Big Game Poetry


The  Night Before Big Game
Eric Lutkin, 2007
with apologies (again) to Clement Clarke Moore
'Twas the night before Big Game, when all through the Bay
Not a  Cardinal was stirring, not even Elway;
The jerseys were hung by the  lockers with care,
In hopes that the Axe soon would be there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While  visions of Casey Moore danced in their heads;

And mamma in her  'kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled down for a long winter's  nap,

When out on the Quad there arose such a clatter,
I sprang  from my tailgate to see what was the matter.

Away to Arrillaga I flew like  a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The  lights from the Stadium begun to glow
Gave the lustre of game-day to  objects below,

When, what to my wondering eyes should I see,
But  a miniature Block S, and eight tiny tree,

With a little old driver, so  lively with glee,
I knew in a moment it must be St. TC.
More  rapid than eagles his receivers they came,
And he whistled, and  shouted, and called them by name;

"Now, McGraw! now, Bradford! now,  Gerhart and Dray!
On, Evans! on Stewart! on, Wiser and  AK!

To the top of the post! to the top of the wall!
Now dash  away! dash away! dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild  blitz fly,
When they meet with a stunt, mount to the sky,

So  to the goal the receivers they flew,
With the playbook full of tricks,  and St. TC too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the  street
The prancing and pawing of each little cleat.

As I drew  in my hand, and was turning around,
Round the end St. TC came with a  bound.

He was dressed all in white, from his head to his  foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with grasses and  soot;

A bundle of tacklers he had flung on his back,
And he  looked like a scrambler avoiding the sack.

His eyes -- how they  twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose  like a cherry!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a  bow,
And the helmet on he wore was as white as the snow;

The  stump of a mouthpiece he held tight in his teeth,
And the passes  encircled his head like a wreath;

He had a broad back and stood tall in the pocket,
And when he threw the ball, it looked like a rocket.

He was tall  and chiseled, a right jolly old Card,
And I laughed when I saw him, in  spite of my guard;

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 completed his passes; then turned with a  smirk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod,  up the field he rose;

He sprang to his left, to his team gave a  whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But  I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Big Game to all,  lets hold the Axe tight!"