't his fault, no, for we understood. Poor Barry, we said, never given a chance.
The ghosts of Lions past and their autumn ritual. Just as surely as the oaks change their shades and eventually fall, so too do the spirits of the mighty silver and blue faithful. A rite of passage to some, is the annual chorus of wait 'till next year.
Posts
0 comments:
Post a Comment