'Twas the Night Before Training Camp.

‘Twas the night before Training Camp, when all through the North

Not a Vike’s fan was sleeping; at least not at my house.

The pennants were hung by the bleachers with care,

In hopes that Saint’s loss would soon disappear.

The rookies were nestled all snug in their beds

While visions of Super Bowl’s danced in their heads.

And Allen with a new cut (and yes, I’d tap that),

Had just settled down before the 1^st season snap.

When out on the field there rose such a clatter.

AP sprang from his bed to see what was the matter.

Away toward the window he ran in a flash

Tore open dorm blinds and threw out a laugh.

When, what to his wondering eyes did appear,

But a lush corporate jet with secret cargo in the rear.

“It’s just a sore ankle, one more season. No regret!”

And he knew in a moment it must be St. Brett.

More rabid than Cheeseheads his critics they came,

And he whistled, and shouted and called them by name:

“Down Romo! Down Cutler! Down Stafford and Rodgers!”

Down Cassell! Down Brady! Down Manning and Sanchez!

To the top of the North. To the top of you all!

My name’s Brett and I’m gonna play! I’m gonna play! Gonna play ya’ll!”

 

And then, in an instant he took the field.

The counting,

The cadence,

 of each little play.

 He snaps up the ball and he then turns around

And straight down the left side

St. Brett throws a bomb.

He speaks not a word, but cuts straight right

A 90-degree angle,

And drills the receiver with the pass of an angel.

Then, laying his finger alongside the laces,

He gives a nod and in the end zone he paces…

                                    “Happy Season to all, on toward Dallas SKOL Vikes!”