Life as a sports prophet: not as glamorous as you think

What does it profit a man to be a sports prophet?

A person with whom I am very familiar was once in the business of sports prognostication. He was very good.

I imagine even the mighty Zultan would concur: the prophet business is not all peaches and cream. Let the truly wise among you read these words and ponder…

In some unknown burg or ville or dale,
in the safety of darkness’ breast –
across the tracks, behind some shacks, in shadowy secret nest,
past a pallet bridge and a discarded fridge,
in a cave made of dairy crates
our hero steals nightly, slinking ever so quietly to his fortress of solace and rest

For the morning will dawn soon enough
and with it, the trappings of fame:
a three-piece suit, a case full of loot, a Learjet, a limo, a name.
With scratching and clawing, pulling and pawing,
his suitors know not to relent.
Why all the commotion, hysteric devotion? The future’s the name of his game.

Monte Carlo, Vegas, Cairo, Cancun,
Caracas, New York, Singapore.
The world’s his stage, he’s all the rage. Sheiks knock upon his door.
With laptop astow, ’round the world he does go
to answer the questions of kings –
for somehow he wrings the mysterious things of the future and brings them to fore.

Without further ado, let me introduce you
to the one who has caused all the stir.
They call him Big Red—the redhead with cred.
The Seer Supreme, as it were.
His methods are hidden, his hunches are ridden.
Events seem to follow his lead.
I don’t understand— he just gives the command and the future unfolds at his word.

“Can the ‘Horns beat the Tide?”  “Should Tiger go hide?”
“Will the Cubbies win two out of three?”
“Can Rafa beat Fed?”  “Is Elvis dead?”
The questions come unceasingly.
Not to mention the Mob (Oh, the risks of his job!).
He sports Kevlar underwear.
Though the lucre does flow, somehow I don’t know how he clings to his sanity.

(This is how…)

In some unknown burg or ville or dale,
in the safety of darkness’ breast
across the tracks, behind some shacks, in shadowy secret nest
past a pallet bridge, and a discarded fridge,
in a cave made of dairy crates
our hero steals nightly, slinking ever so quietly to his fortress of solace and rest.

-written March, 2009