‘Twas the night before Tribe-mas, when all through Kaplan
Not a creature was stirring, not even a griffin;
The jerseys were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Fischer soon would be there;
Cameron and Brendan were nestled all snug in their beds;
While visions of basketballs danced in their heads;
And Alyssa in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long seasons’s nap,
When out on the Sunken Garden there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like Malachi Imoh,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the window.
The moon on those old bricks covered in snow,
Gave a lustre of midday to objects below,
When what to my wondering eyes did appear,
But a miniature basketball team and eight a-Tribe player,
With a young little coach so quiet and elfish,
I knew in a moment he must be St. Fisch.
More rapid than griffins his players they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
“Now, Ben! now, Tyler! now Langdon and Yuri!
On, Quinn! on, Connor! on, Jake and Julian!
To the top of the Wren Building! to the top of the Caf!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”
As the trees before the harking gale’s howl,
When they meet with an obstacle, they draw the offensive foul;
So up to the court-top the players they flew
With the team bus carrying St. Fisch, and Coach Swanson too—
And then, in a stomping, I heard on the roof
The squeaking and creaking of each massive goof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Fischer came with a bound.
He was dressed all in green, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of plays he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a student manager just opening his pack.
His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!
Unexpectedly so, as D-I wins were nary.
His frustrated, tired grimace was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard on his chin was as absent as our defense at Valpo;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his hand,
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a sweatband;
Coach Swanson then appeared at the ring of a bell,
With a voice lost from giving referees a yell.
St. Fisch moved slowly, like our guys in the second half
And when I saw him appear I let out a hearty laugh
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know our team had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And gave us Luke Loewe jerseys; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to his bus, and with his team they did move over,
And away they all flew like a team on a fast break after another Tribe turnover.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—
“Happy Tribe-mas to all, and to all a good night!”