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Christal Marie

Christal Marie, gazelle of the square court, beautiful soul, beautiful lady,

lithe as the willow on the banks of the River Nile in the days of the Pharaohs,

delicate beauty, panther of the court.

Ah, Christal Marie

I was there when the announcer lifted his voice like a trumpet and blew a note

of trilling beauty. And we knew that you had become Pacific-Ten Freshman

of the year.

The nation erupted in joy. Purple dawgs decked out in purple glory—

Our voices rose like countless accordions to the rafters of ol’ Hec. (Yes, venerable

Ol’ Hec. Ah, venerable ol’ Hec.) A flock of wild geese winging their way home.

The day done. The sun sweeping through the Western sky.

Dawg land

Our voices burst like the ripened songs of song sparrows. Our voices burst

Like the ripened songs of weaver birds. Our voices burst like the ripened songs

Of emperor nightingales. Our voices burst like a swift flowing tide on the beckoning

land.

We were crazy.

We were delirious.

We had drunk deep from the nectar of your accomplishment.

Ah, Christal Marie

We sang, we danced, we sang, and our voices burst like the ripened songs of singing

Rivers.

Roaring rivers. Mighty rivers. Rushing rivers. They came in ripened waves all over the

Land,

As we hailed you, Christal Marie, queen of the court, fleet-footed queen, gazelle of gazelles. Star fire in a constellation of star fires.

Ah, Christal Marie

Burdened with joyous sacks of songs, we disappeared into the arteries of the ebbing

Night,

Quick as our merry feet would carry us, for the following day was another game,

On the tenacity-hallowed courts of ol’ Hec, and our ears were itching, burning, itching,

With

The fire of a million anticipations. For the announcer had fooled no one.

The man of Fox had fooled no one, when in the glare of the searching eyes of gray

Ol’ Hec,

He had made as if to speak again, and abruptly held his peace,

Shy as a stutter-struck schoolboy, or a pimpled-faced schoolgirl struggling with the great

burden of adolescent years.

I, for one, thought that the abashed fellow looked like cunning Thrasymachus taking the pill of silence before the noble Socrates, when he talked about the sky and stardust falling down from the memory-filled rafters of ol’ Hec,

The following day,

the following day,

the following day.

Ah—

Dawg land

And so the following day, even before the burning bowl of heaven had made its way

Clear out of the sky’s marbled castle, we kept a breakfast vigil, campers in the tent

Of the waking day, our eyes vigilant as the famed eyes of the bald-feathered one

Of the sky,

Searching for prey with the tenacity of salient years and the hunger of a moon-old

Fast.

Yes, we waited, our eyes steadfast as winning darts on the checkered board. We

Waited. We waited. We waited in the tents of a collective anticipation, as we went about

The storied campus, jousting with the sages past and present, and wringing from brawny

Tomes the sap of grizzled wisdom. We waited, we waited, we waited in the tents

Of our anticipation, until at last the burning hunter of the sky retired behind the silken

Parabola.

The silken parabola

the silken parabola

It was then from nowhere, we saw a wailing star doing cat turns in the sky.

Was it a tiger gone out of its mind? I thought it was a sound-eating fighter cat turning a trick or two for the dazzled eye.

Crossfield. Was it Crossfield eating up the rushing waves of sound?

Ah, ol’ Crossfield, now gone like the departing dusk. In his day, not even Yeager

could take him. And it seems ol’ Yeager never forgave him for this.

And Cf. wasn’t he a dawg?

Ah—

dawg land

Ol’ Cf. was a cat on the face of the silken parabola.

I say ol’ Cf. was a cat on the face of the silken parabola.

--And Yeager could not stand his guts.

But was it really ol’ Cf. or was it his son, his nephew, his cousin, turning the cat tricks the old dawg once turned in the sky?

None of us could tell, but our eyes taken in by the sheer

Impudence of the lithe cat would not take their hooks off the face of the sky. And

Our patience, if that is what it was, was soon rewarded, for against the eternal blue

Cloth, the wonders of which have never ceased to amaze the upright being,

We saw your name,

Your name, your name, your name,

Lovely C. Marie, on a banner

Stretching as far as the Serengeti plains

C. Marie, Pacific Region Freshman of the Year.

C. Marie, star fire of the sky of the Pacific Northwest.

C. Marie,

Star fire, star fire, star fire

It was in bold white ink, Christal Marie, and so finely wrought,

As it were by the sage hands of one greater than famed Pablo.

