“This is glory, this is history,
This is tradition, this is school rugby at its best:
This is Bradby, live on your rugby channel…”
As if I never wondered how this Bradby, invariably,
Gets air play — in the best of seasons and in the
Worst of seasons? Propaganda starts in May.
A classic tale of two cities.
How Navy games are telecast, even if the opponents may be Old Zahirians.
Rajapakshe brothers are pouring out of Chandrishan’s mouth;
Lady Shiranthi, the most supportive mother,
And the camera crew the most obliging to our taste.
“Watch out for this lad, Shan, this is
Sean Wanigasekara Jr; son of Wanigasekara Sr;
Grandson of Wanigasekara Super Sr.
Winners of the coveted Trinity Lion; tradition; glory”
And in this ill-ended story
Who is Eranda Weerakkody’s father?
Who bought Dev Anand his first ever boots? Is
Gayan Weeraratne’s mother less of a support than Our Lady?
“Ajith Abeyratne and his indomitable Trinity team of 1964”:
So what, Father, Son and Spirit: so what does it, in our context,
Really mean? Cos this on air golden oldies masturbate
Is, where such -bation is concerned, closer to
No, son — this is just sour grapes of not being lucky with the Old Tie.
Grapes of not having the power dick in your check list.
We, the lesser born and fed what rice we got with hand
Are frustrated to our black smelly asses tanned.
We, who wield without tradition, who knows not glory,
Whose women don’t come tic-tacking the deck on VIP:
We aspire and we tire and as Chandrishan says:
“The game goes on” and the lame go out. As it is only fair
This is our despair. We call it anti-elite,
We call it ‘our’ space. But when spaces are
Mapped out, space is relative to power.
We were all born after that final hour