The Fall hurts, but it means we've been to the top. The Tale of Mediocrates

I'll take a fall like '24 for a magic '23
100 times out of 100




The misery of 2020 was worth every unforgettable moment of 2019.






If you don't want to feel the pain of The Fall, there's plenty of teams that will afford you that. Of Almost greatness. Of pretty good. Doing your best.

Much like the ancient fans of Mediocrates, the Perennial.

Me, I'd rather be a Tiger Fan.


For those who would rather listen
Almost

His name was Mediocrates,
His flesh is long since rotten,
You'll find him in no history book,
His name and bones forgotten,

By all but me, but then, you see,
Back then they would remember,
For Mediocrates,
Was a perennial contender,

In every game you'd hear his name,
Among the final field,
But vanquished every single time,
When champions stood, he'd kneel,

Some victors' names, they'd stake their claims,
Then be gone, like a ghost,
Mediocrates was ALWAYS there,
With those that won...almost,

His fans? they'd always clap their hands,
Be there and feel the thrill,
But for that shout of Victory,
In their throats, always stilled,

To run the race, fall on your face,
A hundred times kiss ground,
Is less than to have run but once,
If ONCE, you wore the crown,

For once you've gained the mountaintop,
The only way is,
Down

For a while you may linger,
On the ledge with clutching fingers,
And mundane or most spectacular,
your fall,

But Mediocrates, his fans,
Mere footnotes, measly also-rans,
They never got to feel that plunge,
At all,

Champs may fall from top to bottom,
But the rings, oh they've still got 'em,
That sweet fleeting moment,
None can take away,

And though losses, now, we've counted,
That mount HAS BEEN surmounted,
Wounds will heal and we'll,
Be BACK up there someday,

which is more than Mediocrates can say,

Lord Tennyson once said, (I've read),
Though not of games of ball,
"Tis better to have loved, and lost,
Than never loved at all."

So I take heart, a Tiger fan,
A Tiger fan am I,
And In my recent memory,
We held that trophy high,

Not some distant, dusty banner,
Half forgotten in a hall,
Or Mediocrates's trophy,
Which was never won at all,


This year may not be ours, true,
Might be beaten blue and black,
But at least we've got the chops,
To tell the mountaintop,
"We're Back."