Photo by Donna Tinneny Persico

Last season we gave, as a gift to our fans,

an homage in nine verses to their own task at hand:

To their fandom, their love, their undying loyalty,

to their loads of Blue laundry, as blue as can be.

(The 2017 edition)

We gave them our thanks because we share the same

bit of hopeless and thankless “Groundhog Day” mind-frame:

one season begins where the other left off

and not one single things changes between kickoffs.

For the folks who find water half full in a glass,

the off-season’s begun (finally) with a splash.

A trade to bring someone who might score a goal,

a trade of a favorite who’s young, but too old,

the dumping of contracts too rich for their worth,

the combing of beaches where gold bits might lurk.

For people who’s eggs are always sunny sided,

this winter has shown their love might be requited.

For those where the team’s reputation preceded,

it seems their suggestions have gone yet unheeded.

A trade of a promising talent before

he could grow into national stardom and lore,

A contract in favor of old and of slow,

of one-footed and streaky and hurt and who knows?

Perhaps these are fans of the local big four,

where sweetness can turn ever-quickly to sour?

…perhaps they’re just realists and not quite so dour?

Irrespective of whether there’s hope or there’s not

each of us is still stuck with the rest of the lot,

stuck in Chester, in presence or maybe in spirit,

stuck with blue and with gold, stuck to just grin and bear it.

Stuck with finding out whether THIS might be the year,

stuck with back tags as winter’s main source of good cheer,

stuck with singing along to the same Union songs

we’ve been singing for rounding on ten seasons long,

Stuck with Ale, with Haris, with Austin and Ray,

stuck with Fafa and Ilson, with Jonesy and ‘dre,

Stuck with Santos and Warren, with Jack and with Mark,

and when listed like reindeer, though maybe not stark,

…the future does not seem to be quite as dark.

But in Tanner we’re trusting, Albright by his side,

to rebuild this poor sleigh just in time for its ride,

to make such a loud clatter the Union might earn

a home game in the playoffs, it’s really our turn.

Perhaps even silverware, though not an urn

(we did coffins before and it’s too deep a burn).

For today, knowing little will happen this hour,

let us thank you again: you give this group our power.

You give writers our voice, make our platform profound,

so we thank you from each of our seats the world ’round.

In holiday spirit, with eggnog in hand,

here’s to next year, as always, and to all of us fans.