by F. Scott Fitzgerald

Now they’re ready, now they’re waiting,
Now he’s going to place the ball.
There, you hear the referee’s whistle,
As of old the baton’s fall.
See him crouching. Yes, he’s got it;
Now he’s off around the end.
Will the interference save him?
Will the charging line now bend?
Good he’free; no, see that halfback
Gaining up behind him slow.
Crash! they’re down; he threw him nicely,—
Classy tackle, hard and low.
Watch that line, now crouching waiting,
In their jerseys white and black;
Now they’re off and charging, making
Passage for the plunging back.
Buck your fiercest, run your fastest,
Let the straight arm do the rest.
Oh, they got him; never mind, though,
He could only do his best.
What is this? A new formation.
Look! their end acts like an ass.
See, he’s beckoning for assistance,
Maybe it’s a forward pass.
Yes, the ball is shot to fullback,
He, as calmly as you please,
Gets it, throws it to the end; he
Pulls the pigskin down with ease.
Now they’ve got him. No, they haven’t.
See him straight-arm all those fools.
Look, he’s clear. Oh, gee! don't stumble.
Faster, faster, for the school.
There’s the goal, now right before you,
Ten yards, five yards, bless your name!
Oh! you Newman, 1911,
You know how to play the game.

Published in Newman News magazine (Christmas 1911?).

Not illustrated.