The Primrose Everdeens

As autumn starts, I get the call
To join up for fantasy football.
I’ve never played, but I’ll try this,
Since my sis-in-law insists.

For far and wide, her family had
To gather here for her sick dad.
A group they form, to crush fatigue:
The Pigskin and Pozole League.

(To clear the mystery up for all:
“Pigskin”‘s named after the ball.
“Pozole” is a stew, I’m told,
That’s popular in Mexico.)

I go online; I start a team.
I name them: Primrose Everdeens.
(The name suggested by my wife
As Hunger Games is now her life.

Though really, she chose Mockingjays.
That’s far too on the nose, I say.
Thus vocally did I insist
That it be named for Katniss’s sis.)

The auto program drafts my roster.
Disappointedly, no Adrian Foster.
But Eli Manning? Solid pick.
This group of men should do the trick.

At wide receiver, Roddy White
and Marques Colston sound alright.
McCoy at back, my one godsend,
While Tony Gonzalez fills tight end.

Payton Manning’s backup now,
I fear he’s all washed up somehow.
A fine ol’ group, I’m set to play
The other teams on opening day.

There’s Irish Gringo and Mexi Cans.
The Papichulos play to win.
Team Ballzdeep and Mama Bear,
And Regal Seagulls all play there.

The league is an excuse to draw.
I make a logo for my sis in law.
But, oh the horror, oh the same,
When the Everdeens lose the very first game.

I panic hard, I lose my mind,
I need some help from pros online.
“Pick Alfred Morris from the ‘Skins
He will be this year’s secret weapon.”

Still I limp to sixth week, 3-3,
This looks like it’s the end for me.
So what does it matter if I won?
At least I played and had some fun.

But then… it turns out Peyton’s fine?
And Falcons now begin to shine?
I make the change, and suddenly
I can beat the team with RGIII.

Papichulos? You afraidy?
Who cares if you’re team’s got Tom Brady.
Got Doug Martin, Mama Bear?
The Everdeens are on a tear.

Titans of the gridiron fight
By the glow of cellphone’s light.
The numbers tally, so it seems
That things will go well for my team.

Bareknuckled thrills all based on stats.
The mighty points, the fearsome math.
To win this game, to raise the score,
It’s luck that’s key to win this war.

I rally now with brutal force
On the back of Alfred Morris.
The cannot beat the Everdeens.
It’s 7-6 by Week Thirteen.

I make the playoffs at fourth seed,
A healthy dose of luck I need.
For first team is the Mexi Cans
The first draft pick is their top man.

The Foster/Morris battle rages
On the screens of sports web pages.
At the end, the headlines scream:
15 points for Everdeens.

At the end, the stage is set
For the clash I’ll not forget.
It’s Irish Gringo at one end,
A hearty challenge for my men.

At QB, what do I see?
The powerhouse that is Drew Brees.
And Petersen, along with Gore,
Form a potent running core.

Those players really do the trick
As Gringos run the score up quick.
On Sunday, I’m down 38;
A lead, I fear, that’s far too great.

Petersen’s his break out star
As he runs for 199 yards.
A wild performance on the run,
It nets the Gringos +31.

There is just one hope in sight;
That Redskins blow up Monday Night.
For I have Morris and Garcon,
Two last hopes to pin upon.

Well, at least I had fun here
Still sad I had a victory near.
But looking back, it was no waste;
My sis-in-law? She came 5th place.

But… why does the stadium now resound?
Morris scores his first touchdown.
Minutes later, touchdown two.
And on the screen, my eyes are glued.

The day’s record needs to break,
And Morris stands at +28.
And though I pray, and though I hope,
A scoring chance is quite remote.

Then suddenly, the angels sing,
The winter melts, the church bells ring.
For in a moment, bright and airy,
Morris smokes the secondary.

And as he breaks past pylon posts
I do a dance, I cheer, I boast.
The final score sends me to heaven:
222 to 217.

For now I live the sports geek’s dream;
A vict’ry for the Everdeens!
And with the win, a dawning shock,
I beat the game designed for jocks.


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