For your Saturday morning reading pleasure, now comes Grove City College alum Jared Walczak (’08) with whimsy of the Shakespearean variety. Jared has this to say about his creation:
RGIII: A Shakespearean Tragedy
by Jared Walczak
LARRY MICHAEL, an announcer.
RGIII out of the shotgun, pressure coming, he steps into the pass rush, pass is wobbly–it was tipped–picked off Number 23 of the defense in what is shaping up to be another ugly outing for the first round pick from Baylor…
SONNY JURGENSEN, a color commentator.
Alack, ’tis he: he doth throw even now
As though possessed of a wand’ring spirit,
which lists hither and yon, mad as the vex’d sea
Crown’d with collegiate laurels, now wilted and decayed,
The once flower’t, now decked with bitter weeds.
What offereth Subway foot-longs
In restoring pocket presence?
JAY GRUDEN, the coach.
What I believe I’ll wail,
What I know believe, and what I can redress;
As I shall find the time to reteach the fundamentals, I will.
What you have spoke, it may be so perchance.
This athlete, whose sole name blisters our tongues,
Was once thought talented: you have loved him well.
He had not disappointed you aforetime. I am new;
but something you may deserve of him through me;
To offer up a weak poor innocent coach,
To appease an angry owner.
ROBERT GRIFFIN III, the athlete.
I am not treacherous.
But Snyder is.
But I shall crave your pardon;
That which you are my thoughts cannot transpose:
Draft day hopes are still bright, though the brightest fell.
Let us rather hold fast the final games, and like good men
Bestride our down-fall’n franchise: each new Sunday morn
New losses mount, new hopes are dashed, new sorrows
Strike the longsuffering fan in the face, that he resounds
As if he felt with indigenous persons long maligned, and yell’d out
With rage the syllables of dolour.
I am dying, D.C., dying; only
I here importune being benched awhile, until
Of many advertising contracts, for the poor last
I extract my recompense.
I dare not, Three–
My dear star, pardon,–I dare not,
Lest my career be ended: not the imperious show
Of the ill-fortuned Snyder ever shall
Be sufficient unto me; if fired, I am safe:
But shall I suffer my career to vanish
Along the shores of dank Potomac?
Go, quick, or I am done!
Here’s sport indeed! How heavy weighs lost draft picks.
Our strength is all gone into the ranks of St. Louis;
That makes the weight: had I great Fortune’s power,
The strong-arm’d Luck should fetch thee up,
And set thee well astride, in this division.
Yet come a little,–
Wishes were ever fools.
THE MALEVOLENT HOST, the tailgaters.
If we be not relieved of him within this hour,
We must return to the doubleheader: the game is better.
COLT McCOY, the journeyman.
The mob beckons me; now I begin my story.
Be witness to me, O thou blessed owner,
When men revolted shall upon record
Bear hateful memory, that than Cousins and McCoy
I be the no less ennobled.
SNYDER, the owner.
Give me a living reason he cannot play.
I do not like the office:
But sith I am enter’d in this cause so far,
Prick’d to’t by the tatter’d remnants of dignity,
I will go on. I started that star Griffin lately;
And, being troubled with enraging game film,
I could not sleep.
The fault, dear Gruden, is not in our stars,
But in yourself, that we are underlings in the NFC East.
*Really, with apologies. Much of this is taken directly from various works of Shakespeare with adaptations appropriate to the tragic tale being told.
Originally posted as a note on Jared’s Facebook page; posted here by the kindest of permissions.