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That 29-29 Game

(with all due deference to Poe’s The Raven)

Ah distinctly I recall, 
50 years ago this fall,
just when we thought we’d won it all,
in the Game that turned to lore.

All the years have not erased, 
not removed, not effaced
the memories of what took place:
that outcome and that score!

Yale was winning, charging, leading,
Crimson was retreating, bleeding.
The Yale side cheers were overheating, 
building to a deafening roar.

It seemed it soon would all be over,
with Yale triumphant, in the clover,
raising toasts to old Dink Stover,
and to glories gone before.

But as the clock was ticking down,
our smiles began to turn to frowns.
The Game was turning upside down,
comeuppance seemed in store.

Brian Dowling, Calvin Hill, 
our cavalry, our Bunker Hill,
they can save us, they still will,
so we wished and more.

What’s causing Harvard’s recovery? 
Some lucky moves, some trickery? 
Maybe it was Tommy Lee?
Or could it be Al Gore?

Then came that moment logic defied:
the improbable happened—the game got tied!
Our hard-fought lead, it withered, then died.
No winning cushion any more.

“Harvard Beats Yale 29-29.” 
Crimson crowed in its headlines.
Our spirits bruised, but still aligned
“We’re Elis to the end,” we swore.

50 years out and that Game is remembered,
still is remembered, each and every November.
“Never a tie again,” we swore.
“Aye,” quoth New Haven: “Nevermore!”

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