The Tampa Bay Buccaneers host the Baltimore Ravens Monday night at Raymond James Stadium. So in honor of the great city of Baltimore, and one of it’s greatest residents, here is how the Buccaneers can beat the Ravens in Edgar’s style. Enjoy!
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious lineups and forgotten players
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my offensive line
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my offensive line, Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak October
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor
Eagerly I wished for tonight;—despite my utter fear of slight
From the media should the Buccaneers give Baltimore a fright—something that I would adore
For the rare and radiant team whom the angels name the Tampa Bay Buccaneers
Named here for evermore
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple uniform
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
Tis some player entreating entrance at my offensive line
Some Baltimore player entreating entrance at my offensive line
This it is and nothing more
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer
“Sir,” said I, “ or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore
But the fact is I was sitting in the pocket, and so meekly you came rushing
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my offensive line
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I threw the ball to Chris Godwin;— Green grass there and nothing more
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Vita Vea?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Vita Vea!”— Merely this and nothing more
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my blindside
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore
’Tis the Baltimore secondary and nothing more!”
Open here I flung the football, when, with many a flirt and flutter
In there stepped a stately Derrick Henry of the saintly days of yore
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched in the backfield
Perched in the backfield with Lamar Jackson-Perched, and sat, and nothing more
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no meager team
Ghastly grim and Super Bowl contender wandering from the nightly shore
Tell me what thy key to victory is on the night’s Plutonian shore!
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore tackling of our running backs.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly
Though its answer little meaning—little for Vea returning
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being can stop him
Ever yet was blessed with seeing Derrick Henry stride down the field
Bird or beast upon the field of play behind his offensive line
With such name as “Nevermore tackling.”
But the Raven, sitting lonely in the backfield, did only
That one action, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour
Nothing farther then he did go—not a player that he stiff armed into the ground
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other running backs have flown before”
On the morrow he will leave us, as many running backs have flown before
Then the bird said “Nevermore will you stop the run.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is it’s only obvious trite
Caught from some Baltimore fan whom unmerciful Disaster
Neatly avoided after starting the season 0-2
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”
But Derrick Henry still beguiling all my fancy into smiling
Straight we put Yaya Diaby in front of him, and offensive line and more
Then, upon the Devil tackling, I betook myself to thinking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous back of yore
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous back of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore tackling.”
This Todd Bowles sat engaged in scheming, but no player expressing
To the king whose fiery eyes now burned into their bosom’s core
This and more he sat planning, with his head at ease reclining
On the line’s violent pushing the stadium lights showed
But whose violent pushing with the stadium-light gloating o’er
They shall press forward, ah, nevermore!
Then, he thought, the field grew denser, the press of big bodies along the line
Swung by Vea and company whose foot-falls tinkled on the turfed floor
“Wretch,” they cried, “thy Baltimore hath lent thee—by these players you shall be tackled
Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of 2005
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget the lost SuperBowl chances!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore tackling.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if lord or devil
Whether royalty sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this stadium enchanted
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore
Is there—is there a way to tackle you—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore tackling.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if lord or devil
By that CBA that bends above us—by that cap we both adore
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, Rachaad White can live up to potential
If he can clasp the ball with strength and hit the running lanes like Alstott before
Glimpse rare and radiant good running backs whom the angels named Tucker, Bucky, and White.”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore good backs.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, lord or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting
“Get thee back to Baltimore and M&T Bank Stadium!
Leave no black hair as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my record unbroken!—let us earn a victory at our home!
Take thy arm from our chest, and take thy form from off my field!”
Quoth Baltimore “Onemore loss”
And the team, never flitting, still is standing, still is standing
On the turfed field at Raymond James
And their eyes have all the seeming of a team destined for another run
And the stadium-light o’er Lamar as his streaking throws to Zay Flowers are shadowed on the field
And my team from out that shadow cast by Lamar and Henry
Shall be lifted to victory by a Stout defense and weapons at receiver—forevermore!
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