Oh, how the tribulation of defeasance has besieged. Three hundred and seventy-eight solar repetitions ago, the word slingers and visual cognoscente of The Daily Orange abrogated a tyrannical three-year interval during which the cantankerous WAER Mouth Breathers triumphed. The provenance of an embryonic dynasty rested in the constraints of the autonomous scribes.

However, it was not to be. The everyday hacks squandered such an opportunity and were flummoxed by the jolly orange fanboys of the air waves, a 50-34 conclusion, in the dead of Friday night on the woodland splinters of James Arthur’s parallelogram underneath the achromatic canvas crown of Daryl’s Dome. Before a congregation of an undetermined accumulation of earth dwellers, the hacks’ hoists were more Hyperborean than the agglomeration of alchemistic white flakes on the adjacent Kenneth A. Shaw Quadrangle.

“We just didn’t give enough effort and it’s tough to send the senior class out like that,” conveyed Jesse Dougherty, the preceding athletics reviser. “But you better bet that the rest of the guys, the guys coming back, won’t let it happen again.

“I’ve lost two Media Cups now and the two mornings after have been some of the most frustrating of my college career. Preparation for 2016 starts now.”

In the previous confrontation, the scribes’ mechanisms consolidated to assemble a masterpiece. Trevor Hass, quite the marksman, heaved a tetrad of baskets from beyond the quadrilateral’s half circle. Dougherty, the medicinal caretaker, administered an indomitable attacking aggregation. And Matt Schneidman, a pubescent newcomer, materialized from oblivion to transcend all who flourishingly twirled the leathered orb through the cylinder.

Alas, the calligraphy of the bout paralleled the ignominy of infinite printed inaccuracies.

Schneidman, the pelvis thruster with an epithet akin to procreators, made hay with 15 marks albeit in reclusiveness among the hacks’ notching participants. Jacob Klinger, the elder who maturates saplings, bequeathed bustle that monumentalized his imperial predecessors and aggrandized his contingent’s zest.

The constant informants put forth a slipshod effort early, not pinpointing a cadence and partaking in disheveled giveaways that provided the adversaries with transitional possibilities. The hacks’ invasion of the Talkers’ container was un-remunerative in its half-rectangle arrangements.

Undeterred, the print journalists preempted the spotlight toward their octagonal-semester warhorses in the terminating 120 pulsations to dulcify the twinge of their portending mishap. Josh Hyber, a grandiose presence with the spheroid clenched in his barbarous paws, unleashed a missile from the intersection of dueling territorial boundaries.

“I remember Sam Fortier passing me the ball,” The Man of The Sleeping Country ruminated whilst scratching his mistress-slaying bristles, “and then it was an out-of-body experience.”

He galvanized a juncture of hysteria and embraced said collaborator before making a dignified exodus.

And upon his aforementioned reciprocation arrived Phil D’Abbraccio, he the pastimes corrector who had not, in his trilogy-lengthened of Media Cup endeavors, a solitary point to his Italian-derived designation.

The family’s soldiers on the battleground sacrificed, abdicating their bodies and emancipation to bombard the orb at the elevated iron, to settle their commander’s desiccation of points preceding the expiration of the fourth dimension.

Following The Free Throw Heard Round The World, D’Abbraccio elusively relocated to his portside and hoisted a splendid triumvirate-count chuck that splashed the nylon and achieved a Jeterian adieu of which he had merely woolgathered.

The airwave-inclined buffoons milked the nonexistent timekeeper, and the overmatched hacks grew lugubrious and embittered.

And the theorization of germinating a lithographic regime was pauperized and disported to be, indeed, fabrication and not verisimilitude.

Articulated D’Abbraccio: “The moment was just too big for us tonight.”

W.F. Whence is a germanificated staff sculptor for The Daily Orange, where he re-germanificated to sculpt this glistening prose.

Published on February 23, 2015 at 12:05 am