The Walton

With Halloween and the beginning of the NBA season a little more than a week away, I thought I would celebrate both by taking one of the most beloved, classic, beautifully haunting poems ever written … and turn it into a poem about the Portland Trail Blazers. You’re welcome. May it not forever haunt your Trail Blazer dreams.

The Walton

(The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe)

Once upon an off-season’s dreary, while I pondered with too many libations

Over many a quaint and curious volume of recently departed free agents

While I nodded, nearly napping watching the baseball playoffs, suddenly there came the sound of something bouncing,

As of someone loudly dribbling, dribbling near my duplex door.

“’Tis some kids,” I muttered, “ballin’ near my duplex door

Only this and nothing more.”

–

Oh, how distinctly I remembered it all; it was in the bleak April;

And each separate Grizzled loss wrought its ghost upon the hardwood floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

From my Blazers scrapbook surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Larry O’Brien

For the rare and radiant trophy whom the league named The Larry O’Brien

Elusive here for evermore.

–

And the unknown, anticipated, uncertain unfolding of the coming new season

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors felt ever since 1977;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

“’Tis some ballers dribbling near the entrance at my duplex door

Some late night hoopsters getting too close to the entrance at my duplex door;

This it is and nothing more.”

–

Presently my annoyance grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping, watching the NLCS, and so loudly you came dribbling,

And so faintly your High Tops came squeaking, squeaking at my duplex door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;

Darkness there and nothing more, except my motion censored spider dangling in front of my door.

–

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no Blazers fan born after ‘77 ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, like the time Greg Oden again went broken,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Larry O’Brien?”

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Larry O’Brien!”

Merely this and nothing more.

–

Back into the living room turning, all my fandom within me burning,

Soon again I heard a dribbling, followed by the sound of a net swishing,

“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window frame;

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;

’Tis the beers and my imagination and nothing more!”

–

Open here I slid open the window, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there tried to step a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore; but I had a screen mesh blocking his way and down he went with a sputter and then was no more; but then it did appear, translucent and golden, The Larry O’Brien Trophy, the top ball replaced with the head of 70’s era Bill Walton and staring at me like none before;

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stuttered did he;

But, with mien of an NBA champion, hovering above my fireplace mantle

Floating beside a poster of Clyde Drexler above my fireplace mantle

Floated, and stared, and nothing more.

–

Then this golden trophy with Walton’s head beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the stern and hippy decorum of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy team be crestfallen,” I said, “art sure looks to be a trophy,

Shiny, golden and ancient wandering from the Golden State shore

Tell me when thy lordly trophy will be on the Blazers hardwood floor!”

Quoth the Walton “Nevermore.”

–

Much I marvelled this ungainly red-head to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning—much relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living Blazers fan

Ever yet was blessed with seeing a floating Walton head above his mantle

The big, redheaded head beside my Drexler poster,

With such a terrible, terrible call as “Nevermore.”

–

But the Walton head, floating lonely by the mantle, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing farther then he uttered—not a hair then he fluttered

Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have won championships since

On the morrow you will leave us, will my hopes ever be answered once more?”

Then the Walton said “Nevermore.”

–

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only pride and fear

Caught from some unhappy ability to share the spotlight whom unmerciful attention

Followed fast to another till his gaffes one burden bore

Till the dirges of his hope that he would be the Blazer’s only hero, that melancholy burden bore

Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

–

But the Walton-headed Trophy still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I pushed a beanbag seat in front of the Walton faced trophy,

Then, upon the leather sinking, I betook myself to drinking

beer unto beer, thinking what this ominous head of yore

What this smiling, red bearded, headband wearing, severed Walton head of yore

Meant in grumbling “Nevermore.”

–

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing coherently

To the head whose fiery eyes now burned into my Blazers core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining for another sip of Rainier

On the cushion’s leather lining that the my custom pinwheel lamp gloated o’er,

But whose leather lining with the custom pinwheel lamp-light gloating o’er,

The O’Brien Trophy shall press, ah, nevermore!

–

Then, methinks, my thoughts grew lighter, visions of winning shots, done in the clutch

 by Dame Lillard.

“Savior,” I cried, “thy Olshey hath lent us—by these management’s brains he hath sent thee

Respite—respite from thy memories of lost trophies;

Put away, oh put away and forget these lost O’Brien’s of ’90 and ’92!”

Quoth the Walton “Nevermore.”

–

“Deadhead!” said I, “thing of broadcasting evil!—if Walton or devil!

Whatever curse has sent you, or whether tempest tossed your ass my way,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this new rebuilding team enchanted

On this home by Memorial Coliseum haunted—tell me truly, I implore

Is there—is there a trophy for us?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

Quoth the Walton “Nevermore.”

–

“Bearded Devil!” said I, “thing of the past!—prophet still, if Walton’s 70’s head or devil! –

By that red and black that binds us—by that trophy we all adore

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant seasons,

It shall clasp a golden trophy whom the league name Larry O’Brien

Clasp a rare and radiant trophy whom the league name Larry O’Brien.”

Quoth the Walton “Nevermore.”

–

“Be that word our sign of parting, floating Walton head!” I shrieked, upstarting

“Get thee back into the 70’s or thy broadcaster’s booth!

Leave no purple and gold plume as a token of that lie thy severed head hath spoken!

Leave my hopefulness unbroken!—leave the poster above my mantle!

Take thy injuries from out my heart, and take thy head out my door!”

Quoth the Walton “Nevermore.”

–

And the Larry O’Brien Trophy with Walton’s head, never flitting, still is hovering, still is hovering by the Drexler poster just above my fireplace mantle;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a stoner that is dreaming,

And the custom pinwheel lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my Trail Blazer soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted—nevermore!