This is it, column number 400. Thank you, all our readers. Seriously, thank you, both of you. It’s been almost eight years. On this monumental occasion we have asked one of the best poets of a former generation to paraphrase his work using sports terms in our honor. Alfred, Lord Tennyson was only too happy to contribute. He was known as a happy guy. And now, herrrrrrre’s Alfred:

    Half a league half a league
    Sixteen teams onward
    All in the Thunderdome of death
    Rode the four hundred:
    ‘Forward, the light ball players
    Charge for the tailback, he said
    Into the Thunderdome of death
    Rode the four hundred.

    ‘Forward, the light ball players!
    Pile ‘em up like pancake layers
    Not tho’ the tackle knew
    That there are no naysayers,
    Theirs not to reason why
    Theirs but the college try
    Into the Thunderdome of death
    Rode the four hundred

    A cannon shot to the right of them
    Another to the left of them
    A service ace in front of them
    Volley’d and thunder’d
    Storm’d at with groundstrokes strong
    Boldly they returned it long
    Into the jaws of Venus
    The Williams Sisters awaited
    Rode the four hundred

    All the world wonder’d:
    Plunged in with a backhand stroke
    Was their service to be broke
    The Russian ‘ovas didn’t choke
    Reel’d back from the service smoke
    The leggy duo, it seemed awoke

Thank you, Mr. Tennyson, and your entire brigade. You know the joke I started to tell you, Alfred? Here’s the punch line: Crimea River! Get it, Alfred?