We here at Broad Street Hockey take poetry very seriously. It is an underappreciated art form. Hence, here is the iconic Christmas poem entitled A Visit from St. Nicholas (otherwise known as Twas the Night Before Christmas). Enjoy!
Twas the night before Christmas,
When all through the Flyers house
Not a creature was stirring,
Gritty bludgeoned the mouse;
The stockings were hung near the “Xbox” with care,
In hopes that St. Nick (Seeler) soon would be there;
The players were nestled all snug in their beds;
While visions of a wildcard danced in their heads;
And Danny in his pajamas, and Taco in his skullcap,
Had just rattled their brains about the 1-2-2 trap,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
Bobby Brink stirred hearing his name as trade chatter.
Away to the window he flew like a flash,
Saw no NTC in his contract but plenty of cash.
The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow,
Couldn’t brighten the power play that was so low,
When what to their wandering eyes did appear,
But a miniature sleigh with eight Phantoms coming near,
With a little old driver so lively and quick,
They knew in a moment wasn’t Nolan Patrick.
Faster than the Eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
“Now Hunter! Now, Karsen! Now Carson! Now Christian!
On Oliver! On, Alex! On, Tucker! On, Devin!”
To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall!
Please be ready should one of you get the call!
As the Leafs are no more while the Hurricanes fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount Rasmus high
So up to the housetop the coursers they flew
With the sleigh full of sticks, and St. Nicholas too–
And then in a twinkling, they heard on a roof
An former coach with a rope…then suddenly poof.
As they drew in their heads, and was turning around,
Down the I-95 St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed in orange and black, from his head to his foot,
And his skates were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of pucks he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a trainer just opening his sack.
His eyes, how they twinkled! His dimples, how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, he wasn’t Ross Lonsberry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard on his chin made him look like Garth Snow;
The stump of a pipe he held in his teeth,
And the smoke, it resembled a Tortorella seethe;
He had a broad face and a little round belly
That shook when he laughed, like “Hound Dog” Bob Kelly.
He was chubby and plumb like Jori Lehtera,
And I laughed when I saw him grinning for the camera;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon let me know the Pens hopes were dead;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned swiftly like Cam York,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod as all the Flyers froze;
He sprang to his sleigh, to the team he gave a whistle,
And away all they flew like a Ristolainen missile.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight–
“Merry Christmas to all, the Flyers are still in the fight!”
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