'Twas the night before Christmas in sports world's past

Look, you could wish to be Saint Nick Saban, devilish as he may seem, which, far as I know he his, but you can't be that guy.

Why?

Not today, nor tonight! No!

Sush!

Not a smart word to say around the holidays or anytime or anywhere.

Anyhow, happy holidays. And I mean it in a good way.

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through "The Big House"
not a creature was stirring, not even a CFP mouse.

(Sorry, Michigan. But a bowl game isn't bad right? Even though it's on New Year's Eve against an also-disappointed Albama team. My god, how did this happen and how does one wager on such a meaningless game?).

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, in hopes that Saban would be there.

(At your school or franchise or whatever. Nicky isn't goin' back down south. He's not gonna pull a Belichick. And that's a shout-out to the late, great Tom Petty, if you don't know the song or lyrics, get to it. Back Down South)

The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugarplums danced in their heads; And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled down for a long winter's nap,

(I'm voting for a long winter's nap. We can all agree on that, right? Right?!)

This is where I leave you to watch whatever it is that gives you joy today or tomorrow. OK? Good. Done. Didn't finish the entire poem but that's the way it goes.

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