‘Twas the night before Chrsitmas, and all through Gillette
Not a player was stirring, no rookie nor vet.
Their stockings were hung by each locker with care
In hopes that St. Belichick soon would be there.
The players were resting at home in their beds
While visions of playoff byes danced in their heads,
And Giselle and I waited, awake, not alert,
With creamed avocados – a tasty dessert.
But out in the parking lot came such a bustle;
I ran to the doors with 1,000-yard hustle
And threw them wide open, revealing the night
That I wished would be covered in snow falling white.
The lighthouse, emitting its beckoning glow,
Gave a summons to any intruder below.
But what in my vision appeared, to my shock?
An unhurrying car with an hour-different clock.
With the scowl on his face so familiarly still,
I knew in an instant it must be St. Bill.
From out of the shadows, assistants! They came
And he pointed to each as he called them by name:
“Hey, Flores! Hey, Dante! Hey, Judge and Schuplinski!
Hey, Chad! Hey, McDaniels, you pricey buttinsky!
To the lockers at once! Your instructions you know:
Before the reporters get wind of this, go!”
They darted away, and I marveled and thought,
“Isn’t Bill a curmudgeon? I guess that he’s not.”
But noises reminded me what he had said,
And I ran to the locker room, chasing the thread.
I opened the door and I peeked through the crack
And saw the assistants at work with no slack.
But where was their leader? My eyes wandered ’round
As I pondered the place where St. Bill could be found.
Then the answer jumped into my mind in a flash;
To the film room I raced with an antelope’s dash.
I spotted the glow from his regular screen,
Then the man who was watching, a regular scene.
His eyes were unblinking, his stare was unmoving;
He watched for the areas needing improving.
He’d thrown on a hoodie, last Sunday’s, I’d guess,
As haphazard as all of the rest of his dress.
The plays he was watching, from yesterday’s game,
Were the best and the worst, of elation and shame.
He’d tell us on Wednesday what needed a fix,
But also encourage our talents and tricks.
He sat still as a statue while watching those plays
And I knew not to bother his analyst’s gaze.
I quietly left, making no distinct noise,
Then went to the stockings, now filled with new toys.
I wanted to open my gifts on display;
Not now, though. Tomorrow. I’d learn Christmas Day.
I turned, hearing footsteps behind in the hall;
St. Bill was departing the latest of all.
He’d come and completed today’s Christmas mission,
So he went to his car and turned on the ignition,
And I head him exclaim as he drove out of sight:
“Merry Christmas to all; do your job, and good night!”