The ep30 Through The Mists

It's time for yours truly Jimmy Powers with another Grantland Rice story. Hi there, this is Jimmy Powers coming your way once again transcribed. Grantland Rice like all writers like to dream.

Today's chapter from the Tumalen Shouting, which I'll narrate in the first person, opens with a poem about dreams which Granny wrote and titled, These Are My Dreams. My dreams are not tomorrow nor yesterday. For yesterday is gone and on its way, and by tomorrow it may be much too late to find my way through darkness and through fate.

When you have reached a certain span in life, today is all that counts for fun or strife. The past is blurred with fogs and mists and myth. The future is too brief to bother with.

I dream today with no vain vague regrets for yesterday and all its unpaid debts, with no fear of the future's fading sun, since it may end before this rhyme is done. I dream of romance in a song that rings above the dollar elemental things, not caring what may happen to skies dark or blue if I can know that just one dream comes true.

Having spent 64 of 74 years in the maelstrom of sport, I seem to have spent the vital segment of my life in crowds of 50,000 and 100,000 people. As I look back, the picture is a vast canvas of shouting in tumult, where on many occasions I was seeking a solitude I could call peace.

It's been an endless highway of thrills. I look back on countless examples of gameness, smartness, stamina, uphill struggles, and with them all the varying tides of luck that test human character. Most of the headliners in sport that I've known have been decent humans.