Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the stands
Not a person was cheering, not one single fan.
They all held their breath in the brisk night air,
And wondered if Santa would bypass them this year.
Their faces were painted all silver and blue,
With streaks of flesh-color from a stray tear or two.
And mom in her Nine jersey, and me in my cap,
Hoped our team would not go for that long winter’s nap.
When out on the lawn I heard the snow splatter
And sprang from my chair to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a news paper predicting another bad year.
With a flick of his pen, and his sharp-edged wit,
The writer predicted the team would just quit.
He called to my memory Christmases past,
And he smirked and insisted, “This winning won’t last!”
“Now Phillips! now, Romo! now, Garrett and Witten!
And Newman, and Spencer, they’ll all be a-quittin’!
So don’t get your hopes up, you silly old fan,
These guys will collapse and disappoint you again!”
With dry lips and wet eyes, I read on with a sigh,
Who’s this fool anyway? Just a regular guy.
Not Nostradamus anymore than I.
So I rolled up that paper and started a fire.
And then with a sigh, I said to St. Nick
Come rescue this season and come do it quick.
Surely you’ve room in that magical sleigh,
To bring us a victory this coming Sunday.
We will leave the roof open so you can get in,
And we’ll greet you with shouting and clamoring din.
And we’ll hear you exclaim as you take off again,
“Merry Christmas to all…except you Redskins.”