Save for the habit he had of making public addresses,
Tedious, long-winded and dull, and full of minute explanations,
How they used to play in the days when Cadmus was half-back,
Or how Hermes could dodge, and Ares and Phoebus could tackle;
Couched in rhythmical language but not one whit to the purpose.
On his white hair they carefully placed the sacred tiara,
Worn by the foot-ball umpires of old as a badge of their office,
Also to save their heads, in case the players should slug them.
Then they gave him a spear wherewith to enforce his decisions,
And to stick in the ground to mark the place to line up to.
He advanced to the thirty-yard line and began an oration:

"Listen, Trojans and Greeks! For thirty-five seasons,
I played foot-ball in Greece with Peleus for half-back and captain.
Those were the days of old when men played the game as they'd orter.
Once, I remember, Æacus, the god-like son of Poseidon,
Kicked the ball from a drop, clean over the city of Argos.
That was the game when Peleus, our captain, lost all his front teeth;
Little we cared for teeth or eyes when once we were warmed up.
Why, I remember that Æacus ran so that no one could see him,
There was just a long hole in the air and a man at the end on't.
Hercules umpired that game, and I noticed there wasn't much back-talk."

Him interrupting, sternly addressed the King Agamemnon:
"Cease, old man; come off your antediluvian boasting;
Doubtless our grandpas could all play the game as well as they knew
how.
They are all dead, and have long lined up in the fields of elysium;
If they were here we would wipe up the ground with the rusty old
duffers.