(*Author’s note: As is annual tradition, I went to the family attic and dusted off an ancient manuscript of one of the time-honored, family classics from this time of year. I hope you enjoy)
Twas the night before football, when all through the city
Not a cornfield in sight, your stereotypes are so shitty;
The Blackshirts were hung by the lockers with care,
In hopes that Diaco wouldn’t get pissed and glare;
The fans were all nestled in their red-sheeted beds,
And whatever the hell a Red Wolf is danced in their heads;
And Riley in his khakis that you just know were pleated,
Had just settled down to dream dreams, undefeated,
When out down on “O” there came such a bang,
he sprang from the bed “Gee willikers?!?!? Gol-Dang!”
To the window he shambled, ’cause that’s just how he moves,
Diaco kicked in the door and went sprinting there, too.
They threw open the window, looked down to the street
Riley: concerned, Diaco: looking for whose ass to beat.
When, what to their wondering eyes should appear,
But a giant tailgate bus, that was stocked full of beer,
With a little old driver, he was moving kind of slow,
in his orthopedic Adidas, that were gray with velcro.
He wore a trophy on his chest in a championship Baby Bjorn
And they knew in a moment, that it was Saint Osborne!
“Now, Frazier! now, Ahman! now, let’s take to the sky!
Schlesinger, you better go too, just for Run the Ball Guy!
To the top of the roof! Climb that building like Kong!
Up like the smoke from Keyshawn Jr’s favorite bong!”
As corporate sponsored balloons, they went up some more,
Diaco’s eyes bulged even more, Riley shuffled to the door,
So up to the rooftop the players they flew,
and Saint Osborne hopped back in the whip, and it went up too.
And then, in a twinkling, they alit on the roof
They were here and then gone, like a Covfefe Tweet: *POOF*.
Diaco sprinted the stairs, took them two at a time,
Riley saw something shiny, “Look a hi-diddly dime!”
Up on the roof, Saint Osborne fully held court.
He drank rich dude liquor, from a snifter, probably Port;
A bundle of Crystal footballs he had flung on his back,
And he looked like the GOAT just opening his pack.
His eyes — they were sharp, his skills were still keen!
He looked like a surgeon preparing to remove your own spleen!
His mouth was drawn up in a smirk as he sipped,
And direwolf cubs, by his ankles did yip.
Riley looked at himself, whispering “Golly-shucks, is this fake?”,
And Diaco’s jaw, it unhinged like a J-Lo Hunting snake;
(*Author’s note: gratuitous ANACONDA movie reference alert #1,221)
He snapped his tough fingers and everyone froze,
And he sniffed at his snifter, filling his nose.
He snapped fingers once more, sent them running like colts,
a bar-maid came forth and — by God! — it was Lou Holtz;
Holtz hissed, his Parceltongue a snakey defilement,
At least now we all know what he’s doing in retirement;
TO spoke not a word, but dismissed bar-wench Lou,
Then leapt spryly to his feet like he was back in ’92,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
He handed a playbook to Riley, and struck a quick pose;
With a stiff arm stuck out, and 1 leg in the air,
His message was clear, that the season was here.
He pulld Diaco close, whispered, “Break them just like Joe Theismann!”
And whispered to Riley, “Tanner Lee: MF-ing Heisman!”
Then he leaped into his whip and drove out of sight,
Shouting: “HAPPY FOOTBALL TO ALL, AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT!”