My life has been burdened (and enlightened!) with many lonely tasks, to include trying to keep alive the grand tradition of biting light verse and also a yet more marginalized genre: sports poetry. Herewith my latest (though revised in September 2026). It’s a bit whacky, I must admit, and English only in this case, and this notwithstanding my fond memories of Yvan Cournoyer. Jean Béliveau, Guy Lafleur . . .

The truth might extend beyond the next Stanley Cup

The other night his name was Jones, Jones of all things:

The enemy on whom the whole game seemed to hinge.

Tonight Teräväinen, on top of every puck.

Another night Pasternak, of all people, got stuck

In my craw, throughout the game, this name, this beast,

To some unhappy fate he condemned my team.

And the day before, a fourth liner, best left unknown;

Except now a breakaway! He’s shooting. Goal. Groan.

Of most Presidents’ faces I’ve seen more than enough.

News, lies and TV ads – OK, we’ll keep buying stuff.

At least products and services are a kind of dope;

But sports – like dreams – they come with hopes.

So I often worry when phonemes are repeating.

“Osterkamp,” for example, has just lit the lamp.

And is it not just hockey? Is it not just a game?

Some strange, other someone is always to blame?

— Poem and drawing by William Eaton. Other sports poems posted on Montaigbakhtinian: A poem about Ash Barty(!) and The masters (golf poetry). And there is, too, an essay On Playing and Missing (the basket). As for “biting light verse” (and trilinguality), various examples may be found, to include Se révéler ¿sin divertirse? – mais no, no, no!