Twas the week before Christmas

December 19, 2007 | Keith Melchior

‘Twas the week before Christmas, out at Owings Mills

there’s Brian Billick, taking more headache pills;

The lockers held all the equipment and gear,

In hopes that a victory would somehow be near;

The players were nestled all snug in their beds,

no visions of Super Bowl danced in their heads;

Oz-zie in his office, his thoughts not to daft,

is determining now who to pick in the draft.

When on the TV, there arose such a clatter,

he sprang from his seat to watch all the chatter.

Then away to the war room he flew like a flash,

tore up his mock draft sheets and checked on his cash.

The colleges announced NFL-eligible players

 here’s hoping he’d land another Gale Sayers.

When, what to his wondering eyes should appear,

But a healthy and physically fit Steve McNair,

and a big left tackle, so lively and quick,

He knew in a moment the toe must be fixed.

More rapid than eagles his O-line they came,

And he whistled, applauded, and called them by name;

"Now, Chester! now, Gaither! now, Terry and Yanda!

On, Ogden! on Flynn! on, Grubbs and Katula!

Inside the twenty we’ll no longer stall!!

Now block away! block away! we’ll give Willis the ball!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

when Matt kicks a field goal, he points to the sky,

So into the playoffs the coursers they flew,

As the crowd cheers with joy, and the owner does too.

And then, in a twinkling, he heard in his ear

The Ravens could get top 5 pickings this year.

Ozzie sat in his chair, and was turning around,

when in from the hallway Ray came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his toe,

And his contract was claiming “more money, or go”;

A bunch of offers he had stuffed in a sack,

And he smiled like T-Sizzle when he opened his pack.

His eyes — how they twinkled! his new ride was cherry!

52 was his number , as he smiled like a fairy!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

no more bashing the coach on his radio show;

A big clump of cold cash he wants in his fist,

he knows if he leaves town , he’ll be sorely missed;

He has a new restaurant and a show that airs Monday,

It’s packed, regardless of what they do Sunday.

His guest’s chubby and plump, a right jolly big guy,

fans flock to get signings, it’s one helluva buy;

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,

help to assure our defense is led;

He stares at the Q B, and goes straight to his work,

He sacks him and then thumps his chest with a jerk,

And pulling his chinstraps aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, to the sidelines he goes;

He sprang toward the back door, to the press gave a whistle,

And away he took off, like the down of a thistle.

But we heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,

"To the Pro Bowl you all, I’m on the next flight."