Twas the night before playoffs,
When all through Hell’s Half Acre,
Not a player was stirring,
Not a mover or shaker.
The helmets were hung in the lockers with care,
In hopes the Confederation Cup soon would be there.
The players were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of touchdowns, danced in their heads.
And coaches in the film room and I’m thinking of the Big TD’s rack,
We’re scheming up ways to get another sack.
When out on the field, there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the office to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I sprinted like Desean Jackson,
Turned on the stadium lights and got ready for some action.
The lights on the field with the new fallen snow,
Gave the luster of mid-day to objects bellow.
When what to my wandering eyes should appear,
But a miniature Confederation Cup and 10 tiny reindeer.
With a driver in a bandana, so lively and glitz,
I knew in a moment it must be Safety Blitz.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!
“Now, Fatty! Now, T-Bone! Now, Looper, BJ, and Matt Riley!
On, Maddawg! On, Tebow! On, Toejam, Carmicheal, and Sanchez!
To the top of the scoreboard, to the top of the wall,
Now get on up outta here, outta here all!”
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the stadium roof,
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down from the rafters came PC with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, like Kid Rock with a hooker,
And on each side of him stood a hot lady, a looker.
A bundle of Trophy’s he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a vagabond, just opening his pack.
The stump of a toothpick, he held in his teeth,
And the smoke from Hughesy encircled his head like a wreath.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know, I had something to dread.
The Hogan entrance theme came on, and he let out a yell,
He said “If you want this trophy, you gotta go through Hell!”
He spoke not another word, but we went straight to work,
And filled all the lockers to make our players go berserk.
He sprang back in the Cup, and let out a whistle,
And away they all flew like a Patriot missle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘as he flew out of view’,
“Happy Playoffs to all, except for BJ – F.U.!!!”
