I posted this last year, and as I'm a glutton for punishment, have posted it again.
I'm ready, for the cacophony of Kaks from the Zoners...
'T was the night before Draftmas
With Apologies to; Clement Clarke Moore
'T was the night before Draft day,
When all over the net.
Not a draft-nik was stirring,
Not even the vets.
Their draft boards were hung by the war rooms with care,
In hopes that their players would always be there.
The coaches were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of draft steals danced in their heads;
And all the GM's with their salary caps,
Had tried to settle down for a long winter's snap;
When out on the field there arose such a clatter,
For a trade up had been made and that was the matter.
Away to the draft board I flew like a flash,
Tore down the draft cards and threw up in the trash.
That goon of a GM had stolen our show
by giving next year's # 1 choice, don't you know,
When, what to the Front office lie's should I dread,
But at theTV screen, were eight talking heads,
With a lively announcer, who talked of their stock,
I knew in a moment it must be Saint Mock.
More rapid than CB's his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
"Now, Berman! now, Baldy! now, Golic and Eissen!
On, Mayock! on Kiper! on, Casserly and Clayton!
To the top of the board! To the side of the wall!
Now draft away! draft away! draft away all!"
As dry heaves that before the wild turkey do fly,
When they meet with a trade up, mouths do they cry,
So up to the stadium-top the curse's that flew,
For gone was their draft order, and Saint Mock too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard of the proof
That their positional value had gone up in a poof.
All my triangle numbers, my board built around,
Down the toilet Saint Mock had gone with a bound.
He had reached for his player,
from his head to his foot,
The combine was over and his 40 time moot
The GM had spoken with no turning back,
And the coach looked like a WR who'd just been attacked.
The QB's oh how they had been vetted,
and prodded aplenty!
Could he throw a tight pass,
against all kind of defenses many!
His droll little agent was drawn up like a bow,
and the color of his money was green, as you know.
The short shuttle drills, the three cone and more,
Were now but past dreams on the tape viewing floor.
He had done the broad jump, as if shot from a cannon
And his vertical leap had made him a legend.
He was strong as an ox, for he had 50 reps
But could that been the results of some substance instead.
A wonder lick test of 5 had twisted his head,
Soon gave me to know he had much for to dread.
It is said don't you know, the draft is a quirk,
If you make the wrong pick, to your team goes a jerk,
With a vengeance the Vets will be saying,
how you staff screwed up
and all fans will be braying.
He sprang to the stage,
To his fans he was beaming,
But all could he hear was the boo's they were screaming.
For no one expected from their team,
This worst choice of all
And most bad was the noise in radio city hall.
But the last thing I heard as they turned out the lights.
"Happy Draftmas to all, and May your team always pick right!"