I swear Christal Marie, I have seen the delicate work of old Pablo,

Art so beautiful, it defies the gravity of description, art so beautiful, it defies

The gravity of description, art so beautiful, it defies the gravity of description.

I saw the work of old Pablo, reminding me of the master works of past ancestors.

I saw it with my own eyes, fetched the eyes of Pablo to see it, and saw it with my own Eyes again, and I saw from across the ages, the master works of master craftsmen.

O beauty, the price of seeing, O beauty the price of seeing, O beauty the price of seeing.

But the craftsmen have gone the way of all flesh, gone, gone, and long vilified,

Gone, gone, and never given any praise, gone, gone, and never given any acknowledgement, gone, gone, and never given any admiration. Rejection was stamped

On their faces, rejection was their cover cloth, rejection was their song, when they sought comfort, and their songs were songs of sorrow, and their songs were songs of sorrow,

But joy never leaves the human breast, and they sang too, for hope, the eternal song sparrow in the heart of the human breast never ceased to sing, O joy, joy like singing rivers, O joy, joy even in the face of sadness like sweeping rain, O joy, joy, even in the face of sadness like a sweeping hurricane, O joy, joy even in the face of sadness like a sweeping flood.

For the song sparrow sings with the joy of God,

The song sparrow sings with the voice of the eternal One,

The song sparrow sings with the giver of the joy that quenches the fire of all sorrow.

And old Pablo, he made the world listen to the beauty of the song.

And the world called it beauty, and the world called it beautiful,

And old Pablo, he made the eyes pay the price of seeing, and the price of seeing is beauty.

And the price of seeing is beauty. O the price of seeing is beauty.

O, the price of seeing is beauty. An old Pablo, he made the world see,

And the price of seeing is beauty. O, the price of seeing is beauty.

But was it really Pablo that made the world see? Pablo, did you make the world

See?

Ah, C., I leave questions alone,

for another time, for another place, for another song

When we saw your star-garlanded accomplishment, we danced like children in the rain.

We danced like children in the wind. We danced like children in the hurricane. We danced like children in the eye of the storm. We danced like children on the back

Of a giant surfing board. We danced like children when dusk is upon the rafters, like children, when dusk is upon the rafters. We danced like a band of fauns pulling in Lewis’s winter.

The white witch made the fauns do it.

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But when the children came, they broke the curse, with the help of Aslan.

When the goodhearted children came, they broke the curse with the help of Aslan.

O Aslan, O Aslan, O Aslan.

He helped the children break the curse of the white witch.

Ah, C., my eyes have seen wonders—

And fairy tales the kind of C.S.L. lead us through ancient wardrobes into the mysteries of the eternal.

We laugh and dismiss them at our peril. We laugh and dismiss them at our own peril.

But C.S.L., what a storyteller, what a weaver of an infinity of spells, what a weaver

Of worlds beyond worlds, and mysteries beyond mysteries, and puzzles beyond puzzles!

We have all drunk deep of the mysteries of C.S.L, like we have drunk deep of your star-clad accomplishments, C and now across the silken parabola, and now across the silken parabola, the fauns pull in a purple banner, ah, the fauns pull in a purple banner,

Bearing your name across the winter-free sky;

Bearing your name across the winter-free sky.

Talking of the Chronicles of Narnia, do you know C, that that night

As we pored over dog-eared tomes the size of C.S.L.’s magic wardrobes,

We tried to cast spells too in the manner of razor-sharp arguments

To hurl like heavy suitcases the weight of laser-sharp lances before our professors?

We were nearly thwarted in the effort

By a streaking light flying swifter

Than the wind-sired feet of Pegasus.

F-L-A-S-H, F-L-A-S-H past the windows of Allen.

F-L-A-S-H, F-L-A-S-H past the windows of Odegaard.

