'Twas the night before deadline

(With heartfelt apologies to Clement Clark Moore)



'Twas the night before deadline, and all through the house
Fresh out of ideas, and annoying my spouse.
My head was hung low and filled with despair,
Dashing hopes that an idea soon would be there.

Faced with a reality which I most assuredly dread,
Visions of bad sports teams danced in my head.
Tried on my Browns helmet, then Indians cap,
Provided little motivation – in fact, feared I might snap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
Wanted to tell whoever it was, to “knock off the chatter.”
Away to the window, I flew like a flash,
My face in a frown; and my teeth they did gnash.

Couldn't see the source in the moon's white glow,
Yet a solitary voice pleaded, "It's me, Santa, you know."
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
Kyrie Irving, Cavs guard, looking quite “Cavalier”.

When healthy, young Irving, so lively and quick,
But always injured, rendering Cavs fans quite sick.
He then morphed into a new, more infamous name,
A Dolan named Larry, and dwarfed the Cavalier's shame.

With Sizemore, Hafner, Shelly Duncan, and Carmona,
Cost Manny Acta his job, now trying out Terry Fancona.
Penny-pinching ways have caused the Tribe to fall,
Hopes dashed away, dashed away, dashed away, all.

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
Larry's kissed any hopes of contention good-bye.
So up to the house-top – the promises, they flew,
Players like Shane Victorino, but in reality we knew.

And then in a twinkling, I heard on the roof,
Another familiar voice, and my Browns dreams went “poof”.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Heard Mike Holmgren in the chimney; 'twas stuck coming down.

He was dressed in all fur, from his head to his foot,
I should have called PETA; then in his place he'd be put.
A bundle of playbooks he had flung on his back,
“West Coast offense” was his wise-crack.

His eyes, how they twinkled; his dimples so merry,
His cheeks were like roses, from perhaps too much sherry.
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
Lit his pipe with a fifty, and said, "They call me 'Big Show'."

The stump of his pipe he held in his teeth,
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face – and an even broader gut,
Didn't really know what would come next from this nut.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
Dropped some of his money, which I took for myself.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know, Randy Lerner he'd bled.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
Showed me his stock options, and I thought, "What a jerk!"
Must have read my mind, for he then thumbed his nose,
And said, "That's it for you," and up the chimney he rose.

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
Right at that moment, wished I controlled an interceptor missile.
But I heard him exclaim as he drove out of sight,
"Merry Christmas to all – and Jeff, learn how to write!"

Jeff Bing

Lifelong Westlake resident who dabbles in writing whenever the real world permits.

Read More on Sporting Views
Volume 4, Issue 25, Posted 10:42 AM, 12.11.2012