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Game Called: a friend has passed

 


Game Called. Across the field of play

The dusk has come, the hour is late.

the fight is done and lost or won,

The player files out through the gate.

The tumult dies, the cheer is hushed,

the stands are bare, the park is still.

But through the night there shines the light,

home beyond the silent ill.

The words from Grantland Rice's poem have revisited my mind on countless occasions, several times a day since Sunday when I found out about the passing of Lane Hauge.

Maybe it's because Rice's words are far better than anything I could ever hope to write. The poem was written as a eulogy to the...



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