F-L-A-S-H, F-L-A-S-H past the windows of Suzzallo

And countless other buildings on the storied campus,

The seat of the mighty Dawg Nation.

Aha, the seat of the mighty Dawg Nation,

Aha, the seat of the mighty Dawg Nation.

The fellow, whether it was a comet or no,

none of us could tell,

Flew swifter than gray-bearded Zephyr,

Flew swifter than anything we had ever seen,

Flew swifter than anything we could tell,

And C, ah, lovely C, ah, star fire of star fires,

You must know we have Rhodes scholars in DN.

You must know we have Mellon scholars in DN.

You must know we have Gates scholars in DN.

You must know we have fellows upon fellows upon fellows in DN.

You must know we sit at the table of Everest with the brightest of the brightest of the

stars,

And we wondered what it was, and sharp minds, honed by years

Of poring over gray-haired tomes, telescopes, microscopes, slides, and all sorts of investigative technology went to work, for isn’t it true that all who come to DN must show their mettle’s worth in the hallowed courts of knowledge? And, so, we did not ask less of ourselves than the standards set by past warriors in the fray.

We jousted, C, we jousted, firepower matching firepower, the thinking rods

Of our brains all bent to the purpose at hand, until like a bottle of champagne popping,

Someone suddenly cried from our camp, Eureka! only to be joined by other voices, like a bevy of popping sounds, ah, like a bevy of popping sounds, ah, like a bevy of popping sounds, when champagne bottles overflow with joy.

A shooting star

And C, do you know hugging its bosom

Was the legend: Christal Marie, All-Pacific Ten First Team?

We laughed like the roaring voice of Victoria Falls.

We laughed like the rumbling thunder when the sky is throwing a fit.

We laughed like the sea on its march to meet its big cousin the ocean.

We laughed and screamed like English soccer fans who had sold their birthrights

To Bacchus.

We laughed like cocktails fired in the wake of the armada.

CM, if Effingham, Drake, and Hawkins had not defeated the Spanish Armada, would there have been a different history?

My mind sometimes plays these games? If B had happened instead of A,

What would history have looked like? When you are in some lonely cubicle in DN,

Garrisoned off by books, it is amazing what the mind can do to you? You ask, and you ask, until you brain turns blue, ah, until your brain turns blue, ah, until your brain turns blue. But, mercy Lord, isn’t the mind never tired of hurling these questions

Before the jury of the mind? Questions come like butterflies. Some stay, some go. Some

Whip the mind like a devil with scars all over its face. Well, let me leave such questions alone. Leave questions alone? Ah, ah, ah.

Forget English fans, C, we danced better than them that day when we saw

The shooting star bearing your name. Forget English fans, C, we danced better

Than them when we saw the shooting star bearing the name of the graceful cat,

Candace. Ah, Candace! Lithe lynx, whose infectious roar at the dug-up ball

Makes the heart and mind sing like a young girl doing the waltz.

At first I thought, why did she scream so? But in the heat of battle, such a joyous

Cry isn’t it worth more than its weight in precious stones? Adrenaline oozes

Through every pore, and the good sportswoman puts all her talent in the fray,

Lonely moments in the weight room, crowded moments on the practice court,

And before the lights are tuned out in the practice facilities, the thud, thud, thud!

Of the ball ricocheting here, and ricocheting there, its unmusical sound every

Bit as sweet as the music of an emperor nightingale to her ears. And after all these

To hit the books, to hit them hard as if her life depends on them?

Ah, the sportswoman who stands as tall as the cider tree on the court and in the classroom

Is a miracle. O, she is a miracle. O, she is a miracle. O, she is a miracle of incredible beauty. O, she is a wonder of wonders, a wonder of wonders, a wonder of wonders.

She has worked hard on the hard courts and in the arena where the sages gather to contemplate the wonders of existence, ah, to contemplate the wonders of existence, and her name should be on some wall of honor, dark lines in a bar of gold, and let those who are coming after her, children yet in the grade schools be escorted to such shrines of honor, and let her story be told, O let her story be told, O let her story be told, that young ones may learn to keep body and mind alert and at their best.

They will fare better than Pythagoras and his bands.

