FanPost

An Ode To Tony Romo


It is these quiet moments in early January

That define him: Away from the stadium

Lights and the roar of the crowd,

Steering the cart with one hand

While sipping appletini from a flask –

Not enough to get drunk

But enough to blur the hash marks

In his memory. He navigates

The fourth fairway with the precision

Of a surgeon and the audacity

Of a poet who mixes metaphors.

Three feet from the hole on 8,

He declares a gimme for par.

But he keeps losing his balls

On the back nine. Completing his round

In 90 athletic strokes, he swaggers

To the clubhouse for Perrier and quiche.

Teammates and blonde sluts

Have invited him to their foursomes,

But he plays better when nobody

Is watching: a wintry chill

In the air, a dollop of gel in his hair,

And no witnesses when he drives

From the ladies’ tees.

Such is greatness.

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