The Muse's Corner
By the Philosopher of Arena Football, Paul Celmer
Even as the cathode glow from my 10-inch Black and White Zenith was fading from the book-lined walls of my humble abode last Sunday night, I began to contemplate the meaning of Week 13. Week 13. Even the number itself struck me with a fit of triskaidekaphobic fear. 13. 13. The number Loki, the thirteenth guest at the feast-table in Valhalla, where he plotted the death of Balder the Beautiful, the god of joy and gladness, by having Hoder, the blind god of darkness, shoot fair Balder with a poison mistletoe-tipped arrow.
So 13 is not good. The number also makes one keenly aware of eschatological concerns: the ending of the season is coming, the end of our joy, the end of our fantasies.
Of course, there were many other things to think about in Week 13. Bobby Sippio's 6 TDs. Chris Sanders monstrous 8 TD game. Nick Browder's 7 TDs. The expected prances into the endzone of Damian Harrell. The usual delivery of TD after TD by Dolezel. But for all this, I felt that still there was something missing. I still did not have insight into the essence of the Week. In fact, all the superabundance of numbers seemed to cloud my knowing. Yet I kept coming back to the Philadelphia Soul's decision with less than a minute left in the game to go for the 2-pt conversion. Time running out. Time running out. Time?
With these fevered thoughts running in my brain, I knew I needed guidance and solace. I furiously pumped air into the rotting tires of Rocinante, my beloved Ashtabula-steel ten-speed bicycle, and sped off into the glorious spring night. Of course, I was headed for the lair of fair Fortuna, the seldom seen muse of the Raleigh Train station. Since it was nearly 3:00 AM, traffic was light, and I made my way nearly unimpeded to my destination. A short hour later, I arrived.
Even as I dismounted Rocinante I heard the faint melody streaming through the cracked cement sidewalk above the underground catacombs that were home to Fortuna. I entered the Station and descended thirteen flights of stairs and soon found myself standing before the Muse, who sang thus:
On a team spiraling down
The white ceramic ending place,
The season already going dark--
All hands flailing helplessly,
As the Clock face
Relentlessly
Coughs blood-drenched seconds
Into the unrecoverable Ether?
One true act
In the Noh play of heroism yet remains:
Unheralded.
Peter Martinez knows
Nothing has more beauty
Than booting a 36-yarder
Even as the final tick strikes.
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