The Kansas City Chiefs are in the thick of the AFC playoff race with only two weeks to go in the NFL season and that is cause for celebration.
In what has become sort of a tradition, I adapt the famous poem “Twas the Night Before Christmas” into a Chiefs poem each year. I actually first did it in August a couple of years ago because I was so excited for the season it felt like Christmas.
Well the holidays are upon us and I am now so excited for the possibility of a Chiefs playoff game that inspiration has struck again.
I want to wish all of our readers, my staff here at AA and all of our men and women serving abroad this season a very happy Christmas. Have a wonderful Christmas Eve and Christmas morning. AA will resume it’s regular scheduled blogging tomorrow morning after I open all my presents. =)
I posted this eariler in the week but in the spirit of the season, I present to you “Twas The Night Before Chiefsmas.”
‘Twas The Night Before Chiefsmas
‘Twas the night before Chiefsmas, when all through the land
the Chiefs were in first place, division in hand.
The Chargers were flying, way up in the sky
on the way to cold Cinci, where they would die.
The Chiefs fans were wrestles but snug in their beds,
while sweet visions of playoffs danced in their heads.
With Gates in my stomach and a beer on my lap,
I poured over game film, for fear of a trap.
When out from the driveway came a deafening roar
so I leapt to my feet and rushed to the door.
My eye to the peep hole, my hand on the knob,
I squinted through snowflakes expecting a mob.
My flood lights spread glitter all over the snow;
someone was coming, maybe friend, maybe foe.
When out of the shadows I made out a man
walking towards the front porch of this K.C. Chiefs fan.
He was coming closer so fast and so quick
I turned the gold key of the lock with a click.
He shouted instructions, not asking my name.
Friendly conversation was not why he came.
“On Collins, on Johnson, on Griffin and Moss,
on Babin, on Hawkins on Fisher the boss,
I’ve got a plan to stop them, tape on them all.
We’re going to win with a defensive wall.”
He slammed down his case upon my new table
and stomped his right foot like a horse in a stable.
So I grabbed the remote and he dimmed the lights
and we settled in, watching Finnegan fights.
He asked for a beer and the film was on hold.
I ran to the ice box and got something cold.
This guy was pretty cool, I had to admire
the scruffy young coach lit up by my fire.
He was dressed in all red and his hat, it looked wet
but I quickly realized it was just drenched in sweat.
His face was unshaven, his eyes were bloodshot;
he looked like a man who had gone all to pot.
I gave him the beer and offered some Gates.
He smiled and rose saying “I’ll get the plates.”
All night we were working, drawing up plays.
It might have been hours but it sure felt like days.
At dawn we were finished and he jumped to his feet,
“I’ve got to get going,” he winked. “Titans to beat.”
He ran to the door and I followed after,
I followed giggling with child-like laughter.
Out on my front lawn, the coach gave a sharp cry.
My wife’s rose bush had cut him, while running by.
He held up his finger and said something bold,
“It’s been just two years but I bleed red and gold.”
“Thanks for the ribs and burnt ends, the beer and the plays,
There’s enough here to beat them, there’s plenty of ways.
We’ll run with Jamaal and Cassel will throw.
We’ll have Shawn Smith turn their chestnuts to dough.”
He jumped to his car and to me tossed a whistle
that flew through the air like a sky rocket missile.
“That belonged to McDaniels, I took it the day,
I gave him the finger because crime doesn’t pay.
Up next is Phil Rivers, who is out in the cold,
He can throw all he wants but his defense won’t hold.
It’ll be one day late but I hope you’ll enjoy
The AFC West title, for your little boy.”
Then he drove down the lane as I ate his exhaust,
standing there frozen in winter’s cold frost.
But I head him exclaim ere he drove out of site
Let’s beat us some Titans, Haley’s Comet take flight!
Merry Christmas Addicts!