The outlook wasn’t brilliant for Rinos Vancouver Sunday;
Though the score stood two to one, with only minutes to play,
For Hanson had seen red first, then Caulfield did the same,
And when Gray went off a silence fell upon the game.
Ben, JA, Ford and Max, overcame their deep despair – they, like the rest
(Steph, Wong and Shaan) knew the boy’s’d meet the test;
They thought if only Rinos’ defence for minutes more was able,
They’d soar to that rarified spot at the top o’ the table.
For a different half preceded the second, and ‘twas a piece of cake,
A PK in minute two, Rinos game to take;
So upon that stricken sideline grim melancholy sat,
As memories floated backward, to the first half that…
Saw Flynn dance down the sidelines, to the wonderment of all,
And Lenny, the man-of-the-match, protecting every ball;
And when the initial dust had lifted, and the Army saw what’d occurred,
There was Carrick on the second and Cyrus almost a third.
And from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon the Vanouver’s mountain all the way to East Lansing,
For Rinos, mighty Rinos, were inexorably advancing.
There was ease in Brent’s manner as he dominated his place;
There was pride in Bohdal’s bearing and a smile on Wadey’s face.
But when, responding to the Army jeers, they had a little laugh,
Not a person in the crowd could’ve foreseen the second half.
Confusion, too many fouls, and then a doubtful penalty call,
Ten thousand eyes upon the spot, as he tried to place the ball.
Then while the writhing striker saw it roll into the dip,
Defiance gleamed in Jeff’s eye, a sneer curled o’er Jeff’s lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Jeff stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy goalie the ball unheeded sped –
“Not this time” said Jeff, diving. “Corner kick,” the ref said.
From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
“He’s done it! He’s done it!” shouted Rob from the stand;
And indeed the Army’d been thwarted, with a flick of Thom’s gloved hand.
But with a smile of Christian charity the referee’s bald head and visage shone;
In a matter of minutes; he bade three Rinos be gone;
Yes, they lost composure, and a glorious cross from Laurie Dylan blew;
But as a fog spread across the field, they wondered what to do.
“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud;
But then on the field it happened, and the audience was awed.
They saw Rinos faces grow stern and cold, they saw their muscles strain,
And they knew that something special was in those shattered remains.
The sneer was now on Marshy’s lip, Charlie’s teeth were clenched in hate;
Bligh pounds with cruel violence as he marshals the remaining eight.
And again the white team tries to attack, but no matter whence,
For now the air is shattered by the force of Rinos’ defence.
Oh, when the whistle at last blew, the lights were shining bright;
The band is playing here now, players’ and coaches’ hearts are light,
And somewhere Kenny is laughing, for despite the carded cost,
Rinos go to the top— and Bingers have finally lost.