In days of yore, you ran free in packs
All over the field, white running backs.
Fast Negro runners with amazing grace,
Slowly began to take your place.
Once there was Riggins and his mohawk,
Now you line up and mostly block.
Slow of foot and without much style,
We watch you try and it makes us smile.
You lower your shoulders and get three yards,
Moving less like backs, more like guards.
They talk of your motor and how hard you compete,
And try not to mention your clumsy feet.
But like the infrequent moon that's blue,
There are the times you still come through.
At the end of the game; it couldn't come later,
You drove through the line to defeat the Gator.
Jacob Hester, we will cut you some slack
You aren't too bad for a white running back.