Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more
Or plug up the table with our Galaxy goals!
In pre-season there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest restraint and humility;
But when the drum of battle sounds in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger:
Draw your muscle taut, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favored rage,
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect,
Let the brow overwhelm it
As fearfully as the cliffs
Overhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swilled with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest Galaxy
Whose blood is fet from fathers of goal-scoring,
Fathers that, like so many Cobi Joneses,
Have in these parts from morn til even fought
And ceased their scoring for lack of argument.
Dishonor not your mothers. Now attest
That those whom you called fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to those of younger blood,
And teach them how to score. And you, good
footballers, whose limbs were made in Los Angeles, shows us here
The mettle of your city. Let us swear that you are worth your breeding
which I doubt not, for there is none of you so mean and base
That has not noble luster in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot.
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry "Goals for Bruce, Los Angeles, and the Galaxy!"