Dawg land

On the breast of the shooting star was the name of the svelte opera conductor too,

Courtney, expert ball charmer, charms the ball to the magical spot

For the screaming kill!

Dawg land

And Brie, laughter-loving Brie, shy as a lotus-flower Brie,

Your partner in crime, some day your children will look

At your exploits on the square court, and shake their heads

In dizzy amazement, moms where you so stellar?

Keep these memories then, and the images too.

On same rainy day, when the sky is cloudy,

And the sun seems to have set too soon

For the day, bring them out, and let memory

Sing like the song sparrow.

Let memory sing like the song sparrow.

Let memory sing like the song sparrow

And let the sun come in. And let the sun come in.

There was too the Serbian Cinderella, Sanya,

Regal, queenly in every stride.

Some day when a movie director

Tells your stories, she is certain to give

Sanya’s character several minutes,

From war-torn country to queen of the court

In the land of the stars and stripes?

Thousands of miles across the world,

In search of the knowledge key,

And the laurels of the hard court,

Not even a war could deter her,

And she plays with so much

Joy, one would think her story

Was a different story. Let those

Who underestimate the joyous

Tenor of sports then take note.

The joy of life often so hard

To come by is ever so often

In abundant display on the hard courts

Of college sports, where student

Warriors go into the fray for love

Of the game. When my student

Days end in DN, C, I will carry

With me some golden memories,

And the DN V-Ball Team will be one of them.

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Ah—

Dawg land

dawg land

The stars came and departed.

The night came and departed.

The day came and sailed into the west-bound horizon.

A flock of jovial geese quoting Dylan Thomas,

And bearing gifts for his old sire,

Who had gone on his way,

Flew past the cirrus veldt.

In their wake came an Alpha-dog star,

And the night became as plain as day.

Bright. Bright. Like a swift-flying laser-beam.

The sky flushed, glowed, blushed, and smiled

Like a high-society lady drawing a fat check

From a well-stocked account.

Ah, what an amazing day

But the day was not yet done with its business.

Its genie’s bag still had a gondola of tricks.

Ah, C, have you ever been to Venice?

I hear they use gondolas there, and they are expensive too.

Their pilots know a tourist when they see one.

And they will not let slip an opportunity to make the fat buck.

Whenever you go to Italy,

Ride the gondola, and on the back of a postcard,

Write a sonnet, no, a haiku, okay, just scribble a few lines,

CM was in Venice and rode the gondola.

You will like yourself for it afterwards.

You know how postcards behave like kittens

When it comes to memories of distant places

One has visited. They are fuzzy.

They are warm. They never go away.

And this as far as I can tell

Is the chief duty of postcards.

Okay, the night was as bright as day,

And I remember quoting Dylan Thomas,

Quoting him as if I was speaking to his father,

His departed sire, and walking through campus,

As if my ears were as alert as the ears of a rabbit

In flight, and my eyes as wide as calabash bowls,

When along with my companions, I saw what looked

Like a lone bird, a kite, drop clear out of the light-

Clothed sky. It was a kite unlike any we had seen,

A behemoth of a creature, one of those birds

One sees in replicas of flying reptiles of the dim past

In a museum of natural history. Have you ever been to any of those museums?

Once I went to one of those museums, and the tour guard

Was so excited about her work, I, along with everyone there,

Felt as if we were taking a tour through Disneyland.

I bet it was greater fun though, even though I have never

Been to the land that ol’ Walt conjured up out of his hat of wonders.

Ah—

Dawg land

dawg land

The kite from the dim past carried a mammoth flag

In its mammoth claws. Anytime I remember

The kite, I think of Sinbad and the rocs.

When I was a child, I used to play Sinbad

In my imagination. And I thought it was the coolest thing

I ever did in my imagination, as fantasy.

Now I wonder whether Sinbad and the rocs

Are as much fun as the DN volleyball team.

Ah—

Dawg land

dawg land

The roc from the dim past carried a mammoth flag

In its mammoth claws. A stadium-sized purple flag,

Dawg flag, emblazoned in gold, and multiple colors,

Wisdom-seeking acolytes from every nook and cranny of the earth,

What a rich tapestry, what a rich tapestry, O someone say it, what a rich tapestry

I remembered the dreamer of ancient times, O I remembered the dreamer of ancient times

And how he became the prime minister of the most powerful nation on earth at the time.

