In the spirit of the winter olympics, it seemed timely to post this.
The following was written by my mother as an entry into the 2002 Julia A. Moore Poetry Parody contest, which was held by the Flint, MI public library.
Hammy at the Hack
by Elizabeth Brooks
(with apologies to Ernest Lawrence Thayer, and everyone else)
In the pubs they talk of Martin and her team that took the gold
‘The women stole our thunder,’ in their pints men sob, as auld.
Recent days in Salt Lake City showed us all the best of sport
But what passes for a sport these days, in my eyes, does fall short.
‘Less you think that I take pleasure as I tell this tale in verse
Know that records show, for all to see, the U.S. men did worse.
And before you think priorities in my life don’t mean jack,
There are things I know quite worse in life than Hammy at the hack.
The hopes were high in Britain as the games got underway,
For the people were a countin’ on the men who came to play.
They thought gold was in their future and that Hammy’d bring the loot,
With five European medals to his credit and a world title to boot.
He must keep up a tradition that surpassed four hundred years.
He must lead his rink to victory, extinguish all their fears.
But the gods had other names in mind; ’twas better if they’d turned back
Than to face their final destiny with Hammy at the hack.
McMillan’d done his homework-Hammy never would postpone,
He’d gone all the way to Scotland to select each granite stone,
And he’d watched the diamonds polish them until they made the grade.
Then he lugged them back to London, all 336 pounds of weight.
Some say fools forget to have a life, their stones upon the ice.
But Hammy had a focus, and his eyes were on the prize.
He would practice with them night and day, he never would look back,
But they’d have fared much better without Hammy at the hack.
Throughout the bloody Bonspeil, the first and second tried.
The third thought he could do it but his was off the broom and wide.
The skip was just not up to snuff; he fought back bitter tears.
The hogged rock-a memory, the shot rock was not theirs.
The tee line looked so empty; the button taunted him.
Not one single stone was in the house, no biters on the rim.
The back ring was abandoned, his facade began to crack.
They would never place a counter now with Hammy at the hack.
With every match the losses grew, something must be done
To try to change the score to say less games lost and more won.
They remembered standing in the wings a man named Smith did wait
So they called the name of Warwick to which Smith replied, “First rate!”
And by the time game four arrived Team McMillan was no more.
The group that now became Team Smith sent Hammy to the door.
And all agreed despite his past there was something he did lack.
And so the group decided no more Hammy at the hack.
Some say the ice was heavy, others called it keen,
Swingy ice may have been but one cause, Smith couldn’t save the team.
If half these words are Greek to you and this game makes no sense
Take comfort; you are not alone; don’t ask for recompense.
I knew none of this was happening, cared less, were you the same?
But I did extensive research so’s to learn about the game
Just to write this poem, for Curling’s never made my interest soar.
And to tell you all the honest truth, it brings on quite a snore.