One summer I went to Canton
To visit the Pro Football Hall of Fame
As I stared at the exhibits: a voice called out
“Boy this game has changed”
I turned to find behind me
A man in padded gear
Teeth were missing
And he was scarred from ear to ear
He said: Son, I played in the NFL
In its prehistoric years
And the way they present it
Isn’t how the game appeared
I chuckled and thought
“Boy this reenactor is good
He has the uniform, the gear
Appearing as it should
He grinned wryly
A smile between fake and real
I didn’t care for his ways
And the way it made me feel
He spoke tragically
As if he lost a friend
Or he was reliving
Where it all began
He proceeded to tell his tale
Of men lifted by the tongs
From the mines and the college fields
Survival only attained by the strong
He said: They called us brutes
They called us men of blood
They scorned and said: We only played for money
They termed us hired guns
We didn’t have the pageantry
We didn’t have the lace
It was inappropriate at our games
For a lady to show her face
We played on fields of dirt
For two hundred down
And we weren’t offered endorsements
After we won the crown
Our names except for a few are forgotten
Thrope, Hutson, Baugh, and Grange
Are the only fossils still
Remembered in this day and age
Men like Chamberlin and Battles
Friedman, Parker, and Blood
Good as today’s stars
And yet never heard of
I pondered all this
As he continued on
And when he finished
I asked: To what team did you belong?’
He smiled that wryly grin again
And slowly disappeared like a faded photograph
I dashed to the pictures to take a look
I found him and I wished I ask for his autograph
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