‘Twas the night before football, when all through the land
Not a fan was stirring, not even Stanford’s band;
The wings were marinated with utmost care,
In hopes that St. Alcohol soon would be there;
The freshmen were not all snuggled in their beds,
Boasts of touchdowns and glory filled their dates’ heads;
And coaches in their offices, Butch Jones hit play,
Ready to watch Chubbs, Michel and UGA,
When out on the field there arose such a clatter,
All sprang from their drinks to see what was the matter.
Away to the fifty we flew like a flash,
Opened the gates, waited for the coming bash.
The white of the sidelines like new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of primetime to footballs below,
When, what to these sleep-deprived eyes should appear,
But an overseas Owl, and Rams versus Beavers,
With a Strong Florida Bull, landed on his feet,
I knew finally the offseason complete.
More rapid than Rainbows the highlights bring fame,
SVP whistles and shouts and calls them by name;
“Now, Da’SHAWN! now, DEONDRE! now, PETTWAY and JACKSON!
On, BARRETT! on BARKLEY! on, DARNOLD and BRANDON!
To the thirty, the twenty, the ten, the end zone!
Dash away! dash away to the stiff-armed throne!”
As dry rub that meets a charcoal grill’s flame will cook,
When these stars meet a defender, leave their playbook,
So up to the billboards these players will fly,
With a sleigh full of awards, but not the Ray Guy.
Then, in a quarter, a new star emerging
The leaping, bounding of a stalwart’s surging.
As I would place my bet, I cannot hit confirm,
Until this new cover darling earns his star turn.
He may be dressed in crimson, in scarlet, in maize,
His pants will be tarnished, the effects of his plays;
A series of downs he had taken over,
And he looked like a pro, above all heads and shoulders.
His eyes — how we will swoon! his smile will be charming!
His arm like a canon, or his legs churning!
His clutch play was classic spring practice fodder,
And now it is quite clear, he is no mere plodder;
This season-definer may be Down Under,
We won’t know ‘til well into October’s plunder;
He may be a quick back or lanky receiver,
That blazes when faced with a defense over-eager.
He’s not chubby or plumb, not Attila-the-Hun,
We’ll call him amateur, like it’s two thousand one;
A wink of our eyes and a check to Comcast,
All we want is to outdo rivals, outlast;
Our star won’t speak a word outside the huddle,
He’ll fill all the reels; leave his foes in puddles,
Wait every Tuesday, who the Committee chose,
Like the Bachelor with his Sugar, a Rose;
Fall has arrived, the season now closer than near,
Each team a winner, every fan a fortune-seer.
Now is the time to exclaim, before the star’s fame,
HAPPY FOOTBALL TO ALL, AND TO ALL A GOOD-GAME!
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