The first, 2017

The second, 2018

In the bleak of midwinter, snow swirling about,

I’ll sometimes go hours without thinking ’bout

our local collection of pro soccer players,

of owners, of coaches, of green grass pitch-layers.

I’ll sometimes forget how immersed we all are,

between March and October and sometimes quite more,

in the fates of a small bouncing ball down in Chester

and how every bounce is its own litmus tester.

In years past, this passion has seemed unrequited,

the list of old transgressions pock-marked and blighted.

But last year the sun, in fact, did rise up over

the Barry and SOB end like a clover.

As luck might just have it, the team were quite good,

with a postseason win upon which the Boys could

hang their proverbial hats and their white anthem jackets:

In two thousand nineteen the Blue boys could Hack it!

But alas, down in Blueville, some Blues still weren’t pleased,

the strides that made were not Cup-level deeds.

They sang their old songs, but with only half hearts

and they left disappointed, stuck with just fits and starts.

Because Marco flamed out and then Cory went missing,

David went west and then Auston went dissing.

Those things are all true, and I am not dismissing

how quite close to “That’s so Union” they were kissing.

But Kacper became a hot dog eating legend,

while Kai rumble up and then down the left edge and

Miro became the next version of Nogs (perhaps

leaving as quickly as passing lanes clogged…).

Haris was deft and delicious in passing

and Ale was more of a leader, amassing

statistics beyond what the metrics could measure,

while Fafa’s last ride in Blue stripes was a pleasure.

Ray wasn’t leaving his post on the right

and Elliott gave every minute of fight.

Mark earned his starting spot in the eleven

and Dre had a down year (but with room to leaven).

…all told, this past season came darn close to heaven…

A new cast of characters, new group of faces,

will all join the side and be put through their paces.

We don’t know their names yet or where they are from

but they’ll put on our shirt in the good year to come.

So, if nineteen hints slightly at twenty’s good crop,

then the spring ought to bring to us real joy… full stop.

In holiday spirit, with eggnog in hand,

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