By Fred Lief
Don’t look at the clock, we know that it’s late,
And sometimes it’s hard to keep it all straight.
A game back in May? A blown double steal?
A lawsuit in August now on appeal?
Here in the fading days this December
Clemens well knows we can “misremember.”
We’ll start at the top, the least we can do:
It’s your night Les Miles, and yours LSU.
Nearly New England’s, nearly perfection,
Undone by a Giant insurrection.
Yes, Eli’s coming and what did we see?
The outstretched arms of one David Tyree.
On Capitol Hill, an unseemly sight:
Clemens and McNamee throw high and tight.
Surrounded by lawyers both work the room,
Arguing who has done what and to whom.
While gasoline prices soared at the pump
Congress grilled Roger on shots to his rump.
Soon opening day, but who could exalt?
The talk is of drugs and Bonds in default.
Come April, it’s Kansas, good as it gets:
Over the rainbow and cutting the nets.
Big hopes in May of a rare Triple Crown,
Mint juleps and bourbon mixed with Big Brown.
But this proved a day of sober farewells —
There on the track lay the filly Eight Belles.
Red Wings and Celtics: a time to anoint.
Marion Jones: doing time in the joint.
Tiger is dazzling, on fairway and tee,
Closing the Open on one wounded knee.
Federer’s back on his Wimbledon lawn,
But there stands Nadal, all muscle and brawn.
The hot summer nights find love in the air:
A-Rod, Madonna, the darlingest pair.
They whisper sweet words, study kaballah
(Yet no sign of him slicing a challah).
Then out from the mist of the Irish Sea
Comes an aging Shark, but it’s not to be.
Harrington’s win gives him two claret jugs.
Tour de France riders — we’re shocked! — turn to drugs.
Across the Pacific, it’s Beijing’s show,
A clatter of drums in the Bird’s Nest glow.
Phelps spins his magic, a sight to behold:
A man who turns water into pure gold.
On land, in the swelter of August heat,
Bolt runs to the pulse of a reggae beat
While Chinese gymnasts go prancing on beams,
Baby-teeth dolls with their lullaby dreams.
These games, Rogge boasts, we must not forget.
(Just don’t raise a banner praising Tibet.)
In the shadow of bailouts, banks and bills,
October belongs to the Rays and Phils.
Favre as a Jet still seems slightly bizarre,
Not Jimmie Johnson, the nation’s car czar.
Burress goes clubbing, like any old jock,
With his wallet, keys and a loaded Glock.
Paterno limps and a season closes;
Still all is good, Joe’s coming up roses,
As are Bode Miller and Lindsey Vonn,
And before we know it, it’s all gone, gone.
So we’ll call a timeout for auld lang syne,
Then get back in the game: 2009.