The Night Before Big Game

We can say one good thing about this unusual Big Game in December: it allows us to give a Cardinal twist to a 19th century holiday classic. On the eve of the 109th Big Game, we present an update to the immortal poem. Enjoy "A Visit from St. Trent" - also known as "The Night Before Big Game."

The Night Before Big Game
with apologies to Clement Clarke Moore)

'Twas the night before Big Game, when all through the Bay
Not a Cardinal was stirring, not even Elway;
The jerseys were hung by the lockers with care,
In hopes that the Axe soon would be there.

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

When out on the Quad there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The lights from the Stadium begun to glow
Gave the lustre of game-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should I see,
But a miniature Block S, and eight tiny tree,

With a little old driver, so lively and bent,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Trent.
More rapid than eagles his receivers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:

"Now, Moore! now, Bradford! now, Gerhart and Danahay!
On, Carr! on Yancy! on, Sherman and Dray!
To the top of the post! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with a blitz, mount to the sky.
So to the post the receivers they flew,
With the playbook full of tricks, and St. Trent too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the street
The prancing and pawing of each little cleat.
As I drew in my hand, and was turning around,
Round the end St. Trent came with a bound.

He was dressed all in white, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with grasses and soot;
A bundle of tacklers he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a scrambler avoiding the sack.

His eyes -- how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the helmet on his head was as white as the snow;
The stump of a mouthpiece he held tight in his teeth,
And the passes encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a six-pack abs,
That shook, when he laughed like a dozen jabs.

He was tall and chiseled, a right jolly old Card,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of my guard;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And completed his passes; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the field he rose.

He sprang to his left, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Big Game to all, lets hold the Axe tight!"

Are you fully subscribed to The Bootleg? If not, then you are missing out on all the top Cardinal coverage we provide daily on our website, as well as our full-length feature articles in our glossy magazine. Sign up today for the biggest and best in Stanford sports coverage with (sign-up) and The Bootleg Magazine (sign-up)!

The Bootleg Top Stories