'Twas the Night Before Christmas

'Twas the Night Before Christmas

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
not a computer was stirring, not even the mouse.
The widescreen was tuned to the Worldwide Leader,
with hopes that Bob Davie would not be on-air.

The children were nestled all snug on the couch,
while visions of leprechauns danced in their heads.
And OC Wife in her sweatshirt, and I in my hat,
had just settled in for a long bowl game broadcast.

When out in the street there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my seat to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
tore open the shutter, and threw up the sash.

The sunset reflecting through the OC marine layer
gave the lustre of Vegas to objects below,
when, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
but a Cessna Citation, N42ND painted on the tail.

With a deplaning passenger so large and so gimpy,
I knew in a moment it must be Coach Charlie.
More rapid than blitzers, his entourage came,
and he whistled and shouted and called them all names:

"Now Jimmy! Now Bruton!
Now, Wenger and Olsen!
On, Allen! On, Aldridge!
On, Floyd and Golden!
To the top of the porch!
To the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away!
Dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the November winds fly,
when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the Indiana sky
so up to the house-top the Domers they flew,
with a golf cart full of toys, and Coach Charlie too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
the shifting and cutting of each players' cleats.
As I drew in my head and was turning around,
down the chimney Coach Charlie came with a bound.

He was dressed all in polyester, from his head to his foot,
and his sweats were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of playbooks he had flung on his back,
and he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

His eyes--how they smoldered! His dimples, how dour!
His cheeks were all windblown, his nose it was runny!
His droll little mouth was drawn up in a snarl,
and the beard on his chin showed he needed to shave.
The cap of a Sharpie he held tight in his teeth,
and his crewcut sat on his head like field turf.
He had a broad face and a really big belly,
that shook when he hobbled, like a bowl full of jelly.

He was large and grim, a right frightening old elf,
and I gasped when I saw him, in spite of myself.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
and wrote on my wall - his plan - will it work?
And lifting his laminated play card aside his nose,
and giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.

He sprang to his biz-jet, to his team blew his whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, 'ere he flew out of sight,

"A BCS Bowl in '09 - and we'll beat the Warriors tonight!"