The Wit and Humor of America, Volume IV | Page 5

son of Poseidon, Kicked the ball from a drop, clean over the city of Argos. That was the game when Peleus, our captain, lost all his front teeth; Little we cared for teeth or eyes when once we were warmed up. Why, I remember that ?acus ran so that no one could see him, There was just a long hole in the air and a man at the end on't. Hercules umpired that game, and I noticed there wasn't much back-talk."
Him interrupting, sternly addressed the King Agamemnon: "Cease, old man; come off your antediluvian boasting; Doubtless our grandpas could all play the game as well as they knew how. They are all dead, and have long lined up in the fields of elysium; If they were here we would wipe up the ground with the rusty old duffers. You call the game, and keep your eye fixed on the helmeted Hector. He'll play off-side all the while, if he thinks the umpire don't see him!" Then the old man threw the lots, but sore was his heart in his bosom. "Troy has the kick-off," he said, "the ball is yours, noble Hector." Then he gave him the ball, a prolate spheroid of leather, Much like the world in its shape, if the world were lengthened, not flattened, Covered with well-sewed leather, the well-seasoned hide of a bison, Killed by Lakon, the hunter, ere bisons were exterminated. On it was painted a battle, a market, a piece of the ocean, Horses and cows and nymphs and things too many to mention.
Then the heroes peeled off their sweaters and put on their nose-guards, Also the fiendish expressions the great occasion demanded. Ajax stood on the right; in the center the great Agamemnon; Diomed crouched on the left, the god-like rusher and tackler, Crouched as a panther crouches, if sculptors do justice to panthers. Crafty Ulysses played back, for none of the Trojans could pass him, All the best Greeks were in line, but Podas Okus Achilleus, Who though an excellent kicker stayed all day in his section.
Hector dribbled the ball, then seized it and putting his head down, And, as a lion carries a lamb and jumps over fences-- Dodging this way and that the shepherds who wish to remonstrate-- So did the son of Priam carry the ball through the rush line, Till he was tackled fair by the full-back, the crafty Ulysses. Even then he carried the ball and the son of Laertes Full five yards till they fell to the ground with a deep indentation Where one might hide three men so that no man could see them-- Men of the present day, degenerate sons of the heroes--
Now, when Pallas Athene discovered the Greeks would be beaten, She slid down from the steep of Olympus upon a toboggan. Sudden she came before crafty Ulysses in guise like a maiden; Not that she thought to fool him, but since Olympian fashion Made the form of a woman good form for a goddess' assumption. She then spoke to him quickly, and said, "O son of Laertes, Seize thou the ball; I will pass it to thee and trip up the Trojan." Her replying, slowly re-worded the son of Laertes-- "That will I do, O goddess divine, for he can outrun me." Then when the ball was in play, she cast thick darkness around it. Also around Ulysses she poured invisible darkness. Under this cover, taking the ball he passed down the middle, Silent and swift, unseen, unnoticed, unblocked, and untackled. Meanwhile she piled the Greeks and the Trojans in conglomeration, Much like a tangle of pine-trees where lightning has frequently fallen, Or like a basket of lobsters and crabs which the provident housewife Dumps on the kitchen floor and vainly endeavors to count them, So seemed the legs and the arms and the heads of the twenty-one players. Sudden a shout arose, for under the crossbar, Ulysses, Visible, sat on the ball, quietly making a touch-down; On the tip of his nose were his thumb and fingers extended, Curved and vibrating slow in the sign of the blameless Egyptians. Violent language came to the lips of the helmeted Hector, Under his breath he murmured a few familiar quotations, Scraps of Phrygian folk-lore about the kingdom of Hades; Then he called loud as a trumpet, "I claim foul, Mr. Umpire!" "Touch-down for Greece," said Hector; "'twixt you and me and the goal-post I lost sight of the ball in a very singular manner."
Then they carried the sphere back to the twenty-five yard line, Prone on the ground lay a Greek, the leather was poised in his fingers-- Thrice Agamemnon adjusted the sphere with deliberation; Then he drew back as a ram draws back for deadly encounter. Then he tripped lightly ahead, and