The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Buckeye crew that day:
The score stood 28-21, with but one quarter more to play.
And then when Mendenhall made the first, and Dufrene did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.
A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to the hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, if only Boeckman could get back on the field –
We’d put up even money, now, with Boeckman at the wheel.
But the D preceeded Boeckman, as did another punt,
The first was getting pounded and the latter was a cunt.
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Boeckman getting to pass.
But the O got a penalty, to the wonderment of all,
And Mendenhall, the much despise-ed, got stopped for only 4 with the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,
There was Santella coming out with the rest of the Illini turds.
Then from 100,000 throats and more there rose a lusty WOO;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in The Shoe;
It knocked upon the Olentangy and recoiled upon the stands,
For Boeckman, mighty Boeckman, was getting his big chance.
There was ease in Boeckman’s manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Boeckman’s bearing and a smile on Boeckman’s face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly tipped his head,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt ‘twas Boeckman on the field.
Two hundred thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with crotch;
A hundred thousand tongues applauded when he hiked and did not botch.
Then while the writhing defense adjusted and read his hips,
Defiance gleamed in Boeckman’s eye, and sneer curled Boeckman’s lip.
And now the pigskin-covered ball came swiftly through the balls,
And Boeckman took it in his hands and gave it immediately to Wells.
Close by the massive tackle Wells unheeded sped-
“Second and eight,” said Boeckman. “They got nothing,” the defense said.
From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of a penis on an unfortunate coked up whore.
“Kill him! Kill Lloyd Carr!” shouted a half-naked drunken dame;
And it’s likely they’d a killed him if he was even at the game.
With a smile of Christian charity great Boeckman’s visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the offense, and once more the pigskin flew;
When he ran for 16 yards, it was deafening at The Shoe.
“GO BUCKS!” cried the ecstatic thousands, and echo answered Bucks;
But one confident look from Boeckman and the audience was no longer fucked.
The saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And the knew that mighty Boeckman wouldn’t let them lose this game.
The sneer is gone from Boeckman’s lip, his teeth are clinched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his hand on the center’s taint.
And now Boeckman pulls it back, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is pierced by the force of Boeckman’s throw.
Oh, somewhere in this Buckeye land the sun is shining bright;
TBDBITL is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere the D&D crew is drinking, and somewhere Poon is beating off;
But there is no joy in Columbus – mighty Boeckman has been picked off.