NEW!
*This tells the story of my rise to prominence as the founder of the Naismith Army as the official student supporter's group of Springfield College Athletics.
(to Gordon Lightfoot's Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald)
The legend lives on from New England on down,
Of the lake that they called Massasoit,
The lake, it is told, never gives up her gold,
When the skies of November anointed,
With a mind of his own come to town all alone,
It was Ricky Mazella quite surely,
Should the time ever come for his work to be done,
When the gales of November came early,
The man was the guy from St. Mary’s High,
And a smart native Western New Yorker,
As soccer player though, he was overlooked so,
Somewhere near the Canadian border,
Not knowing his fate as he seemed to debate,
When he waited to hear back from Springfield,
And later that week when the letter came in,
Their acceptance made his future sealed,
Upon his decent Pioneer Valley bound,
It took him two months to get settled,
And every lass knew, as the captain did too,
T'was the ghost of November who meddled,
The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait,
When the gales of November came slashin',
When afternoon came it was calm again,
In advance of a match that had beckoned,
When suppertime came, the young buck did the same,
He thought maybe he should go see the action,
At four o’clock pm the match would begin,
He decided to barrack by reaction,
John Gibson once more coached the ladies to score,
As the match had progressed and developed,
And shortly later on when his wits had kicked on,
Came the voice of ol’ Ricky Mazella,
For that was the day that old Springfield had changed,
While his echoes still linger Brock-Affleck,
The mem’ries all say of his praises today,
In the times that he said were fantastic,
He might have been pressured or he might’ve been forced,
But he didn’t want to leave his alma mater,
And all that remains are the faces and the names,
Of the husbands, the sons, and the daughters,
December came not during those three long years,
While they only got as far as John’s Hopkins,
But the night sky gleams like the young man's dreams,
As the times that they had were a-rockin’,
And then came the day that he went away,
Much to his own chagrin haunts forever,
It wasn’t his plan though, as the ladies all know,
With the gales of November remembered,
In the Marsh Memorial Chapel they prayed,
Were they able to find a new fella,
The Union bell chimed till it rang twenty-six times,
For each win under Ricky Mazella,
The legend lives on from New England on down,
Of the lake that they called Massasoit,
The lake, it is told, never gives up her gold,
When the skies of November anointed
*This tells the story of my rise to prominence as the founder of the Naismith Army as the official student supporter's group of Springfield College Athletics.
(to Gordon Lightfoot's Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald)
The legend lives on from New England on down,
Of the lake that they called Massasoit,
The lake, it is told, never gives up her gold,
When the skies of November anointed,
With a mind of his own come to town all alone,
It was Ricky Mazella quite surely,
Should the time ever come for his work to be done,
When the gales of November came early,
The man was the guy from St. Mary’s High,
And a smart native Western New Yorker,
As soccer player though, he was overlooked so,
Somewhere near the Canadian border,
Not knowing his fate as he seemed to debate,
When he waited to hear back from Springfield,
And later that week when the letter came in,
Their acceptance made his future sealed,
Upon his decent Pioneer Valley bound,
It took him two months to get settled,
And every lass knew, as the captain did too,
T'was the ghost of November who meddled,
The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait,
When the gales of November came slashin',
When afternoon came it was calm again,
In advance of a match that had beckoned,
When suppertime came, the young buck did the same,
He thought maybe he should go see the action,
At four o’clock pm the match would begin,
He decided to barrack by reaction,
John Gibson once more coached the ladies to score,
As the match had progressed and developed,
And shortly later on when his wits had kicked on,
Came the voice of ol’ Ricky Mazella,
For that was the day that old Springfield had changed,
While his echoes still linger Brock-Affleck,
The mem’ries all say of his praises today,
In the times that he said were fantastic,
He might have been pressured or he might’ve been forced,
But he didn’t want to leave his alma mater,
And all that remains are the faces and the names,
Of the husbands, the sons, and the daughters,
December came not during those three long years,
While they only got as far as John’s Hopkins,
But the night sky gleams like the young man's dreams,
As the times that they had were a-rockin’,
And then came the day that he went away,
Much to his own chagrin haunts forever,
It wasn’t his plan though, as the ladies all know,
With the gales of November remembered,
In the Marsh Memorial Chapel they prayed,
Were they able to find a new fella,
The Union bell chimed till it rang twenty-six times,
For each win under Ricky Mazella,
The legend lives on from New England on down,
Of the lake that they called Massasoit,
The lake, it is told, never gives up her gold,
When the skies of November anointed
