Stringer’s The Night Before Christmas

2021-12-25 02:29:34 By : Ms. Anna lou

My version of Clement Clark Moore’s Christmas Classic ... Emerald Coast edition. Hope you enjoy. Happy Holidays!

’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the Emerald Coast,

not a single game was stirring, the hardwoods, pitches and wrestling mats as quiet as a ghost.

The trophy cases and banners of high school hallways and gyms were dusted, cleaned and arranged with care,

in hopes that district, region and - could it be? - state titles would soon be there.

The athletes and coaches were nestled in their beds,

while visions of postseason wins danced in their heads.

And Lorenzino Estrada in his “Star Wars” ugly sweater and I in my Cousin Eddie robe and trooper cap,

had just settled down to listen to our favorite holiday song: RUN-DMC’s “Christmas in Hollis” rap.

When out on the beach there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my work sofa to see what was the matter.

Away to my SUV and over the Brooks Bridge I flew in a flash,

Sprinting past the dunes and cannonballing into the gulf with a splash.

The moon on the breast of the powder-white sand,

gave the luster to condos and A boardwalk so grand.

When what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a 45-foot yacht, no wait, behind it a sleigh with eight tiny reindeer.

With a little old captain, so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment, it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than Bart Walker's defending national champion Raiders on a fast break,

he whistled and shouted and called them by name, and on just the first take!

Now Dasher! Now Dancer! Now Prancer and Vixen!

On Comet! On Cupid! On Donner and Blitzen!

To the gyms, to the trophy cases, now dash away! Dash Away!

Across this Daily News coverage area oasis!

As beach umbrellas that before a wild hurricane fly,

they exploded in a flash, like Luke Larkin finishing a 5K in the blink of an eye.

So I followed them to nearby gyms where the reindeer they flew,

carrying a sleigh full of trophies and banners, and St. Nick too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof,

the prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I opened the gym door, the hardwood glistening in the light of the moon,

down the rafters St. Nick soared, whistling a Christmas tune.

He was clad in a Michael Carter Jets jersey, Crestview shorts down to his knees,

his left sock logoed Walton and right Freeport, a Fort Walton Beach lanyard around his neck dangling sleigh keys.

His hat Baker maroon, gold and white, each cheek splashed with South Walton and Choctaw face paint,

His Niceville-branded galoshes sported Rocky Bayou shoe laces on the left, Paxton on the right, his Hobo-esque sack packed with no restraint.

His eyes — how they twinkled like a wide-open Sam Sherer behind the arc,

his dimples, how merry like a star-laden Niceville field and track team with Aidan Boyd, Ben Miazga, Kendell Mosley and Mackenzee Ely supplying the state title spark.

His cheeks were rosy like Matt Brunson’s crew after a team-building mountain retreat,

the beard on his chin prickly, like corralling Michael O'Leary on the pitch or catching Page Doloff on the final leg of a postseason relay meet.

The stump of a pipe he held tight to his mouth, conjuring up the strengths of Cedric Fairrow in a wrestling state championship in the south.

And the smoke he puffed encircling his face, like a pin-tracking hole-in-one off the swing of Grant, call her Grace.

Unlike the lean Belicia O'Grady and Kaleb Hollins, he had a broad face and a little round belly,

that shook when he laughed, like the biceps of Austin Firestone as he cross trains to the rhymes of Country Grammar by Nelly.

St. Nick was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,

and I laughed when I saw him, as he gazed over the top trophy shelf.

A wink of his eye and a twist to his head,

soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

filling all the trophy cases and hanging the banners, he and his smirk.

And then he laid his Choctaw finger aside of his nose,

and giving a nod, up the rafters he rose.

He sprang to his sleigh, and did his best referee impersonation with a whistle,

and away like Azareyeh Thomas running Nike Special, he and the reindeer all flew like a missile.

But I heard him exclaim, before he drove out of sight,

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

Follow sports editor Seth Stringer on twitter at @SethSnwfdn.