Brother, the winter wind is lean and the gym lights hum like a hymn,
and I come with my hat in hand and hope in my shoes.
There was a time when nickels sang and a dime meant supper,
when a fellow believed tomorrow could be coaxed along
by the clink of honest change.
Now hear me plain: the RedHawks have flown to a 28–0 dawn,
and history knocks like a creditor with a smile.
Think on Coach Travis Steele, steady as a courthouse clock,
teaching grit like it’s scripture and joy like it’s earned.
Think on Peter Suder’s sure hands, Brant Byers’ iron will,
Antwone Woolfolk running the floor like a promise kept,
Eian Elmer finding daylight where none was owed,
Almar Atlason cool as a lake at morning,
and Luke Skaljac standing tall when the night gets long.
These are names you can hang your coat on.
Brother, I ain’t begging for charity, just asking for belief.
Two hundred eighty dollars—why, that’s only 2800 dimes,
a river of small faith that makes a mighty bridge.
Drop one dime for every victory and let it ring.
Send it to the Miami University Field of 68 fund,
so the lights stay lit and the banners learn new words.
Brother, won’t you spare 2800 dimes?
And, if you’ve made it this far, don’t be a cheap piece of shit and donate $280 today.