O I remembered the dreamer of ancient times, but what remains still clear as crystal

Was the purple flag in the background of gold in the background of countless colors,

With a legend on its burnished face:

Christal Marie, Pacific-Ten Player of the Week

Christal Marie, Pacific-Ten Freshman of the Year,

Christal Marie, Pacific-Region Freshman of the Year,

Christal Marie, All-Conference First Team Selection,

Christal Marie, All Pacific Region First Team

Ah, C, Ah, C, we have drunk deep from the cup of Coleridge,

And even though we are not on our way to take our wedding vows, we have come

Under the spell of the old man. And like schoolchildren bursting out

Of classrooms at break time to gather at the playground to listen to an itinerant Homer

Tell his tale, we wait & wait, stupor-drunk on the wine of your amazing feats, & raising

Our eyes from the sea of Bacchus, our voices droned out like a loudspeaker hidden in

A water-plagued drum: “So much so early?”

But ere our Bacchus-inspired words had fled our lips,

A pack of dogs running wild in the prairie,

Old Socrates appeared before us as if in a dream within a dream,

A ripple stirring on the face of a gentle river, and the touch of Bacchus,

Like an accursed plague fled from our senses,

And alert like warriors on whose vigilance the survival of a city rests,

We listened to wise old Socrates speak. And speak, he did, his words flowing

Like the Sombreiro River in the heart of the Niger Delta.

Wait,

Said,

The grizzled

Fellow,

Until

She burns

The irons,

And her

Upper body

Strength

Stands

To attention

Like a Roman Soldier

At his duty

Post.

Wait.

Wait,

Until

She

Develops

The iron

Fist

And

The elastic strain

Of the Cunning

Forest

Creepers

In her

Bronzed

Legs

And

Can

Spring

Faster

Than

The agile

Cat.

Block

The missile

Shot

Before it has shown

Its fiery face

Wait

Wait,

And

See

Her

Star

Ascend

Higher

Than

The flaming ray

Wait

She will gather heat at the forge and burn brighter than the low-hanging

Proxima Centauri.

Wait,

Until

She

Becomes

The unrivaled

Queen

Of

The

Court.

And if her fellow queens are willing, & yes as sure as the heaven’s bright sweeping star,

They are, the crown of ol’ Hec will be festooned with one or more national buntings,

Ah, his lofty crown will be studded with rubies like smiles on the face of healthy apple,

&

yet for her it will just be the beginning. O for her, it will just be the beginning. O for her, it will just be the beginning. & the noble Socrates disappeared through the thinning mist, the way he had appeared before us.

Ah, Christal Marie

Her strikes, her kills, her blocks will scatter the gathering fists of opponents in the way of the wind. O wind. O wind. O wind. Her strikes, her kills, her blocks will scatter

the gathering fists of opponents in the way of the wind. O wind. O wind. O wind.

Victor in purple, victor in gold, sportswoman of sportsmen and sportswomen,

The stars stoop down to garland her royal neck, their crown of victory adorn her lovely

head.

O stars, O stars, O stars, O stars, O stars, O stars, O stars, O stars, O stars, O stars

We all agreed with the grizzled sage, and with merry hearts, and like merry fellows,

Set our merry hearts to the cause of garlanding her and her fellow queens with roaring

praise.

Praise like the rush of mighty rivers, praise like the call of the roaring ocean, praise

Like the song of a thousand of waterfalls. O waterfall. O waterfall. O waterfall.

Fall, fall from the mighty rafters of ol’ Hec. Fall, fall from the stands where an army

Of stomping feet stomp, stomp, stomp until the stands tremble like burning fever.

Ah-

Dawg land

dawg land

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A swelling din is heard around the mountain-watched Northwest and travel

from coast to coast, until they are heard all over the land.

Aye! aye came the roaring cry, once, twice, thrice, and circling the entire land,

again.

O roaring Hec, O roaring Hec, O roaring Hec, O roaring Hec, the stars have come

To ol’ Hec, and shooting stars fall like confetti from the rafters. The stars have come to Ol’ Hec, and a shower of meteor light heralds our fearsome roar. O stars, O stars, O stars.

