Not since the potato famine laid waste to my kith and kin have I espied the devastation similar to that seen on the greensward when my San Francisco Footballing Fourty-niners do battle in contests of footballing.

Perchance it was an affliction of the vainglory, but my prior-season cogitations were of a more auspicious nature than what has come to pass. Few times have my haymakers met their target square. I fear now we even lack the wherewithal to best the Seafaring-hawks in six days’ time.

Yesterday’s debacle against the New Amsterdam Giants served notice that the Fourty-niners are the same squadron of failabouts with or without the contributions of J.T. O’Sullivan. This epiphany gave way to much vexing. On four occasions did I commit fumblications and on two others had aerial exchanges countercepted by opposing footballers. The great quarteredbacking menace Justin Tuck reminds me of the terrors of darkest Africa.

The dolors cannot own us. We are in but Round 8 of a 16 Round scrape. I’ve yet to even festoon the barbed-wire on this bare knuckles. You will see how easy it is then to block the haymakers!

Ho!