Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak September;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the turf.
Eagerly I wished the Cricket to start; vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of Essington — Essington for the lost Langford
For the rare and radiant Nat Fyfe type whom the angels name Langford
Nameless here for evermore.
And the shrill, sad, uncertain blowing of each Nicholls whistle
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the intake of my valium, I stood repeating
“’Tis some depth player entreating entrance at the selection table door
Some late change entreating entrance at the selection table door;
This it is and nothing more.”
Presently my panic dollars exchange rate grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Midfielder,” said I, “or Half-Back Flanker, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was tweaking the game plan, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you played in the VFL, tapping at my selection table door,
That I scarce was sure you were still on the list” — here I opened wide the door; —
Essington there and nothing more.
Deep into that Essington peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no head coach 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, “Langford?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Langford” —
Merely this and nothing more.