The hapless opponent could not stop the moving flood, and ere we had warmed

to the comfort of our seats, the sorry team though fighting valiantly was down

3-love. Mastery comes from attention to detail. Mastery comes from hours spent alone

& with others on the practice court, and moves, feints, and sundry maneuvers accumulate

like raindrops in a bucket. O like raindrops in a bucket. O like raindrops in a bucket,

until the bucket of skill and mastery is overflowing with the killing hand, with the killing

move, with the killing gesture. O take me to the court of mastery, let me learn and be a star. O take me to the court of mastery, let me learn in arduous hours the secret of star fires. Let me learn in arduous hours the secret of star fires. O star fire. O star fire. O star fire.

A merry company we were then when we left the court, and atop our merry flag,

We hoisted legends in praise of our darling team. We sang. We gamboled. We sang.

The song of the spheres was in our ears, starlight lit the length and breadth of the storied

campus.

Ah—

Dawg land

dawg land

Old Socrates appeared before us again like the gray-bearded Zephyr, and raising

His ancient but sturdy hand like a pole hoisting a flag to ol’ Aeolus of Thessaly,

Said again in a trilling, but steady voice—

Ah, Christal Marie, ah Christal Marie, ah, Christal Marie

Wait,

Until

She

Begins

To

Burn

The

Dog-eared

Tomes

With the cunning patience of the fabled tortoise

& grow

in the courts

of learning

to the heights

of a sage Mandarin

She

Will

Become

A

Double

Weapon,

Star fire in the courts of learning

Queen

Of

The

Wide

Arena

O star fire

& then the sweet-singing muses will say of her, O star fire, O star fire, O star fire

She descends from Curie and Godimer, Morrison and Buck

O star fires, O star fires, O star fires

The stars of the wide arena sing, they sing of Jackie-Joyner Kersee and Mia Hamm

& the vast constellation of stars before them, now with them, and will come after them.

Stars, a new star burns now in the firmament, a new star burns now in the circle

Of the ever-burning flame. It sends its rays far and near. It sends its rays to the far-flung

Corners of the earth.

—Once when I was a little boy, growing up on a palm-tree-watched island of the Niger

Delta, I looked up to the sky and saw the stars, and my world became bigger

Than anything I could put in words. My world became bigger than Everest, bigger

Than Kilimanjaro, bigger than the thunders of a tempestuous sky, and I dreamt of worlds

Beyond the tiny island. I dreamt of worlds beyond the tiny island, like a flock of birds

Following the star-lined paths of migratory routes.

O dreams of a little boy, O dreams of a little boy, O dreams of a little boy

Beyond home, away from home, beyond home, away from home, O dreams of a little

boy, beyond home, away from home, beyond home, away from home, the little island

Boy

Saw the star, and followed the migratory route, like a flock of wild birds.

O dreams of a little boy, O dreams of a little boy, O dreams of a little boy—

In the outback, in the Andes, in the lands of Latin America, Asia, Europe, Africa,

Middle-Eastern lands, & here at home, on the countless islands and archipelagos

Of the earth, in Europe, and in the far-flung reaches of the wide, wide earth,

A little girl will see her star, a little girl will see her star, a little girl will see her star

& ordering her ways to the call of the constellation Christal Marie will imagine worlds

greater than her tiny island home, will imagine worlds greater than her tiny island home.

O dreams of a little girl, O dreams of a little girl, O dreams of a little girl

O Christal Marie, her footprints spread from Dawg land to the far-flung reaches

Of the earth.

O Christal Marie, her footprints spread from Dawg land to the far-flung reaches

Of the earth.

O dreams of a little girl, O dreams of a little girl, O dreams of a little girl

The grizzled sage disappeared in the mantle of ol’ Aeolus, as suddenly

As he had appeared before us.

In his testaments we saw a banner year,

But the year was full of the harrowing songs of broken bones.

Ah, Christal Marie, she went down with a broken bone.

O, Christal Marie, she went down with a broken bone.

But would not go quietly away from the burning fray.

From the deep reaches of a steely strength that will rival that of famed Hercules,

She summoned all her powers and sallied into the fray.

