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Twas the Night Before Christmas (ND Edition)

By: Murray O'Connell | Writer | Twitter: @MurrayOConnell | Profile: @MurrayOConnell

Photo Courtesy of Fighting Irish Media


Twas the night before Christmas, and all through Notre Dame

Not a creature was stirring, not even freshman Gi’Bran Payne.


The stockings were hung in La Fortune with care,

In the hopes that Santa Freeman soon would be there.


However Irish fans were nervous and feeling lots of stress,

The season was filled with highs and lows all in excess.


So Irish fans nestled nervously in front of their tv’s,

Would they struggle this week or would they win with ease?


When out on the quad there arose such a clatter,

I put down my Guinness to see what’s the matter.


When what to my wondering eyes I should I see,

But Coach Brian Kelly glaring back angrily.


Coach Kelly, are you lost, what are you doing back?

BK growled, “I’m here to steal Foskey, so my team can get a sack.”


I was shocked and frightened, I didn't know what to do,

Just like the Clemson defense, when Estime came charging through.


But Coach this is wrong, stealing Foskey is not right,

Coach Kelly turned purple, giving me quite the fright.


Then the night became heated, and I could hardly bare it,

It was worse than having to listen to Collingsworth and Garrett.


BK shot me a grin and cleared his throat with one cough,

He said “Foskey could stay, if I beat him in a dance off.”


I pleaded I was old and my back wasn't fit,

And asked if I could please find a pinch hit.


Kelly curled his lip, and told me that would be allowed,

So I thought and thought, quickly scratching my brow.


I know who can help us, so we surely won't lose,

The man, the myth, the legend, Mitch Palooz.


Kelly looked nervous, but flexed and puffed out his chest,

“This is how I danced with recruits,” he said, “I know it's the best.”


Kelly did a shimmy and a little bit of a shake,

His moves were hot like a preheated oven ready to bake.


When he was done, Mitchapalooza shot him a wink,

He was already to go, not needing time to think.


"Coach it's best if you have yourself a seat,"

Then Mitchapalooza bobbed his head, to the mad sick beats.


The tight end was dope, his moves were much better,

And when he finished he strutted, just like McGregor.


BK grew sad because he knew he got trounced,

Foskey was safe, and once again Kelly needed to bounce.


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

The prancing and pawing of a very manly hoof.


As I drew in my head, and was turning around,

From the stadium Santa Freeman came with a bound.


He wore no red suit, but was ripped from the gym.

Fresh Italian fit, and a clean faded trim.


Coach it's Christmas, do I get a nice gift?

But Santa Freeman glared, “Boy, it's time to lift!”


“Your flabby and weak, and need your muscles to grow,

Even Rees is faster, and that dude is slow.”


“Drop and give me 50, and sweat to lose that tire,

Keep it up and you’ll be an adonis, just like Michael Mayer.”


Then he sprang to his sleigh, and let out a sigh,

And into the night he flew real high.


But I heard him exclaim as he grew faint to see,

Something that warmed my heart, with joy and with glee.


“Merry Christmas to all, I promise to see you later,

Except for Chris Fowler, because that dude is a hater.”


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