Twas the Night Before Christmas--Minnesota Hockey Style
Posted: Fri Dec 24, 2010 6:43 pm
Twas the Night before Christmas
Twas the night before Christmas, when all through youth rinks
Not a player was skating, not even at Bernie’s rink.
The jerseys were hung in their lockers with care,
In hopes that Lord Stanley might someday be there.
The players were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of toe pulls dangled in their heads.
And refs in their stripes and coaches with good reason,
Had just turned their attention to the second half of the season.
When out on the ice there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bleachers to see what was the matter.
Away to the boards I flew in a flash,
Pressed my nose to the glass only to find my son in a bit of a lather.
The lights on the sheet of the freshly-laid ice
Gave way to snap shots and black biscuits flying below.
When, what to my hockey eyes should appear,
But a miniature Zamboni driven by the late great St. Brooks.
With the acclaimed driver, so lively and snarky,
I knew in a moment Herbie was in range,
More rapid than flying pucks his truisms they came,
And he whistled and shouted, and called them by name!
“Now Fredrick! now IMO! now Greybeard and D-Mom!
On, Superstar! On CRW! On, Elliott and Moore!
To the top of the circle! to the top corner of the net!
Now skate away! Skate away! Skate away all!
As spray from the ice before the final score is posted,
When they meet with a check, and find they’ve been roasted.
So up to the balcony—the posters they flew,
With the Zamboni full of rules books, and St. Brooks, too.
And then in a twinkling, I heard in the stands
The cheering and clapping of each little hand.
As I drew in my head and was turning around,
Down the arena halls the ice skaters came with a bound.
They were dressed all in maroon and gold, from their heads to their skates,
And their uniforms smelled like gophers and smelly feet.
A bundle of pucks they had in their sack,
And they knew that St. Brooks would make them more than just hacks.
His eyes-how they twinkled! His dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn down to his stem
And his big voice boomed, “Tonight is your night, so screw ‘em.”
The stump of a pen he held tight in his teeth,
And the grace from within assured a victory wreath.
He had broad shoulders and a knack for shooting pucks at a goalie’s belly,
His head shook when he yelled like a bowl full of jelly!
He was focused and determined, a right serious old coach,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
The glean in his eyes and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know that I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word as the game was underway, but went straight to his work,
And gestured for players to go here and there, then he turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, his team’s goals on the scoreboard they rose!
At the buzzer, he sprang to the top of the bench, to pump his fists and then gave his team a whistle,
And they exited, forming a straight line like a chain of missiles.
But I heard him exclaim, as he dashed out of sight,
“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a frozen pond night.”
Twas the night before Christmas, when all through youth rinks
Not a player was skating, not even at Bernie’s rink.
The jerseys were hung in their lockers with care,
In hopes that Lord Stanley might someday be there.
The players were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of toe pulls dangled in their heads.
And refs in their stripes and coaches with good reason,
Had just turned their attention to the second half of the season.
When out on the ice there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bleachers to see what was the matter.
Away to the boards I flew in a flash,
Pressed my nose to the glass only to find my son in a bit of a lather.
The lights on the sheet of the freshly-laid ice
Gave way to snap shots and black biscuits flying below.
When, what to my hockey eyes should appear,
But a miniature Zamboni driven by the late great St. Brooks.
With the acclaimed driver, so lively and snarky,
I knew in a moment Herbie was in range,
More rapid than flying pucks his truisms they came,
And he whistled and shouted, and called them by name!
“Now Fredrick! now IMO! now Greybeard and D-Mom!
On, Superstar! On CRW! On, Elliott and Moore!
To the top of the circle! to the top corner of the net!
Now skate away! Skate away! Skate away all!
As spray from the ice before the final score is posted,
When they meet with a check, and find they’ve been roasted.
So up to the balcony—the posters they flew,
With the Zamboni full of rules books, and St. Brooks, too.
And then in a twinkling, I heard in the stands
The cheering and clapping of each little hand.
As I drew in my head and was turning around,
Down the arena halls the ice skaters came with a bound.
They were dressed all in maroon and gold, from their heads to their skates,
And their uniforms smelled like gophers and smelly feet.
A bundle of pucks they had in their sack,
And they knew that St. Brooks would make them more than just hacks.
His eyes-how they twinkled! His dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn down to his stem
And his big voice boomed, “Tonight is your night, so screw ‘em.”
The stump of a pen he held tight in his teeth,
And the grace from within assured a victory wreath.
He had broad shoulders and a knack for shooting pucks at a goalie’s belly,
His head shook when he yelled like a bowl full of jelly!
He was focused and determined, a right serious old coach,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
The glean in his eyes and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know that I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word as the game was underway, but went straight to his work,
And gestured for players to go here and there, then he turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, his team’s goals on the scoreboard they rose!
At the buzzer, he sprang to the top of the bench, to pump his fists and then gave his team a whistle,
And they exited, forming a straight line like a chain of missiles.
But I heard him exclaim, as he dashed out of sight,
“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a frozen pond night.”