O Christal Marie, her guts are made of steel, O Christal Marie, her guts are made

Of fire, O Christal Marie, her guts are like an unbreakable bow.

O star fire, O star fire, O star fire, O star fire, O star fire, O star fire, O star fire

Up to the round of four we went, but it was not to be a banner year

And the orchestra of the spheres bided its time to play the nine wonders of Beethoven’s

nine symphonies.

O dreams of a little girl, O dreams of a little girl, O dreams of a little girl

The year danced on with the deliberate feet of a wizened lady, the sun swept across

The vast earth in its unwavering course, and the moon sang a concatenation

Of golden songs in the bosom of romantic rivers.

The orchestra of the spheres waited until the year told its unwavering course,

& a mighty cheer swept through Dawg land, the wheels of fortune spun a countless

tales of hard work forged at the foundry of a countless practice games, of lonely moments

spent in lonely gyms, of conferences with Coach J., T., and other coaches, of countless

moves, of countless moments in player-to-player & player conferences.

O star fire, O star fire, O star fire, O star fire, O star fire, O star fire, O star fire

The year rolled on, a steady sweeping tide, as opponents fell by the way

Fell left

Fell right

Fell forward

& the tide rolled on, & continued to roll, roll, roll, roll on, the tide continued to roll.

O dreams of a little girl

The orchestra of the spheres bided its time, the marvelous wonders of Beethoven’s

Nine symphonies tucked away in the folds of a marvelous anticipation.

O star fire

The march began, O forget the bruising tide of a Roman-pincer march, O forget

The bruising tide of a Roman-pincer march, this was a march of marvelous beauty

O this was a march of marvelous beauty, O this was a march of marvelous beauty.

Five opponents at the barricades against the purple march, ah, five opponents

At the barricades against the purple march, the flood came and took all five away.

The flood came and took all five away.

O star fire

At the final barricade stood the towering giants of Nebraska, the talk towers

Hailed them the primal queens of the land. O Godzilla, O Godzilla, O Godzilla

At the final barricade, at the final barricade, at the final barricade

Before the sweeping tide of the purple queens.

We stood like startled trees, our blood sweeping through arterial and venous

pathways like the wild-rushing flood.

O dreams of a little girl

We stood like startled trees all through the sweat-soaked game, adrenaline

Oozed from every pore, adrenaline oozed from every rafter, adrenaline oozed

from the uttermost core.

A game like none other, a game more marvelous than the marvelous tales of Okri

& Marquez,

A game that fastened the feet to tiled earth, and yet the hands carried out a concatenation

Of countless dialogues, arguments, & ah! exclamations!

The barricade had been breached twice, & Godzilla was reeling, reeling, reeling

from the saber thrusts of purple queens and purple moves.

Ah—

Dawg land

dawg land

The Godzilla of Nebraska reeled from the saber thrusts of purple queens & purple

moves.

The climax came like a meteor shower, the last barricade was breached, breached, &

dealt the vanquishing blow.

Quick as a cat, the lithe gazelle conducted the winning point to the unguarded spot

in a sea of cornhusker hands, O in sea of cornhusker hands, O in a sea of cornhusker hands,

O in a sea of cornhusker hands—

& the sweeping flood swept through the last barricade, O the sea sweeping flood

swept through the last barricade, O the sweeping flood swept through the last

barricade.

Tears fell like confetti.

Joy spun through different constellations of cartwheels.

The labor of years, the labor of countless lonely moments, the labor of countless

thud, thud, thud in a lonely gym, of strategy sessions with Coach J., the labor

of innumerable moments

there at the hour of the triumphant cry.

O purple queens

Generations will recall the great purple march,

A little girl will see & follow the trail,

O trail to greatness, O trail to greatness, O trail to greatness.

Generations will recall the great purple march,

A little boy will see & follow the trail,

O trail to greatness, O trail to greatness, O trail to greatness

& Christal Marie, new star of the constellations, star of stars,

O stars of stars, O star of stars, your star fire shall guide the path

Of the adventurer, North Star throwing star fire in the path of the determined questor.

O star fire

O Christal Marie

O star fire.