The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead...
they said the off-side could be his, if money could buy it; many reckoned it was already his,... they deified him... when he danced down the pitch to hoist the ball out of the park, and with it the opposition's hopes ... as fate would have had it, he was shown the door...
what was his crime? was it that he chose not to succumb to the demon of double standards and speak his mind out.. or was his fine balance between on-field aggro and off-field genteelness at fault? did he err on his effort in infusing that requisite dose of self-respect, honor into the boys, something the doctor had ordered for? whatever, we seem to have meted out to him a treatment no self-respecting athlete would dream of...
quoting Lord's'96, Dhaka'98, Taunton'99, Lord's'02 would do no justice when quantifying this majestic Prince...
Walt Whitman... thank you...
...My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead...
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