‘Twas the night before Natty, and Coach was awake. So much to consider, and So much was at stake.
A hundred formations, run, pass, or kick.
A few little wrinkles to fool with a trick.
He’d beaten the Buckeyes and Florida State; Now only Bama was left on the slate.
The game would be broadcast all over the land.
Coach wanted that trophy to hold in his hand.
The pads were all hung in the lockers with care.
Coach hoped that Saint Saban would not show up there.
Coach was so proud of his unbeaten team.
Each year it got harder to chase down that dream.
Exhausted and anxious by each season’s end, The old football coach thought of retiring again.
Once college football was thrilling and fun, But that pleasant era was over and done.
Name, image, and likeness had ruined it all, Now coach only dreaded the coming of fall.
His players were greedy, one owned a giraffe!
The transferring portal this year might take half.
People on Twitter (X) were calling Coach names.
“Dreadful playcalling will cost us the game.
Where is the tight end, where is the screen?
You’ve got those two tackles, so run in between.
Call for more blitzes, ‘cuz we need more sacks; Be more aggressive, we must attack.
It’s fourth down and inches and you never try; You ain’t got no guts, no faith in our guys!”
‘Twas the night before Natty, and Coach cannot sleep. His flawed secondary is getting beat deep.
His backup left tackle went home to Dubuque; His best wide receiver has transferred to Duke.
His roster’s depleted and that’s bad enough, But internal conflicts are making it tough.
His kicker is Arab, from old Palestine; His punter is Jewish, young Bill Frankenstein.
The players on offense are voting for Trump; The rest of the players will vote for the chump.
Would change in Earth’s climate really be bad?
You could play bowl games in North Stalingrad.
If Russians had football and so did Ukraine, They’d settle it that way with no tanks or planes.
The coach slept an hour, and kickoff was nigh.
The quarterback’s grinning, he looks pretty high.
A fumble, a screen pass, a flag route, and then … The coach saw Saint Saban flash a big grin.
Third down and 40, and it’s time to punt; The Tide runs it back; Hey, who is that runt?
Coach kept on coaching, inspiring his men.
“This is our moment, now is the when.
Now Bailey! now Trippi, now Seymour! and Greene!
On Davis! on Butkus, on Trippi! and Dean!”* Alas, the team faltered, as hard as they tried To win for the Gipper, to win for our side.
Our offense played well, but not well enough, Our stoned signal-caller had smoked too much “stuff.”
Turnovers and miscues soon sealed our fate.
We mounted a comeback, but it was too late.
The next day the headlines were cruel and were cold.
Some said our ball coach had gotten too old.
Coach held a press conference and tried to be cool, But all the reporters thought him a fool.
Our favorite sportswriter now suddenly claims That Coach is a relic, his system is lame.
Later that evening, Coach goes for a beer, His whole coaching staff, provides good cheer.
But one coach is silent, he’s been acting weird.
He’s drinking Bud Light and shaved off his beard.
Coach has a shudder, an unsettling thought.
Of that coach in a sundress that Santa had brought.
Coach asked this fellow what troubled him so.
Nick Saban had hired him, so he had to go.
But Coach heard him exclaim as he walked out of sight: “Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.”
Four of the eight “reindeer” are UGA players now in the NFL Hall of Fame. I couldn’t make Tarkenton fit the rhyme scheme, so I left him out.