On Sports and Life

A NOTE TO READERS: Happiest of holidays, peace and goodwill to one and all; and thank you for your continuing support. This Christmas Day post is presented with both apologies and a tip of the cap to Clement Clarke Moore, who in 1823 authored “A Visit from St. Nicholas;” a poem far better known almost two centuries later by its first five words.

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when in Patriot towns,
Fans of New England slipped into their gowns.
The season was ending, playoffs were looming,
Hopes for a title were rampant and booming.

The children were nestled ‘neath red and blue spreads,
As dreams of the Lombardi danced in their heads.
Mama in her Brady jersey, and I in my cap,
Had just settled down for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a ruckus,
Not heard in the NFL since the days of Dick Butkus.
Away to the window I flew faster than Revis,
To see what the source was before it could leave us.

The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow,
Gave the luster of stadium lights to the gridiron below.
And what did my wondering eyes then define?
Why a miniature sleigh, pulled by the offensive line.

With a little old driver so rumpled, not slick,
I knew in a moment it wasn’t Saint Nick.
More rapid than Jets his players they came,
And he whistled and shouted, and called them by name:

“On Connolly, on Stork! On Wendell and Vollmer!
On Edelman and Gronk and also Nate Solder!
To the 50, to the red zone, to the goalposts so tall,
Now dash away, dash away, dash away all!”

Like balls tossed by quarterbacks into the sky,
Quick release passes down the field on the fly;
So into the air those players took flight,
Pulling that sleigh, up into the night.

Then from the rooftop I heard the sharp beats,
Of the prancing and pawing of players in cleats.
As I drew in my head and was turning around,
Down the chimney Bill Belichick came with a bound!

His beard was but stubble, his hoodie was gray,
Here was the genius of the Patriot Way.
He wasn’t jolly at all; in fact he seemed like a grump,
As he set the sack on his shoulder down with a thump.

He spoke but five words, “It is what it is.”
Then saying no more, he went straight to his biz.
He filled all the stockings, with gifts that fans crave,
Touchdowns and victories, about which we rave.

AFC East champions, twelve times and counting!
Home field through the playoffs, a title run mounting.
Five to the Pro Bowl, though we hope they can’t go,
Held for a week later, and the really big show.

I said “The Giants are out, this year we can win!”
That earned me a glare, which caused me to grin.
Then laying a finger aside of his nose,
With one final scowl, up the chimney Bill rose.

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a shout,
“To Glendale,” he cried, “That’s what the season’s about!”
But I heard him exclaim, as through the uprights they flew,
“Happy Christmas to all, and a Super Bowl too!”